“It’s heartbreaking to see what must have been such a beautiful house gone to ruin.” Lenora tucked her hand into the crook of her husband’s arm. “Do you think it will be difficult to renovate?”
“No doubt,” Peter said, his cool blue eyes skimming over the exterior.
Quincy shrugged. “We’ve seen worse.”
“We’ve not seen the interior,” Peter said. “There are broken panes there. It could be in worse shape than the exterior. Especially in this sea air. The moisture and salt will do more damage than any climbing vine could.”
“Then let’s get to it,” Quincy replied with a grin, apparently undaunted by the sad state of the outside and the grim possibilities within. He took the stairs two at a time, sidestepping broken urns, and made his way to the front door. They all followed, crowding close. From this distance the cracked and flaking varnish on the once beautiful door was painfully clear. But the fan-shaped window that topped it was intact. Perhaps it was a harbinger of positivity. At least, Clara hoped it was.
Quincy reached into his coat pocket, pulling a tarnished key from its depths. “I found this tucked deep in my father’s desk,” he explained. “I’m hoping it fits. If not, I suppose one more broken window won’t matter.” And with that he slid the key into the lock.
It fit easily enough. Yet the first few tries to turn it didn’t provide much hope that their attempt to enter the house through the front door would prove successful. “Once more,” Quincy muttered before, with a deeply indrawn breath, he put both hands on the key.
It turned with a grating that fairly rent the air. Quincy turned back to them, a victorious smile on his face. Clara’s heart flipped over as his eyes met hers. He was doing a fine job of remaining jolly and positive, and seemed to have fooled everyone into believing this was nothing more than an adventure. They didn’t see the tightness about his eyes, the stiffness to his smile that was louder than words to her.
Quincy pushed the door inward, the hinges, unused for so long, protesting mightily. With a deep breath, Clara followed the rest within.
The musty, unused air was the first thing to assault her senses. It sat heavy and stale, and she wrinkled her nose against it as she stepped cautiously across the bare floorboards, the sound echoing back to her. After the bright late-morning light, it took her some minutes to adjust to the dim interior. Gradually, however, her surroundings became clear.
She hadn’t seen the interior since she was a child. Even then it had been rare, with most of her time here spent in the gardens and greenhouse. But suddenly it came rushing back to her, though the simple beauty of her memory vied with what it had become. The once carefully polished staircase that swept up the back wall, with its gracefully arched handrail and intricately carved balusters, was dull now, coated in decades of dust. The walls, too, had been given no quarter, the fine hand-painted wallpaper stained and falling off in tatters, showing the bare walls beneath. A glance up high saw the once elegant plaster ceiling cracked, chunks missing.
She looked to the floor, remembering the intricate wood inlay, now covered in a thick coating of dust and fallen plaster. As she watched, Peter nudged a chunk aside with his boot.
“It’s not pretty, that’s certain. But it appears to be sound. The floor doesn’t seem to be warped in any way. It’s a miracle, really.”
“Do you think it can be salvaged, then?” Lenora asked.
Quincy, in the process of studying the stair treads, smiled over his shoulder. “Most certainly.”
Peter gave him a severe look. “You cannot make such a claim on this one portion of the house.”
Quincy rolled his eyes, rising to his feet. “Why must you be so pessimistic?”
“Why must you insist on ignoring cold facts?”
“It’s part of my charm,” Quincy quipped with a grin. “Why focus on the negative? We’ve only this one life to live. I prefer to look at the best possible outcome, and to enjoy myself while I’m at it.”
“With no regard for caution or safety,” Peter rejoined. But there was no heat in it, only a weary kind of echo, as if it was a frequent argument between the two.
Lenora stepped between them. “Neither of your hypotheses will be proven if you insist on standing about and arguing. Let’s find out for ourselves the extent of the damage, then I will happily leave you to finish your debate.”
The party began a lively discussion regarding the merits of staying together as a group versus breaking off into pairs. Clara watched them for a moment. It was a scene she would normally be in the midst of, taking control, making sure no one was slighted. But she could not take the steps forward to join in. She sighed, a sudden exhaustion overcoming her. Would that she could break off from the group and explore alone. She needed solitude now more than anything.
The idea was so tempting, she started up the curving stairs before she quite knew what she was doing. Soon she was on the upper floor, heading off down the hall, the sounds of happy bickering falling away behind her.
She had never been to this part of the house before. The unfamiliar feel of it calmed her, and she took a deep breath for what felt like the first time since she’d arrived. The shadows were thick here, the tightly closed doors of the rooms that spread out on either side keeping away the sunlight, shrouding the space as surely as the dust that settled thick over every surface. Going to the closest door, she turned the knob and pushed inward.
The door swung open with a creak, revealing a large square room with wide windows looking out over the sea far below. Cloth-covered furniture rose up like specters, crowding the space. She went to the first, pulling a corner back. A side table, still beautiful, its glossy finish dull but protected for the most part by its covering. The next revealed a low settee, the rose damask brittle. More seating and a low table followed, proving this room had been used as a sitting room. The last piece, a delicate white desk, had a place of honor against the large windows. She looked down on the painted top, running her fingers over the surface. Had this been Miss Brandon’s desk? Had she sat here, looking out over the sea, penning letters?
But she was growing maudlin. Flipping the dusty cover back over the desk, she left the room and went to the next. Here was a larger space, the square cloth-covered piece dominating the floor proclaiming it to be a bedroom. Her eyes scanned the other pieces. Surely that tall one there was an armoire, that long one a dressing table. There were chairs before the cold hearth, small side tables bookending the bed.
She noticed a small, low shape that stood out awkwardly from the rest. Frowning, she walked to it and pulled back the cover.
A baby’s cradle. Pain exploded in her chest. Without pausing she threw the cover back over it. Dust rose up as she spun away, desperate to leave the room. Quite another cradle rising up in her mind, for a child who would never have reason to use it.
So intent was she on escaping, she didn’t realize anyone had followed her until she was upon him. Strong hands came up to grasp her arms, halting her before she barreled into his chest.
“Clara, are you well?”