But there was Mrs. Jones, sitting in front of her. Mrs. Jones, with her kind blue eyes and her gentle touch and her warm words. Stonewall Manor could not be a dangerous place with such a person living in it.
Could it?
Mrs. Jones leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. Her lips twitched, like words were piling up behind their wall. At last she said, “He is no longer here.”
“You mean he died?” If Bobby had died, that meant Uncle Richard had lost two children. He had lost his entire family, like her.
No, not like her. She would not believe it.
“You ask so many questions,” Mrs. Jones said. Her voice held amusement, though, not annoyance. “They are better answered by your uncle.”
“But my uncle is never around.”
“Then I suppose you will have to dig it up for yourself.” Mrs. Jones winked, and Lenora could see that her old humor had returned.
“And how would I do that?” Lenora said.
“I might try the library.” Mrs. Jones stood up and took Lenora’s plate from the table, rinsed it, and once again wiped her hands on her apron. “Ready to see the ballroom now?”
Lenora held up a finger. “One more question,” she said.
Mrs. Jones raised an eyebrow. Lenora had always been impressed when people could do that. Rory could. Lenora had tried and tried and tried, but no matter how many times she practiced, her eyebrows were connected. One would not raise without the other.
“Why did my father leave Stonewall Manor?” If Mrs. Jones would just answer this one burning question, she wouldn’t ask so many in the future.
Well, that was likely not true.
“Why, indeed.” Mrs. Jones let out a long breath.
“He never told us,” Lenora said. “He never told us anything.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Jones shook her head.
“Stonewall Manor would have been large enough to hold us all.” Lenora could not stop the flow of words. “We would have had more than enough space for everyone.”
“You were not comfortable in Texas City?”
“Our house was very small. And there were six of us. Stonewall Manor would have been . . .” Lenora stopped, folded up the words she would have said, and unfolded the ones she needed to say instead. “Stonewall Manor would be a perfect place for all of us. Do you think . . .”
She could not finish the question, could not bear to see the look Mrs. Jones might cast upon her. Still hoping they were alive. Still hoping they would come. Still hoping she was not alone in the world.
When she looked back up at Mrs. Jones, the woman’s eyes were a liquid blue. “Your father.” She hesitated, as though choosing her words carefully. “Your father was a man of faith.” Lenora sat up straighter. Would she tell her, then? “Your uncle is a man of science. Reason, he calls it.”
“But why does that matter?” It didn’t matter at all. John liked science, too.
Mrs. Jones chuckled. “You would be surprised how faith and science can alienate men.”
“But they were brothers,” Lenora said. “Didn’t it mean something that they were brothers? They weren’t just men, disagreeing. Family means something.” Lenora had to force the words through her clogged throat. What had she done on the day of the disaster? Disagreed with Rory. Hated her? Perhaps. For a moment in time. A moment that meant everything, it turned out.
“Of course it meant something that they were brothers.” Mrs. Jones was still speaking. Lenora leaned forward. “They tried very hard to work out their differences. But, in the end, they both decided they could not live under the same roof any longer. And your father left.”
“But why not Uncle Richard?”
“Your uncle is the eldest. This home belongs to him.”
“So Uncle Richard told my father he couldn’t live here?” Heat flushed through Lenora’s body. If they hadn’t lived in Texas City, Father wouldn’t have . . .
Lenora gave her head a violent shake. She gritted her teeth.
“It wasn’t Richard who kept your father away,” Mrs. Jones said. “Your father didn’t want to live here. In fact, he tried to get your uncle to leave as well.”
“Why?” It didn’t make sense.
Mrs. Jones shrugged. “I don’t know the kinds of conversations they had back then. I only know the one they had the day your father left. I’m surprised the town didn’t hear it, to tell the truth.”
“They were angry?”
Mrs. Jones’s mouth turned up, then down, at the corners. “So angry.”
“Because Uncle Richard wanted Father to stay?”
“Because Richard didn’t want him to run away.”
“Run away from what?”
Mrs. Jones shook her head. “I don’t know. Something in the woods.” Her eyebrows lowered and she pressed her hands together. “Something your father believed in but your uncle did not.”
“Father never talked about Stonewall Manor or the woods or Uncle Richard.” Lenora still could not understand this part. Even if Father had fought so passionately with Uncle Richard, they should have known about this place, about these people.
“Never underestimate fundamental differences of opinion between men,” Mrs. Jones said. “It has torn many apart.”
“But they were brothers,” Lenora said.
“Yes, well . . .” Mrs. Jones shook her head but said nothing more until: “I always thought they’d find each other again.”
Lenora looked at Mrs. Jones’s face, saw the sorrow stretched across it, felt the stab in her chest. “They will,” she said, but the words were flimsy and weak.
Mrs. Jones lifted her head and stared at Lenora, stared through Lenora, stared into a future that Lenora could not see.
“Mrs. Jones.”
Lenora looked toward the doorway leading out into the entrance hall of Stonewall Manor. Uncle Richard stood with his cane, clad in a brown suit today that made him appear very distinguished and handsome. He held a leather satchel at his side. It had many buckles and strange bulges that looked like they might be hidden compartments. He was looking only at Lenora. “I trust you are keeping an eye on my niece?” The words seemed to hold a warning of some kind or another. Lenora felt a cold breath creep over her.
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Jones said. “We have just finished breakfast and I was about to take her to see the piano.”
“Good, good.” Uncle Richard grunted. He shifted, his cane tapping the ground three times. “I’m off to gather some samples.” His dark eyebrows furrowed on his forehead, then smoothed again. He tilted his head, his eyes flashing a silent message to Mrs. Jones that Lenora wished for all the world she could understand. Was it about Father or Mother or her sister or brothers? Was it about his son?
Was it about imprisonment?
Lenora shuddered.
Mrs. Jones said, “Yes, sir,” and Uncle Richard was gone.
“Where is he collecting samples?” Lenora said.
Mrs. Jones ignored the question. “I’ll show you the piano, love. It will entertain you for a time.”
Lenora wondered if that was an observation or an order.
20
The piano had some flat notes, and several of the keys stuck when she pushed them down. Lenora could tell it had not been used in some time. She tried her best to play every song she remembered Rory banging out on their small piano at home, but she was not nearly as talented as her sister—nor did she remember music all that well—and after a time, she let her hands fall into her lap and, instead, gazed around the spacious ballroom.
It was unlike any room she had ever seen. The only place she had seen anything close to something as grand as this was the old theater in Texas City, but even that did not compare. The ballroom sat near the east wing, where her uncle both lived and worked, Mrs. Jones had said on the way in. A maze of empty rooms—to be used for what? Lenora could not even imagine—led to it, so many that Lenora did not know if she would be able to find her way back out. The thought of getting los
t in these spooky corridors—the ones Mrs. Jones had mentioned in the same sentence as “ghosts”—made her heart gallop and stumble.
The shiny black grand piano—it was a grand; Rory would have loved it—faced another stairway, this one straight and wide and carpeted in a deep bronze color. Lenora wondered if it led to Uncle Richard’s wing. Mrs. Jones had not warned her away from it. Curiosity was much too persistent to ignore. She would explore it soon; she was not finished with this ballroom yet.
A large wooden rectangular balcony ringed the room. The ceiling was domed, with tall brown pillars reaching down from the sides, producing archways that would have made Mother smile. Mother loved the arches in the theater. She said they made a room seem like it was part of a castle, and Lenora had to agree.
A sparkling chandelier hung above the center of the room, casting the floor in diamond light. Lenora could imagine the men and women dancing merrily, music bouncing against the stone walls, laughter filling up the corners. Had there ever been a ball when her father lived here? Did Uncle Richard ever host one?
Perhaps they could plan one when her family returned. A celebratory evening of music and dance.
Lenora pushed away from the piano, the bench shrieking against the floor. She placed a hand on the wall. It was smooth and cold. It must be real stone, and perhaps it was why this home was called Stonewall Manor; that was a question Mrs. Jones would likely answer. It was safe.
If the walls were made of stone, the manor would stand forever. Even an explosion like the one that had destroyed Texas City would not level it.
They would all be safe here.
She would convince Father to let them stay.
There was only one window in the ballroom, and a moving shadow outside of it caught Lenora’s eye. She crossed the room quickly and peered out. The pane was dusty, but she wiped the film away. Her uncle was walking out of the woods—the woods he had told her were forbidden. Dangerous.
Then why had he entered them?
She watched as he walked. He leaned heavily on his cane. He was dressed in peculiar gold and copper armor, buckled at his chest, along his right arm, and around his belly. He wore a dark top hat with what looked like thick glasses—one of the lenses was completely covered in a brass layer—perching on the brim of it.
He held something in his left hand, the one that was clad in a metallic armor, but from where she was standing, Lenora could not see what it was.
Uncle Richard turned his face toward the window, and without a moment’s hesitation, Lenora flattened herself against the wall. She could not say why she didn’t want Uncle Richard to see her staring at him; she simply didn’t.
She bit her bottom lip and waited, and when the cold feeling left her chest, she peered out once more. Uncle Richard had stopped in front of a black iron gate. Lenora thought it might be an entrance to something—a garden, perhaps. The stone walls around it blocked her view.
Uncle Richard glanced toward the woods and placed his hand on the black iron gate in front of him. He dropped his head to his chest, lifted it, and turned back in her direction. Lenora flattened against the wall again, but not before she saw on his face the shine of tears.
Lenora breathed, but only barely.
21
Lenora heard Uncle Richard enter the house; there must be a door near the ballroom. Of course there was a door; how else would guests get inside?
She thought that he might like to hear some music, so she sat down at the piano and played a few notes, stopped, then started again. She felt his presence behind her, and her hands fluttered to a stop. She swiveled on the bench.
“The piano still plays,” he said. He blinked his eyes rapidly. “How is it, then?”
“A little flat,” Lenora said. “Some of the keys stick.”
“I’ll have the piano tuner come out. We’ll get it fixed.” He seemed to be about to leave again, as he always did when he had nothing more to say or no interest in what she was doing, but then he surprised her. He entered the room.
“You like to play piano?” he said.
“My sister was much better,” Lenora said.
“Rory.” Lenora was surprised that Uncle Richard knew her sister’s name.
“Yes.” Her voice was thick.
“Do you like to play piano?” He asked the question again; she had not answered it the first time.
Lenora thought about how to answer. What did she like to do? John was the gifted reader, although Lenora loved books, too. Rory was the pianist; Lenora played as well. Charles could figure out any math problem in the world; she had always been proficient at math, too.
Lenora tinkered—with science, with math, with music, with books.
Uncle Richard spoke again. “I could get you a teacher.”
“I enjoy building things,” Lenora said. “Science.” She hoped that by saying this her uncle would consider letting her see his lab.
But all he did was grunt and turn away. His cane thumped against the floor.
So he was done talking, then.
“Uncle?”
At the door, Uncle Richard looked back.
“Does Stonewall Manor have a garden?” She already knew the answer, and she didn’t care much one way or another. She simply wanted something more to say. She wanted to keep him here, for a moment or two. Forever, maybe.
He looked and sounded so much like Father.
“Yes,” Uncle Richard said. “There is a large garden.” He paused. “It’s been some time since someone tended it.” His voice bent but did not break.
“Am I allowed to tend it?”
Uncle Richard’s hand reached out for the doorway, and his back hunched. His cane slid an inch or two, as though he were knocked off-balance.
Lenora’s cheeks flamed. She hadn’t meant to sadden him.
A long pause folded around her words, and then Uncle Richard said, “Yes, of course” and nothing more.
Lenora was left alone again.
22
After she had changed out of her dressing gown (Mrs. Jones walked her up to her room so Lenora didn’t have to brave the darkness alone; the lights in the upstairs hallway had no bulbs in them, Mrs. Jones said), eaten her lunch of leftover tuna (it was just as good the second day), and penned a letter to Emma and Dr. Sparks (she would not give up on her family, and perhaps writing to someone directly would remind them that she was still waiting; she also wondered about Emma: Had she survived?), Lenora ventured outdoors. The gate where she had seen Uncle Richard pause was not locked, but it wailed mightily as she opened it. A bird mimicked the sound, and Lenora smiled. It was good to hear mockingbirds so far from home.
The day was bright and cheerful, with not a cloud in the vivid blue sky. The sun beamed down on her, burning through her new blue dress. She smoothed her skirt around her and stared at her shoes. Mother had never liked it when she dirtied her dresses, but Lenora had never seemed able to avoid it. She would, though. She would do it for Mother. Today. Now.
Lenora looked around the garden. It did not resemble a garden at all. There was no order to it, only large, tall weeds waving in the soft breeze that whispered around her. She pulled a few at her feet. They came out easily, as though someone had recently watered the ground, but they dropped dirt from their twisted roots onto her shoes. She sighed. She slipped off her shoes and placed them beneath the shade of one of four trees that stood in the garden, where every now and then she would rest after working her way through the rows, one by one, pulling weeds wherever she could find them.
Mother had kept a tidy flower garden around their home in Texas City. Lenora sat back on her heels, her dress puffed up around her, and plunged her hands into the dirt. She closed her eyes and imagined she could hear Mother’s voice singing; she always sang when she worked in her garden.
How she missed Mother. She could see her thin back, curved and soft. She could see her golden-brown hair falling in short curls around her neck. She could see the straw hat Mother always wore when she went outdoo
rs, to shade her shoulders and protect her face. But when Lenora tried to see her mother’s face, it was smudged at the edges.
The breath left her lungs.
No. She could not forget. She could not forget them.
The sun now felt unbearably hot. Lenora stood and brushed the dirt from the bottom of her dress. She moved to the shade of the tree, where it was much cooler. She rested her back against the bark and slid down to the ground, one hand resting on the pearls she had cleaned and clasped around her neck today. Her other hand covered her mouth, trying to keep the sobs at bay.
“Mother,” she whispered. “Please come home.”
Would she ever know the safety and security—the love—of a family again?
23
After a time—minutes, hours, she could not be sure—Lenora stood again. She felt exhausted, drained by the heat or despair, or perhaps both. She turned back toward Stonewall Manor and studied the windows that faced the garden. She tried to find the ballroom, but there were too many windows; she didn’t know one from the other.
Drapes covered all the windows—except for one side of the house that she assumed was the east wing.
Her uncle’s wing.
In that one window stood her uncle, staring out at her with an unreadable look. He appeared evil in that light, and it sent a cold bead of ice down Lenora’s back. But then his expression changed, and the sun caught on the window, and she saw his face ignite with pain and sorrow and hope and wonder, all that was both terrible and exquisite about life. It was so unexpected that Lenora nearly cried out.
Her hand flinched into a wave, involuntarily. Uncle Richard did not wave back but continued to stare for a moment more, before turning from the window and loosening the drapes so they fell in front of the glass, concealing whatever he was doing inside.
The Woods Page 7