November 1918
When some people talk about memories that define a turning point in their lives, they say it is only in hindsight that they can see how inevitable the future had been. That's not how Randall remembered the day he descended the steps to the sunken garden and saw Ezekiel kneeling by the fountain, eyes closed and chanting to himself. Somehow he knew movements had already begun to put an end to his time at The Lower Withens and maybe to the estate itself.
Randall was eighteen and lived with Ezekiel and the other grounds staff in the carriage house. On the far side of the gardens, a second set of granite steps rose to the main house. Claire sat in her wheelchair on the logia. She had wrapped herself in a brilliant red afghan and was turned to the gray sky that curved up from the ocean. Behind her stood the tall windows of the conservatory. Randall remembered when he was very small and used to see Claire’s mother standing in one of those windows every morning with a teacup. It had been porcelain white with blue flowers.
It’s strange how early memories sometimes fixate on minor details while big events fade to the point of becoming water colored fantasies that are half remembered and half constructed from what other people said. Perhaps it was an effect of the self importance of young children. Mrs. Henshaw had brought Randall here when he was an orphaned child and so after her death, the teacup had become a symbol of both grace and kindness. On the other hand, Randall had no memory of the famous events after the lady’s passing, events that had lead to the murder of a dozen people. For that story he had to wait for Ezekiel to get drunk. Right now, ruffled, ivory colored curtains were pulled across the conservatory windows, as they had been for the better part of the last fifteen years.
An orange trail of smoke arched across the sky. It exploded a few hundred feet above the house. Several more came. Randall had heard this morning about the end of the war and knew that Claire would be out to see the fishermen fire their flares in celebration. That had been why he’d come around to the sunken garden, to watch her without her knowing it. He hadn’t expected to see Ezekiel finally giving in to the madness that had plagued him for as long as Randall could remember.
Ezekiel stood. He looked at the main house and saw that Claire was turned away. He reached into an alcove beneath a statue of pan playing his flute and fished out a tin canteen. The old gardener took a swig and walked back towards the carriage house. He noticed Randall and stopped.
“The master says we get the day off.” he said. “That means you too, but don’t snitch on me.”
Randall nodded. Fumes from the open canteen smelled strongly of the white Irish whiskey that was slowly robbing the old man’s sight. The master of the estate, Mr. Henshaw, considered himself a good Christian and supported the temperance movement. He didn’t allow booze anywhere on The Withens, but he either did not know about Ezekiel’s still or didn’t care so long as it stayed out of sight. Henshaw hardly walked the grounds anyway since his wife’s death. He seemed to barely notice he had a daughter, for that matter.
The fountain, populated by pan and several frollicking nymphs, stood at one end of the rectangular garden. A heart shaped pool marked the other end. A small round island in the center bore its own fountain, one made of tall winter grasses waving their brown, orange, and red fronds in the gentle but cold breeze. Randall walked up to the edge and noticed something stuck in the grass on the island. It was a pink carnation. The carnation was entangled in a delicate web that some spider had spun among the tips of the grass blades.
He started towards the stables, where the gardening tools could be found at the end of one of the rows of stalls. The flowers showed up at The Withens from time to time. They didn’t grow anywhere on the property and the master became very angry if he saw one, armistice or not. Randall would’ve liked to know how they ended up here. He took a rake back down to the pond. He found that the carnation had disappeared, but Claire was sitting next to the water. It would have taken her some effort to roll the chair along a path leading to that spot.
“How are you, Randall?” she said.
She put one of her hands on his own. The touch thrilled him and frightened him. Claire was a pretty girl but she wasn’t always kind. Even as children, when they played together almost as though they were siblings, she had a way of teasing him. It wasn’t just play now. Dark kids got hung from trees for looking at a white girl with the wrong kind of eyes. Randall pulled his hand away.
“I’m fine, miss.”
“I need something from you.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know what today is?”
“The Great War is over.”
“It’s the day my mother died.”
“I’m sorry miss.” said Randall. “I knew it was in November, but I didn’t remember the day.”
“I want to visit her.”
Randall looked towards the western edge of the property, were a rocky hill rose high enough for him to see a green copper cross above the treeline. The house, the gardens, the outbuildings, and all the fields and woods rested on a flat peninsula of land by the mouth of Lutton Harbor. The hill stood inland and although it was not very tall, it made a natural barrier between the estate and the rest of the town. The hill’s only residents lay in the ground beneath its surface.
“Will you push me?” said Claire. “I’ve never been up there and I need your help.”
He pushed her along the lawn until they entered a wooded path. Wet leaves littered the ground and caught in the wheels, but the boy managed to push on. At one point the chair slipped into a slight depression in the ground. It was oval shaped and about the size of a human body. He stopped.
“Randall?” said Claire.
He didn’t know why it bothered him. Of course, it did look like a shallow grave, but he didn’t really believe that is what it was. How could such a thing exist at the Withens? Nonetheless, he felt a coldness when he stood on it, and somehow Claire’s wheelchair felt heavier. He shoved at it and rolled up the other side of the depression. He shrugged it off and tried to not the remember it. They reached the end of the path, where there were steps cut into the side of the hill. Each step was made of a wooden frame filled with packed dirt. Claire pushed herself to her feet, forcing Randall to catch her before she fell. He had expected this, but at least they were away from prying eyes.
“It’s not far.” she said. “Carry me.”
Her neck was close enough that the scent of her perfume was stronger than that of the dead autumn leaves. She smelled of lavender and lemon, with a layer that he could only compare to the scent of fresh cut wood. It evoked strange feelings because it was what Claire’s mother had worn. Randall remembered the angular bottle on her dresser with the yellow liquid and the label that looked like a royal seal. She had left it on the bed stand once, within reach of his toddler’s hands, and he’d sprayed it on himself. Mr. Henshaw had become enraged. He used to say that the fragrance “smelled like an animal” and didn’t like it even when his wife wore it, let alone on the little black orphan she’d dragged in. To Randall it was another porcelain teacup, this time a reminder of his adoptive mother’s defiance. It was also a reminder of the home he’d had with her before she’d died and the master had banished him to the out buildings, to be raised by Ezekiel and his chanted cyphers.
“Do you like it?” said Claire. “It’s called Guerlain Jicky.”
“It’s very pretty, miss.”
“I found it with my mother’s things the other day and it reminded me of you. It smells like the grass and the flowers. You’re a good gardener, Randall.”
“Thank you.”
“But if you tell my father I stole the key to my mother’s sitting room, I’ll kill you.”
She laughed. Usually when she smiled, she simply looked pretty. But when she offered a big and genuine smile, with all the creases and the freckles, she began to resemble Mrs. Henshaw. Randall hated this moment. He had first come out to see her as herself, without her knowing of his presence. However, she’d not only noticed him, but had responded to his admiration. This came with a metamorphosis away from what Randall had been seeking and into someone else. He could think of nothing else but her mother. Then they reached the top of the steps and Randall realized he had no suitable place to set her down.
“I’ll sit there.” she said, pointing to her mother’s crypt.
He did as he was told. She sat on the large stone box, which held a prominent place between the angel moment and the hexagonal chapel.
“She was kind?” said Claire, dragging her fingers across the rough surface.
“Very kind.”
“Do you want to know a secret? Do you remember when we were little and I used to get mad and call you… well, I don’t want to repeat what I called you.” When Randall responded to her only by turning his eyes to the ground, she went on, “Of course you remember. I’m sorry Randall. My secret is that I was jealous that you knew her. It isn’t fair.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but much is unfair.”
“How is that rude?”
He shook his head, still looking down. They fell to silence. A couple more flares sailed into the sky. The color burst expanded into a web of smoky tendrils.
“I think I saw her ghost.” said Claire.
He raised his head. “Maybe you did, miss.”
“She sat in a chair by the fireplace in my room, looking as solid as you or I. She was dressed in an ivory colored taffeta skirt with a rich brocade.” Claire closed her eyes and spread her palms across her lap. She breathed as though trying to inhale the scent of her memory, a slight smile on her lips. It was the smile that made her look like herself again. “And she wore a wine colored cloak with a gold chain and clasp.” The girl put her fingers to her jugular. “There was a single pink carnation fixed to the clasp.” She opened her eyes. “That’s why I started going through my mother’s things to begin with, to find the clothes I saw.”
Randall wasn’t sure what to think about Claire’s story. She must have known about the mysterious appearances of pink carnations on the property. Perhaps she thought they were signs of her mother’s presence among them. Ezekiel had different thoughts. What made Randall uncomfortable was how the rest of the costume Claire had described did not resemble Randall’s memories of Mrs. Henshaw so much as it matched in every detail the figure that haunted Ezekiel’s mind. He called her The Drifter and claimed she was a dangerous creature. It was she that he blamed for the deaths of all those guests who had attended the infamous seance. Randall had only ever heard Ezekiel describing The Drifter and couldn’t be sure Claire had ever heard the story. Considering that Ezekiel claimed the spirit had not only killed those people but crippled Claire, it wouldn’t be surprising if he and the rest of the house had kept this a secret from the girl.
“Randall?”
“Yes, miss?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” he said.
She reached her arm out and leaned forward, another trick to get him to catch her. He grabbed her hand and she leaned back again. Claire squeezed his hand and released him. Then she touched his chin with the very tips of her fingers so that she could lift his face and make his eyes meet hers. It was his custom to look away when they were this close. She was not going to allow that now. Claire’s eyes were green and her hair a mix of dark auburn and brown, colors that were all her own.
“Was it her?” she said.
Randall knew that the way Claire had corrected his face was an invitation. He was supposed to be honest and unafraid. He could hardly be anything but honest, but fearlessness was far too much to ask.
“No.” he said. “I’m sorry, miss.”
“Why? You don’t believe in spirits?”
“I think I’ve seen my share.”
“So you’re an expert then?” Her smile and laugh turned to a sneer. “What gives you the right to say I don’t know my own mother? As if you have some claim to her that no one else has.” She waited for a response and got none. Randall resumed his downward glance. Claire swung her leg and managed to kick the boy in the chest with the toe of her boot, though the weakness of her lower limbs meant it wasn’t much of a kick. “Look at me. This face is the one that looks like hers. I am her only child. Her only living blood relation. Not even my father has the right to keep her from me, let alone you.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, miss.” said Randall.
“No?”
“No. Maybe what you saw was her spirit.”
“What else could it have been? What do you know? You’re just...”
Tears formed in her eyes. Her mouth was very tight, as though she were trying to hold back words that were pushing against the inside of her face.
“Cargo?”
“What?”
She had talked a few minutes ago about how she’d used to get mad and call him names. Once a when they were children, she had asked him what her mother’s voice had sounded like and he’d been unable to describe it. This had made her very mad and she’d flashed him the same face with the tight mouth. Unable to resist, she’d blurted out that he wasn’t her brother or her friend. He might as well have been her property, some bit of cargo brought across by one of her father’s ships.
“Nothing.” he said.
He had said it, however, and she had heard. It brought her to sobs. She stopped, drew in a huge, shuddering breath, and released a deep wail. Claire raised her arms and Randall came close. She lay her head on his shoulder and soaked his shirt through with her tears. It was clear to Randall how she felt. Claire hated how he’d known Mrs. Henshaw. Trapped within a crippled body, she wanted to land every verbal blow upon him as she could manage, just like when she was a child and didn’t know any better. But she wasn’t a child anymore and in the absence of her disinterested father, Randall was the only thing she had besides clothes and perfumes linking her to her mother.
“Take me back now.” she said.
“Yes, miss.”
They returned to her chair and Randall wheeled her back to the gardens and around a stubby hill that took them to the logia. He opened one of the tall doors to the conservatory. He opened one and Claire propelled herself inside. Randall remained and watched her. It had been many years since he’d stepped on the marble floor of the garden room. Lately only Ezekiel had been allowed inside to tend to the plants. They were mostly ferns spilling out of planters. White wicker chairs and ottomans were nestled among them. Claire continued on until she reached the far end of the room and entered the library. Randall pulled the doors closed and walked back to the carriage house.
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Thank you for reading. This is the middle part of a 3-part story. See the first one here: Fortune Teller. Yes, it has different characters, but the third part will bring them together.
Image courtesy of pixabay
