“Hard to believe we held it that long.” She slipped off her shoe, tucked a foot underneath her, and curled tighter into the chair, displacing any lingering formality between us. “The house never thrived after World War I. Few of the old homes did. Some families adapted, but Grandfather couldn’t and Father didn’t try. My eldest brother, Geoffrey, inherited in 2004. As I told you, the Stanleys bought it in 2009.” She surveyed the room, but I suspected she couldn’t see it through the past.
She dropped her gaze level with mine. “He was right to sell; he couldn’t support it. But I had this crazy idea I could keep it up, pay the taxes, and even renovate it . . . I never checked my dream against reality.”
“It’d be hard to do. I’ve never been to a place like this. I can imagine paying almost any price to stay.” This room alone was worth staying for, with its soft light, rich walls, and ceiling moldings so pronounced they cast shadows.
“My brothers say I’ve paid too much.” We sat silent for a moment before she continued. “Geoffrey thinks I’m stubborn, or crazy, but I find it hard to let go. If I go, who will remember?” Her spine stiffened just enough to roll her shoulders back. “The new owners have been very generous.”
“But?” The word popped out before discretion could catch it.
“There are certain things they’d rather I not do, and I understand. It’s their home now, and they must manage it as they see fit. And they have saved it. I am so grateful to see it restored. But not using my last name sits hard at times.”
“Braithwaite House. Gertrude Braithwaite.”
She raised her hand as if answering a roll call in elementary school. “The home is too old. Registered. A name change would’ve been needlessly consuming and confusing, so the house kept its name and I lost mine. The Stanleys would prefer that I not call out my connection to it.”
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I’m glad you did.” She studied me, and I got the impression that for her, as for me, the fact that we’d just met was irrelevant. “You’re the first guest who has.”
Chapter 12
In the hinterland between asleep and awake, music, books, and a world with swirling texture and color wove through me. Austen’s books. Picnics and walks to town. Hymns, singing, and the feel of my old piano’s sticky foot pedal. The Giving Tree, Where the Sidewalk Ends, Alice in Wonderland . . . The Little Princess. Beloved books full of whimsy, giving, mystery, fantasy, and magic. Colors and ideas I hadn’t touched in years. The tree bent, offering another branch . . .
I opened one eye. The room was too bright for how tired I felt. I closed it, rolled over, and dug for a comfy spot under the pillow. Then it hit me. It was too bright, and too quiet. There was a hard quality to the silence. Something was wrong.
I sat up and scanned the room. The curtains were pulled back to reveal a cloudless sky. Abundant sunlight illuminated the mess. There were clothes strewn everywhere—not a dress or two, twenty. Isabel had pulled dresses from both wardrobes.
I sorted them by length and rehung them. I then threw Isabel’s clothes into a few empty drawers at the bottom of the wardrobe closest to her bed and tossed the rest of her mess into her suitcase on the stand. I did the same with my clutter.
Once I could see the gray-green carpet again, and knew Sonia would be none the wiser, I grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweater and went in search of Isabel.
The gallery was empty. I stood and absorbed the complete stillness. Here the silence felt right. I wondered if I’d ever truly heard it before. The realization of how much noise filled my world only became apparent in its absence. Work and my small apartment always emitted the low-level hum of computers, AC units, and cars on the street. And at work there was always Moira’s soft jazz, and at home the upstairs guy’s Macklemore.
I sat on a cushioned chair outside the Blue Room and let the stillness sink in.
This deep quiet felt as if it had been growing and solidifying for years rather than moments or hours. I better understood Gertrude’s love for the house, all it represented and why she couldn’t let it go. I felt myself expand, breathe deep. I felt myself listening.
After returning to my room last night, I’d thought about the similarities and differences between Gertrude and me. My brothers say I’ve paid too much. I smiled at the thought that she, too, at least thirty years older than me, had brothers chirping in on her life and decisions. I’d adopted the mantra “easy come, easy go” from one of mine, though they’d say I took it to an extreme. They would never say I paid too much or held too tight.
I dropped against the chair’s wood back and bounced up again as if it had burned me. That sensation struck again—the vacuum and absolute stillness before the charge, the precursor that signaled something was different, and unbalanced.
I loped down the stairs, checked the two front parlors, and made my way through the hall that ran past the dining room; the only noise was the soft tread of my ballet flats.
I pushed a swinging door at the end of another short, narrow hall, expecting to find the side door Gertrude mentioned—the one leading to the stables and fishing stream. Instead I landed in a long, exquisite kitchen. It was tiled from floor to ceiling in cream-colored subway tiles, with two porcelain farmhouse sinks, stainless steel counters, and a huge bright-red cooking range that lined almost one full wall. The room was dry and warm as if self-heated.
Sonia emerged from a side pantry dressed in a simple long black dress with a white apron laid over the front. “Good morning. Everyone’s left breakfast already, but I can make you eggs or—”
“Please, no. I’m not hungry.” I pointed to her dress. “It’s begun then? I need to put on a dress?”
Sonia smiled. “It only feels awkward at first. You’d have felt better if you’d made breakfast. Helene is wearing a bright-yellow dress and is already in full character. She tried to tease poor ‘Margaret Dashwood’ about Duncan, who was serving sausages. Clara was too young to understand, but poor Duncan turned bright red and dropped a sausage. He was so embarrassed he refuses to serve table again. Helene also insisted we arrange a ball for tomorrow night.”
“Wasn’t there going to be dancing anyway?”
Sonia poured me a cup of coffee and slid it across the counter. “Yes, but part of the fun is letting a Mrs. Jennings direct the household.”
“Okay then . . . To Mrs. Jennings.” I raised my cup and took a sip. “I’ll go find a dress. Save this for me?” I set down my coffee. A waver in the air above the stove caught my eye. “Did you know that’s on?”
“An Aga is always on.”
“What do you mean?” I stepped toward it. I could feel the heat hit me a full two feet from its bright-red doors. I crouched down and touched one of them.
Sonia laughed and crouched next to me. “It’s made of enameled cast iron. Each chamber is calibrated to a different heat, so you move your dishes between them, adjusting how you cook rather than adjusting the oven to your cooking. There are no dials, no on and off switches. Gertrude sent me to a class a couple years ago, but Penelope is the cook. I just help out when needed. Water and boiled eggs, that sort of thing.”