I tiptoed up to the house itself and peered in the windows. The rooms were almost empty, apart from an occasional piece of furniture, hidden under a dust sheet.
As I walked around I was overtaken by the stillness and the melancholy. Sounds from the lively world outside did not penetrate this forgotten estate. I could tell that there had been lovely gardens here once, but the flower beds were an overgrown tangle of brambles, the lawns were full of weeds, and shrubs had grown rampant to form an impenetrable barrier across the back part of the yard. Why had Mr. Lynch let the place go to rack and ruin, I wondered. If he no longer wanted it, then why not sell it? And surely he must come here occasionally to check on his mill, so why not keep a suite of rooms open in readiness? I knew he had a reputation for being a skinflint, so perhaps he would regard the latter as an extravagance, but letting a valuable asset go to waste did not ring true to his character as described to me.
As I peeped through an arbor that was now a tangle of wild roses, I glimpsed a pretty little lawn area beyond, with a swing hanging from the branch of an old oak tree. And I imagined young Lydia Johnson sitting on that swing, dreaming about the world that she longed to see.
I let myself out of the gate and closed it behind me again with a final sort of clang. The melancholy of the place was overpowering and I walked quickly to get away. Was it the tragedy of Lydia’s parents’ untimely death that still lingered here? I crossed the street to distance myself from it and came upon an old man, digging in his yard. On impulse I went up to him.
“That house over there,” I said. “I take it that nobody lives there anymore.”
He looked up, squinted at me, then grunted. “That’s right. Don’t take a genius to see that.”
“But it used to be owned by the Johnson family? Have you lived here long enough to remember them?”
“I was born in this very house, miss,” he said. “And I remember that house when it was newly built. William and Mary Johnson—foreigners they were, from Scotland. He spoke with such a thick accent you could hardly understand him. But it seemed he’d made a killing in timber up in Vermont and he bought the mill over in North Adams, and had himself this fine house built.”
“And they had a daughter?”
His grim face softened. “Pretty little thing, and the sweetest, gentlest nature you could imagine. I did some gardening and heavy work for them over there and she used to come out and talk to me. She’d swing on her swing and chatter away.” A smile crossed his face. “I don’t suppose there was much lively conversation with those parents. Dour, that’s what would describe them. They belonged to one of these religions that thought that dancing, singing, merrymaking were a sin. I don’t believe they even celebrated birthdays. And Miss Lydia—well, she was a friendly little soul. She just loved to dance and sing. I don’t understand why she married that Lynch fella. He was a good deal older than her and about as unpleasant and dour as her father was. Well, maybe I do understand it—her pa had just died and she was looking for another father figure, I suppose. There’s no accounting for taste, is there?” He chuckled.
“So you were closely connected with the place,” I said. “Did you happen to meet any of the Johnsons’ relatives ever? I’m trying to trace a couple called Boswell, who were missionaries in China. I’m just wondering if they ever came to visit or you heard anyone speak of them.”
“I don’t recall any relatives coming to stay,” he said. “Those Johnsons pretty much kept themselves to themselves. But I can well believe they had relatives who were missionaries. Very much into their religion, they were. They used to make a terrible stink if anyone hereabouts made music or had a party on the Sabbath.”
“Lydia and Horace took over the rearing of these relatives’ baby when they died in China,” I said. “So they weren’t living here when that happened?”
He shook his head. “I never saw a baby at that house. They must have already upped and gone to New York.”
“So they moved to New York, did they?”
He grunted again. “I’m not sure if that was her doing or his. Some said he’d acquired a whole lot of other business enterprises and wanted to be in the thick of things. Others said that she’d bullied him into going because she wanted to be closer to society and the bright lights. I think it was probably a bit of both. You’d have thought it would have suited them both but I heard that she took sick soon afterward and died. Great pity, that. As I said, she was a lovely little thing. She deserved a better life.”
“And when they went, they just left this place untouched, did they?”
“That’s right. They’d kept a pack of servants and gardeners and whatnot. They just fired them all. Didn’t take a single one to New York with them. I suppose none of us was grand enough for their new life. Always did have airs and graces, that Horace Lynch.”