A Mischief in the Snow (28 page)

“Look!” she cried.

“A lovely old thing, to be sure,” Longfellow answered. “Venetian glass, I would say. Older than the one in my study, but similar. Do you admire it particularly, Carlotta? I might find one for you one day, during my travels.”

“You—you see nothing unusual?”

“How do you mean?” he asked, his nose wrinkling.

“Nothing moving?”

“Well, Reed, behind us.” Longfellow turned to make sure. “Yes, looking at a small chest on the table there. Meant to hold letters, do you think, Moses?” he asked, going to investigate further.

“Possibly,” the lawyer replied. He found that the jeweled lid needed a key, which none of them had. “Magdalene, do you know where we might find something to open this?”

“She wears the keys at her waist,” she answered. Charlotte then recalled putting such a set away, in her desk at home.

Removing a small folding knife from his pocket, the attorney inserted it into the brass lock. He rocked it back and forth, then applied a prying motion, forcing the mechanism to give way. Inside were folded letters; the seal to each had been lifted gently, to keep the wax impression of a signet ring intact.

“It seems,” said Reed a few moments later, “that they're all letters of love, addressed to Catherine by a man named Donald.”

“A good Gaelic name,” Longfellow said, allowing the matter to drop. “Let's move on. I see nothing to help us understand what has occurred here.

Charlotte pulled her eyes from the mirror, and saw that the rug before the hearth was singed and stained with ashes.

“It's a terribly sad place,” she said suddenly, looking up. Longfellow stooped to examined her face. “Are you all right, Carlotta? You look as if you've seen a ghost.”

Though she had not, she heard once more the sound of faint music—a harpsichord jingling, voices joined in song. Looking to the others, she saw their concern for her, but nothing more.

“I'm quite well,” she assured Longfellow, taking her skirt in her hand, making her way quickly to the sunlight by an uncovered window.

“Then let's keep moving,” he suggested. “Magdalene, do you know where Mrs. Knowles kept her papers? Those that dealt with legal matters, and finances?”

“In her bed chamber,” the woman replied without hesitation. “She has them there.”

“Will you lead the way?”

Magdalene turned and looked about the room, as if for the last time. Straightening her back, she walked with new resolve along the way they'd come. In the vast entry she began to climb steps against a gray wall, past windows with colored glass, toward a second floor. The others followed, enjoying a closer view of the niches full of weapons and spiders, and the tapestries above.

At the top, they came upon a long gallery. Clear glass in small, high panes let in enough of the noon sun for them to admire portraits of several gentlemen and their ladies, in two long rows that faced one another. Most seemed very well done.

Charlotte felt especially drawn to one whose etched plate identified its subject as Ermengarde Fischart, wife of Johan. This, then, was Catherine's mother. It strongly resembled the young woman in the larger painting below them. Yet this woman had been more slender, and
seemed resigned to an unhappy fate—no use to her a gown enriched with a fortune in pearls, embroidered in thread of gold.

“Here is old Johan himself,” said Longfellow, coming to stand a few steps away.

Next to Ermengarde, they saw a man whose face showed great force of will, and a contempt for the world he took no trouble to hide. Something of him, too, had been given to the young woman below, though here was a more sensuous set to the forward lips, and a gleam of appetite in the eyes. He appeared to be dressed for the hunt. Thick leather straps ran over a heavy doublet, and on his head perched a hat made with small curled feathers, which Charlotte suddenly recognized.

“It's the hat Alex wore, isn't it?” she asked. “On his last day.”

“In the cellar now, rotting with the rest of him,” Longfellow returned cruelly, moving away. His voice, she thought, had sounded like that of someone else—someone frightening. “Carlotta,” he ordered. “Come here.”

She did as he asked, and felt as if fingers of ice had penetrated her skirts, chilling her legs and thighs. With a shocked gasp she stepped back, and found herself as she'd been before.

“You felt it, then.”

“Oh, yes!” she assured him. “How do you explain it?”

“A draft seems improbable, and could hardly account for the strength of the cold,” he said in his usual voice. “Actually, I have no idea what has made it.”

“None at all?”

“Well, it is a stone house. Perhaps a magnetic force, from embedded ore, has set itself up in a column, with its center here in the building's core. I may come back one
day, with tools for measuring the drop in temperature. Or I may not,” he finished with more assurance.

“It does seem oppressive, doesn't it?”

“Worse, even, than below.”

“You felt something there, too?” she asked in surprise.

“Didn't you?”

“You didn't say—”

“And just what, I wonder, did you find so special in an old mirror?”

Finally she told him.

“I see. Or rather, I didn't—but there was an oppressive smell, I supposed, that grew more horrible as one neared the hearth. Possibly from the burning… but was that something you noticed?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Perhaps we should finish our business. I wouldn't want to keep Lem waiting too long,” he added, giving them yet another reason to move on. “Miss Knowles?” he called out. “Will you show us the bed chambers?”

No one asked for more time to examine the considerable number of portraits. Instead they moved off in a close group, each glancing to the left and right as they moved on to a corridor that was smaller, and darker.

M
AGDALENE'S CHAMBER WAS
of a more pleasant than Charlotte had imagined. Beside an ample bed sat a chair with bright cushions; others lay along a wide sill that formed a seat by a window. Here, it seemed, the curtains were often shaken, and they appeared to be less dilapidated than those below.

By a small hearth, enough wood was stacked to ensure a comfortable fire, the next time one might be wanted. There were no candles, but it would matter little, for there were no books in evidence. Yet the needlework on the cushions was lovely, shining in the window's light. Had some of the metallic threads of silver been carefully plucked from old garments? Several colors, too, had been used to create patterns depicting ferns and spring flowers, which Magdalene might well have seen in the island meadows during her daily walks. These, thought Charlotte, were especially pleasing, and something of a relief in a house that held little else of softness. While their maker
had a troubled mind, her eye, at least, was subtle and imaginative.

Without a word, Magdalene took a few simple robes from a clothespress that stood against a wall. She picked up a silver hairbrush, and two pairs of silk slippers, their worn soles replaced with felt. A chest of drawers held undergarments, and then she opened a box whose lid had been inlaid with nacre, to form a white rose. From this she carefully removed an infant's shift. It, too, had been beautifully embroidered. Magdalene held it up, allowing it to be admired. Her own eyes seemed to caress the garment—or perhaps she recalled the child who'd worn it. She then put it back into its special box, which she added to the small pile on the bed.

Meanwhile, sounds came from a larger room at the end of the hall, where Longfellow and Moses Reed had found work of their own.

“I have seen rats,” said Longfellow, “make tidier nests.”

“She could have noticed little,” Reed reminded him as he lifted a reeking shawl, thrown over the remains of a meal left on remarkably fine china. All about them were bits and pieces of a life declining—not neatly, as a mantel clock that slowed, but stumbling into darkness.

“She had a nose, after all,” Longfellow retorted, wondering at his harshness.
What had gotten into him?
He hadn't felt any great distaste for the old woman, to whom he'd never even spoken! But something now seemed to disgust him in the very air—

“Here!” cried the lawyer, pulling a miniature chest from beneath the bed. “This looks as if it might hold correspondence.” Disdaining the soiled quilt on top of a sagging mattress, Reed lifted the chest to a dressing table, shoving
back odds and ends already there. He then began to open its many small compartments.

Meanwhile, Longfellow went to look out into the hall, wondering if he'd really heard distant footsteps, as he'd supposed.

When the attorney had gone through every drawer, he drew together a pile of papers which included copies of both wills. Other than that, they were mainly lists and receipts from chandlers and suppliers of food, wine, and cloth, sent from Salem and Kittery, Philadelphia—even London. A few were of great age; none had been marked paid.

“That would seem to be that,” said Reed.

“Then I propose we do a little more exploring below. Not for long, as Magdalene, at least, may wish to go.”

“You don't think Mrs. Willett—?”

“Her curiosity is something of a local legend,” Longfellow informed the lawyer. “She would stay, I think, to view the place from top to bottom, if we gave her the chance. Although today, I wonder—”

“Another day,” said Reed, “when there is time. For now, another twenty minutes or so?

“I, for one, will be waiting at the front door.”

With that, Longfellow went out of the room and down the gallery, leaving the lawyer to go wherever his own feet might take him.

MOSES REED WENT
first to inform the ladies that they would all be leaving shortly. Charlotte then felt a heightened desire to explore. She left Magdalene with her attorney and walked back along the corridor, looking into each room.

There was little to see. Furnishings more useful than beautiful had been provided for visitors, although one or two chambers did have something more. In these, decorative hangings were flanked by tall stands that might take several candles. Carpets, too, had been provided; the others made do with bare wood floors.

When she had seen enough of the west wing, Charlotte hurried back through the picture gallery, avoiding the mysterious spot of cold. In another minute she stood below and frowned, unsure of where to go next. The second floor of the east wing could be reached only by another set of stone steps. Somehow it seemed wiser to remain where she was, or to descend. She chose the second option when she noticed another doorway, and a smaller flight of steps leading down. She'd wondered earlier about the kitchen, and decided to see it for herself.

The lower level was lit by high windows that faced the south. It contained a cavernous room with a gigantic hearth, complete with a spit large enough for roasting an entire boar, as well as several side ovens for baking. Rusting utensils hung about the walls, but seemed usual enough. She saw a set of pipes coming down from the ceiling; they probably supplied water from a rooftop cistern, so that at least some water need not have been carried up from the marsh. This reminded her that the house was no more than a half century old, though its appearance, especially above, suggested great age. It was almost as if she were behind the scenes of a theater, she thought, something she'd heard Longfellow describe on occasion, from his travels.

Further exploration showed her a huge pantry, nearly empty. At its end stood one more door. Upon opening this she felt a draft, and saw that she stood at the top
of yet another set of stone steps. Below, there were no windows. Could it be a dungeon, used for torture by a man obsessed with his tiny island? Had he been like the duke in Horace Walpole's story, caring little for the lives of others, while he sought his own pleasures? She shuddered to think of it. And yet she felt herself wanting to learn more… if only to be sure.

Someone had conveniently left both a candle and a tinder box on a table near the door. She lit the candle, supposing its presence indicated the lower room was still used for something; in the kitchen itself she'd seen no such amenities. That thought was strange enough to cause her to put a foot onto a stone step, and prepare to follow the rest down into the darkness.

She stopped when she heard a sigh from below. Changing to a moan, it caused the hairs on her arms to rise. Could there be someone there in pain—even in chains? If so, should she go and see? Or should she retreat to safety, while she still had the chance? As she tried to decide, she felt a light hand settle onto her shoulder.

She knew without turning that she would see no one there. And she'd recognized the familiar scent of horehound, a favorite remedy of Aaron's when he'd been alive. For several months, she'd missed her husband's lingering presence. Now, it seemed, he had returned.

Again, the moan came from below.

The hand rested quietly. Aaron's memory was still a comfort. When had she truly realized he was no longer a part of her life—or any other she knew? She'd loved her husband deeply, yet this was less than a shadow. And she wondered now what it cost him, to come back to her. Wrenching a last hope from her heart, she confronted whatever it was that remained.

“Would you keep me from finding more?” she asked gently. “Would you stay, when you need not?”

Finally, it was done. She felt his presence diminish, as if it slipped silently away. In a few moments, he was gone altogether.

Her heart was in her throat, and it suddenly occurred to her that Aaron might have come with a warning. The candle she held continued to flicker; the moaning went on. With a breath, she took back her life, and walked down into the void.

As she descended she felt the loss, too, of what little warmth the windows gave the kitchen above. A new coldness enveloped her, though it was less than the frigid spot in the gallery above. A wind seemed to blow—with no windows to give it entry.

When the stone steps ended she smelled earth beneath her feet, and then the bitter scent of snow. But she had come upon nothing dire, nothing uncanny. Instead her candle showed her a room full of old furniture. Next to a jumble of chairs in need of repair stood a stack of several rods, once used for fishing expeditions—wine casks missing staves or bands served as supports for a pair of long ladders—tackle for horses lay strewn in a corner, though where animals had been kept on the island, she could not guess.

She found herself drawn to an ornately carved headboard, taller than she was. It seemed to have been the back of a box bed. And where it leaned against a wall, a new moan seemed to have begun. Long and deep, this soon suggested a body in the throes of intense passion.

But there was no one there! She stared at ornate carvings of stag and doe, garlands of leaves and acorns, all cut into joined planks of heavy oak. Her candle flickered violently, and she felt a fresh draft. Something, it appeared,
was behind all of this—possibly behind the headboard itself?

She bent down to set the candle on the floor. Then she stood to lean against the tall object before her. The whole bed would have been heavy enough, she supposed, to collapse the floor of a simple cottage. It might even have been the last resting place of old John Fisher. By squirming, she was able to see a little behind the wood, where a passage of some sort began. That, at least, explained the moaning of the wind. At its end, she glimpsed a faint light.

As she had no hope of lifting the headboard, she decided to try to slide it enough so that she might slip behind. Shifting her position, she lowered her head and applied a shoulder to the wood. In another moment she felt it give, and then it began to move across the hard-packed floor. Elated by her success, and curious to see where the passage might lead, she renewed her effort.

Then it seemed as though she'd been plunged into a painful night, under a sky full of swirling stars. The ground came to meet her with a crash, and she lay for a moment in a sort of twilight. Did she again hear music? Or was it only a roar of blood in her ears? Laughter seemed to sound as she continued to sink into a deep well. On its sides were faces, illuminated, laughing, passing by as the stars above receded. And there was a sound like the whirling of skirts, lulling her to sleep.

Beside her still form, the candle danced. Something brown scurried past her skirts, frightened from its burrow. But Charlotte was unaware of anything that might have harmed her further.

Some time later, she begin to revive. Someone called
out to her from far away. The familiar voice drew nearer. Before long it came clearly.

“Mrs. Willett? Mrs. Willett!”

“Here!” she called back, but her voice sounded no more than a whisper. She stretched her neck to view the stairs. Soon a pair of legs strode toward her.

“Oh God—Charlotte?”
His exclamation was rather strange, she thought, and it seemed that a part of his voice, too, was trapped in his throat. Could something have happened?

Richard Longfellow swooped to enfold her in his strong arms, protecting her at first, then settling his cheek against her own. She heard him murmur thanks as he cradled her, felt his warm breath, and saw a most unusual fear in his lovely hazel eyes. She recalled her earlier hesitancy on the steps, when she'd felt another hand on her shoulder. This touch felt far more urgent, and wonderfully real.

While an arm continued to support her, a hand began to run searchingly about her face and into her gathered hair, where its fingers prodded gently. She felt a sharp pain and cringed, giving a startled cry as she fully recovered her senses.

“I'm sorry, Carlotta,” he responded, his attention drawn to a growing bump that had caused her discomfort. “It seems there's no break in the skin, and no blood. By the sound of the crash, I imagined you'd found a way to bring the entire house down around you. What happened? And how did you nearly manage to crack your skull?”

“I'm not sure,” she said, feeling the bump herself, amazed by its size. “I was only trying to move the headboard—”

She looked to see that it had fallen to the floor; now it lay in several pieces. Pale tongues that had held the joints together were exposed.

“The thing must have been dried and warped, waiting to spring apart when you touched it,” Longfellow decided.