Of course they were still talking about it. It was the worst tragedy in Texas history, Dr. Sparks had said. How many had died?
Lenora picked up the paper, but Mrs. Jones snatched it out of her hands.
“I’m sorry, love,” she said. “I didn’t mean to leave the paper out.” She hurried to the other side of the kitchen and stuffed the paper in the trash can.
But Lenora had already seen the headline: “Hundreds of Unidentified Bodies Found in Texas City, After Explosion.” She could still picture them—the bodies, lined up on the ground, torn to pieces by the blast. She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to dislodge the memory. She didn’t feel so hungry anymore.
She felt something warm close over her hand and looked up to see Mrs. Jones’s face hovering near hers. “Everything will work out in the end,” she said. “You’ll see.” Lenora nodded, trying to swallow her tears. She didn’t believe Mrs. Jones’s words, not really, but she had to at least try.
It would work out. They had to be alive.
Lenora picked up her sandwich, willing herself to eat. It was a delightful mix of sour and sweet. Her mother had often packed this kind of sandwich in her lunch, for school, but something was different about this tuna.
“Apples,” Mrs. Jones said, her eyes on Lenora’s face. “That’s what gives it a little bit of sweetness, along with the tart. I wasn’t sure if you would like it, but I thought you might.” She cleared her throat. “Your father did.” She smiled, the skin around her eyes crinkling like bits of newsprint.
Lenora said nothing, though there were a thousand questions to ask. She simply didn’t know where to start.
After a time, Mrs. Jones said, “No children live around Stonewall Manor. Not many guests anymore, either. It’s not often that I get to cook a supper like I’ve planned for tonight.”
“What is it?”
“Roast,” Mrs. Jones said. She pointed to one of the ovens. “It’s already cooking.”
Roast. Mother made the most delicious roast. Lenora’s chest tightened again. Would she ever be able to breathe?
“Your stay here will be good for Stonewall Manor,” Mrs. Jones said. Her eyes glazed, then cleared. “It will be good for everyone.”
Lenora watched Mrs. Jones, waited for her to say something more, to explain what she meant, but Mrs. Jones didn’t. Lenora opened her mouth to inquire, but all that came out was, “I will not be staying here long.”
Mrs. Jones dropped her eyes. “I know,” she said.
But Lenora needed to say the words aloud, again, to believe them. “Mother and Father will come and take me home.”
“Home,” Mrs. Jones said. She patted the table with one spotted hand. “It is strange how home can mean different things to people.” She stood. “If you are finished, I can show you to your rooms.”
“Rooms?” Lenora nearly giggled, forgetting herself in the absurdity of Mrs. Jones’s words. She sounded so formal, like a maid in one of her father’s favorite old novels. Lenora pressed her hand to her mouth, and when she was quite sure there was not a giggle waiting, she continued. “Are there more than one?”
Mrs. Jones tilted her head, smiling with more than kindness—amusement, perhaps. “Well, love, every room in this house comes with its own private bathroom. So we call them rooms, you see.”
“Stonewall Manor has twenty-six bathrooms?” Lenora said. She could feel her eyes widening. Her home only had one, and they’d all had to share it. It was the largest conflict of their day—mostly because Rory hogged it.
“Twenty-nine, actually,” Mrs. Jones said. “There are others near the sitting room and the library and the ballroom. Some are only powder rooms, but . . .” Mrs. Jones stood. “Come along, love.”
Lenora followed Mrs. Jones to a large, winding staircase that twisted out of sight. It seemed to go all the way up to the sky, but, of course, that was impossible. Magic wasn’t real. Father had always made sure Lenora and her brothers and sister knew that. He said magic was deceptive and to never trust its illusion; it could bring great harm to the deceived. Lenora had found this a strange contradiction, since her father read books full of magic and enchantment and seemed to enjoy those the most.
The wall beside the stairs was covered with portraits of people Lenora did not know—perhaps family, but she could not be sure. She did not know much about this family. Her father had never mentioned them, never told stories about them, never said the words “Stonewall Manor” at all. She stopped to look at the people—tight-lipped men and women with bright and intelligent eyes. She wanted to ask who they were, but Mrs. Jones walked too quickly for questions. Lenora ran her hand along the shining cherrywood of the stair rail. Not a speck of dust coated her fingers.
“See that she gets all she needs, please, Mrs. Jones.” A man’s voice hurtled toward them. Lenora stopped walking and looked down through the curled black iron of the stair rail. Uncle Richard stood in a dim hallway that shadowed most of his face. He had changed clothes, perhaps to get the smell and sight of Texas City off him. He now wore a suit that looked exactly like the other one, except in a rusted brown color. His left hand tapped his thigh. Lenora watched this so she did not have to look in his eyes, at the face that looked so much like Father’s, except for the eyes. “And she will dine with me this evening.”
“Yes, Mr. Cole,” Mrs. Jones said.
Lenora looked down at her dress, grimy and wrinkled, and the shoes that were likely beyond repair. She had tried, at city hall, to scrub most of the dust from her hands and arms and face. But the clothes and shoes were another matter entirely.
She did not touch anything—not even the rail—as she climbed the rest of the way up. Mother would want her to be perfectly polite and well-behaved, a good-mannered young lady, and she could do this.
She would do it.
She would do anything to bring them back.
10
The second floor was sparsely decorated, with only a rug of curling gold and green and blue lining what seemed like an endless dark hallway. Lenora could see a few portraits peering at her from the walls before shadows swallowed them, and any bedrooms that were visible had their doors shut. She itched to see what waited behind each of the doors, but Mrs. Jones stopped at the first one on the right.
Lenora glanced toward the end of the passage, gaping at her like a black hole. At least she wouldn’t have to walk into that darkness every day.
John and Charles and Rory would laugh at her cowardice. If they were here, choosing their own bedrooms, this is the one she would claim, simply because it was not wedged into a dark, endless corridor.
She wished they were here. They would explore with her. She wouldn’t have to do it alone.
But maybe Mrs. Jones would show her the other rooms, if she asked. Mother had always said that if Lenora asked for help more, she would find life a little easier. Lenora liked doing things for herself—which meant when it came to things like dark corridors and closed doors, she would pretend she didn’t want to know what hid in the bedrooms, rather than asking someone to accompany her in her exploration.
Perhaps it was time for a change.
Lenora cleared her throat.
“This is the west wing,” Mrs. Jones said over her shoulder, before Lenora could say anything.
“Is there an east wing?” Lenora said.
“Yes. There is.” Mrs. Jones fiddled with the doorknob. It was an old copper one, with a keyhole Lenora might be able to peek through. The door was painted a rich green, the color of a forest. It was Lenora’s favorite color. It seemed a sign of sorts. She touched the door and smiled, but her lips did not quite stretch. Sorrow must do that—steal the smiles.
Mrs. Jones rattled the doorknob and jammed the key inside again. “It’s stuck.” She held up the key and examined it, then tried again.
“Here,” Lenora said. She took the key, and the door opened perfectly for her.
Mrs. Jones smiled. “It’s been some time since these doors have been regularly op
ened.”
Lenora hovered in the doorway. “What’s in the other bedrooms?” she said.
“Beds and armoires and fireplaces, same as yours.” Mrs. Jones opened the door wider. It squealed in protest. Mrs. Jones laughed. “I’ll have to get that oiled. This way, love.”
But Lenora still lingered. Her eyes had caught on the door across the hall, the one with blue-green paint. It appeared to shimmer in places. She tilted her head.
“The bedrooms used to be reserved for guests,” Mrs. Jones said. “But no one’s come to stay in a while.” She gently pushed Lenora through the door.
Her room smelled of dust and age. “It hasn’t been aired in quite some time.” Mrs. Jones seemed to know what she was thinking. “I opened all the windows as soon as I knew you were coming, but it doesn’t seem to have rid the smell.”
The room was large and every bit as grand as the other rooms of the house. The walls bore a golden-yellow color, with curling green accents painted along the top. But the bed was what commanded Lenora’s attention. Never in her twelve years had she seen a bed so fine. Golden curtains hung around it but were pulled back so that she could see the burgundy blanket and pillows that shone from the top of the bed. The frame had four tall posts made of dark-colored wood, with golden leaves snaking around them. It was the bed of a queen, right out of a storybook. Lenora gasped.
“Do you like it?” Mrs. Jones said.
“I have never seen a bed so magnificent,” Lenora said. She wondered what Mrs. Jones would say if she ran and jumped on the beautiful bed. But she was much too dirty, so, with great effort, she stilled the urge.
Rory would have done it.
Rory.
The ache nearly made her cry out.
Lenora turned to Mrs. Jones, who was pointing to a large vertical chest that stood in the corner of the room. Its wood matched the bed—dark brown with golden leaves painted at its top. “You’ll find a clean dress inside the armoire. I bought two dresses. I hope I estimated the correct size.” Mrs. Jones turned back around and brushed errant strands of her silvery hair from her eyes. “We’ll shop the day after tomorrow. Your uncle has some business in town, so he’ll take you.”
“But you’ll come, too,” Lenora said, her heart fluttering. She didn’t know what she’d do or talk about if she were alone with her uncle. He seemed to prefer silence, while Lenora preferred sound. And how would he help her find dresses? He was a man.
“I have duties here,” Mrs. Jones said, but she must have seen Lenora’s face crumple, because she amended her words. “But if you would be more comfortable.” She nodded. “Yes, it could be arranged.” Her eyes remained on Lenora, which made Lenora drop her own.
“I’d like you to come,” she said, in a small voice.
“Then I will.”
Lenora considered it a promise.
11
Mrs. Jones gestured to a door off to the left of the bedroom. “The bathroom is this way,” she said. Lenora followed her into a spacious room with a white claw-foot tub and what felt like marble for a floor. The walls were the same golden color as the bedroom, and there were two gilded mirrors, along with a sink and a toilet.
“A bath might do you some good,” Mrs. Jones said.
Lenora agreed. Mrs. Jones moved back out into the bedroom, and Lenora followed her. Every time she looked around, she noticed something she hadn’t seen before. Now she noticed some drawings on the walls, pictures of what looked like brass or gold machines. One was an elephant, knotted and layered. One was a snail with locomotive wheels. Another was a man made of brass and gears and armor.
“What are those?” She pointed to the pictures.
Mrs. Jones’s eyes darkened with something Lenora could not read. “Art,” Mrs. Jones said, after a moment’s hesitation. She looked as though she had not even intended to say that. It was the strangest thing. But what about this place was not strange?
“I will leave you, then,” Mrs. Jones said. “Supper will be served at six o’clock sharp, remember. Don’t be late.”
“Are all the rooms like this one?” Lenora said when Mrs. Jones was nearly out the door.
Mrs. Jones turned and leaned her bony hip against the doorframe. Her thin, arched eyebrows lifted.
“I mean . . .” Lenora did not quite know what she meant. “Have they all been lived in?”
“At one time or another,” Mrs. Jones said. “This is a very old home. It has been in the family for centuries. Years ago multiple families lived here, not just the eldest in the line of succession.”
What would that have been like, living here with Uncle Richard and her family?
“Did this room belong to someone?”
Mrs. Jones sighed. She crossed her arms over her chest, which made her brown dress pucker at the top. “It belonged to a little girl,” she said.
“What happened to the little girl?” Lenora said.
“You are a curious child,” Mrs. Jones said, and Lenora could not tell if she was amused or annoyed.
“I know nothing about my family,” Lenora said. Her voice wavered, and she tried to steady it.
But the wavering must have elicited Mrs. Jones’s sympathy, because she said, “The master’s little girl.”
“My uncle had a daughter?” Lenora’s heart pounded. What had happened to the little girl? She was not here now.
“It was a long time ago,” Mrs. Jones said. “Eight years . . . or has it been nine?” Her eyes took on that faraway look again. “He lost them both on the same day.”
“Who?” Curiosity was impossible sometimes.
Mrs. Jones lurched away from the doorway, as though it had burned her. “No one,” she said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken so freely. It’s not my story to tell.”
“But I should know about my family.” Once again, Lenora’s voice wavered on the word “family.”
But this time Mrs. Jones did not talk out of sympathy. She only said, “I’ve washed and aired all the bedsheets. We have plenty of time before supper, so if you would like to nap, I only ask that you listen for the supper bell. You’ll know when it’s time. You can’t miss that bell.” She chuckled.
And then she was gone, and Lenora was alone in the extravagant room. She stared out her doorway, at the door across the hall. She could see it now. A silver X shimmered in the dim light of the hall, spanning the full length of the blue-green door. It was pale, translucent, flickering in places, as though it had been drawn with a magical pencil.
Lenora drew closer. The mark disappeared.
Perhaps it had only been her imagination.
She returned to her room and opened the armoire in the corner to see two dresses of the same color blue but different in style. One had a white collar very much like the one she was wearing now—her birthday dress. The other had a layered frill along the front and puffed-up sleeves. That one she chose and laid out on her bed, along with the one pair of black shoes sitting at the bottom of the cabinet. They had no heel.
After her bath, Lenora considered throwing her birthday dress into the fireplace and having it disintegrate the same way so much of her former life had disintegrated in the blaze that tore through Texas City. But if it could be washed, if it could be worn again . . . she had to keep it. It might be all she had left to remember her home, her family, the fullness of love she had known in her five favorite people.
No. It was not all. There were the pearls, too. She took them out, brought them to her lips, not caring whether they left a sooty stain.
She placed the dress outside her room, crumpled in a dirty heap, then stretched out on the royal bed that was even softer than it looked. The pearls were threaded between her fingers, their grime leaving black lines. She closed her eyes.
But images of Texas City kept skittering across her mind in a relentless reel. The plume of smoke. The explosion that shook her school and shattered its windows and made Mrs. Easter fly. The bodies, everywhere.
She stared up at the canopy above her bed, and, out
of habit, reached beside her, where her sister had always been when they slept. The bed felt cold and empty—much too large. Lenora pulled back the covers and wriggled beneath them, drawing them up to her chin and then, on second thought, all the way over her eyes.
The pearls rested in Rory’s place, shedding their black dust onto the blanket.
12
It was not a supper bell that woke her. It was a voice, thin and whispery.
Lenora, it said. Come.
She blinked her eyes in the stifling darkness beneath her covers and thrust them away from her face. She sat up on one elbow. The room had stilled, as though hanging in a suspension of both time and air. But then the supper bell clanged, breaking the spell of silence. The clanging climbed all the way up the stairs and under the crack of her door.
Lenora jumped from her bed and washed her hands, scrubbing away the black of the soot and whatever else clung to her fingers. She stuffed the pearl necklace in the front pocket of her dress and washed her hands again.
She was taking Mother with her.
The dining room was quiet when she entered. There were eight chairs at the table—one on each end and three on each long side. A golden candelabra decorated its honey-wood center. A brass chandelier hung down to meet it, sparkling its light around the room, giving it a shifting, shimmery look. A fireplace was nestled near a bright window. It was too warm for fires, but Lenora imagined that in the wintertime it must be quite lovely to sit in this room and eat.
Uncle Richard entered the room just as she was trying to decide in which seat to sit. For lack of anything better to say—and to fill the silence of the room, which she generally did by talking to herself—she said, “It’s a lovely room.” Uncle Richard did not answer, only nodded vaguely and took his seat in the single chair at one end.
“Is there somewhere I should sit?” Lenora said.
“Anywhere is fine, love,” Mrs. Jones said, entering the room with four plates balanced on a tray. Two of the plates held towering salads, and the others were heaped with roast and asparagus, steam curling from their tops.
The Woods Page 4