“I know, I know, I should not be doing this. I feel terrible about it. Please don’t tell tales.” Annie turned back to the desk and pulled the drawer open. As one might have expected, it contained a number of letters and papers, none of which appeared to be suspicious. After closing that drawer, she searched the other, followed by the desk’s cubbyholes. She found nothing but a ledger, a number of invoices and receipts, and a list of contacts and suppliers.
The entire, fruitless episode was beyond distasteful. Sick with guilt, Annie stepped back and considered where else she might accumulate more shame. Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, her mind already wandering the upper rooms, including Janet’s bedroom and the attic.
The attic seemed to be the logical place to discover hidden secrets. Perhaps too logical. But searching such a space felt less abhorrent than searching Janet’s bedroom. Annie had never been up there, though she knew of the small wooden door that led to it.
With Ruffy still on her heels, Annie headed upstairs, pausing before the attic door for a moment before pulling it open. Ahead lay anarrow, half-turn, wooden staircase, dark and dismal. Ruffy parted with a whine. “I agree,” Annie said. “We need light.”
She went to her bedroom, lit her lantern, and returned, pausing once again at the foot of the stairs to gather her courage. “What say you, Ruffy?” she asked. “Will you be my escort?” The dog wagged his tail and backed up a step.
“Well, thank you for nothing,” she said. “That’s very reassuring.
Of course, the stairs creaked as she knew they would, and the lantern-light didn’t quite reach into the darker corners where Lord-knows-what lurked. The staircase led to another narrow door, apparently the twin of the previous one. Annie’s hand hovered momentarily over the door handle. Then, gritting her teeth, she turned it and pushed the door open. It, too, creaked. Annie paused on the threshold and held her lantern up, breath hissing through her teeth at the sight of cobwebs hanging from the rafters. It was apparent no one had been up here for some time.
Lantern still held aloft, Annie moved forward a couple of steps, looking for anything that might merit investigation. The space was not as cluttered as she’d imagined it to be. There were a few items of furniture; several wooden chairs, a moth-eaten footstool, a couple of small tables, a traveling chest, a dilapidated armoire, and one blanket box.
The traveling chest was empty. Annie then went to the blanket box and lifted the lid, which resulted in releasing the smell of camphor and a dust cloud. Waving the dust aside, she peered into the box to see what looked like an old, embroidered quilt.
But nothing else.
It seemed clear there was little of value in this dark space. Coughing, Annie closed the lid, cast another quick glance around, and made her way back downstairs.
“Where to now, Ruffy?” she asked, turning the wick down on the lantern. There was, in truth, only one other likely place to search. Theone Annie had prayed wouldn’t be necessary.
Janet’s bedroom.
Annie had been in the room before, briefly. It had been a casual thing, random, a sharing of conversation that just happened to occur in that particular space. Once again, Annie paused, her stomach churning as she regarded the bedroom door. She felt like a thief, in this case stealing Janet’s privacy and trust. “God forgive me,” she muttered, as she opened the door.
It was a pleasant room. Quite large, but with a cozy atmosphere. Worn rugs on polished floors, oak beams, whitewashed walls, floral curtains. And, of course, Janet’s bed, neatly made with its embroidered bedspread and topped with a pale green, featherdown quilt.
Furniture in the room consisted of a simple chest of drawers, an oak armoire, a small bedside table, another table beneath the window, a bent-cane chair, and a washstand and mirror. Neat and tidy, nothing out of place.
Gritting her teeth, Annie first went to the armoire and opened the door. Again, she breathed in the faint odor of camphor, this time sweetened with a touch of lavender. All Janet’s clothing was in plain view, hanging from the rack or folded neatly on the shelves. Annie then opened the drawer at the bottom of the closet. In it was a lidless, satin-lined box containing a variety of lace gloves and fichus.
The dresser came next, each drawer opened and closed in fairly quick succession. Annie didn’t know what she was looking for, but it surely wasn’t a variety of woolen stockings or a selection of a lady’s undergarments.
She glanced around the room, her gaze coming to rest on the small table beneath the window. Draped to the floor with a fringed, gold velvet cloth, it brought to mind an altar. It had a few items on it; a delicate ceramic dish, a silver hairbrush and matching hand-mirror, and a tiny wooden box.
Annie approached and lifted the lid off the box. It contained asingle item. A brooch, edged in black enamel and inlaid with silver. The center of the brooch was clear glass, protecting and displaying what Annie knew to be a woven sample of human hair. It was a piece of mourning jewelry, the hair of a departed loved one.
Seeking an inscription, Annie turned the brooch over, but the silver backing bore only a hallmark. It was a curious object, but not unusual. The mystery lay in to whom the hair belonged. Someone Janet had known, obviously, but it meant nothing to Annie. Heaving a sigh, she put the brooch back in its box and looked around the room once more. The only place she hadn’t checked was underneath the bed.
She went to it, dropped to her knees, and lifted the bedspread to peer beneath. There was only one object under there. Annie doubted, however, that Janet’s chamber pot would be hiding any secrets. Heaving another sigh, she sat back on her heels, her gaze wandering around the perimeter of the room.
“This is madness,” she muttered. “There’s nothing here. Nothing at…”
She paused, her attention drawn once more to the covered table by the window. More specifically, the solid, flat base, partially visible through the fringe on the cloth. What kind of table would have a solid, flat base? A prickle wandered across Annie’s scalp as she went to investigate. She lifted a corner of the cloth and gasped. It wasn’t a table at all, she realized, but a chest. It seemed obvious to Annie that the cloth was intended to disguise it. Her stomach tightened as a sense of foreboding crept over her, as if she was about to discover something that would change her life.
Annie removed the items from the top of the chest and set them on the bed. The cloth came next, folded and placed on the chair. The chest now stood naked, its keyhole empty. Was it locked? Annie tested the lid. No, it wasn’t. She glanced over her shoulder at the half-open door, an instinctive reaction. She was, of course, quite alone. There was no sign of Ruffy.
“Get on with it, then,” she muttered, and opened the lid fully.
She dropped to her knees, hands gripping the edge of the chest as she peered down at the contents. The first thing that caught her eye was a small, oval portrait of a woman, behind glass, framed in gold, and resting atop a white, satin-edged blanket. Annie picked the portrait up and studied it. The woman looked to be quite young and resembled Janet. But it wasn’t Janet. Annie frowned and turned the portrait over, reading the dedication.
Mama, Chesterfield, 1822.
Janet’s mother, perhaps? Annie set it aside and reached for the blanket, which fell open as she lifted it from the chest. The original whiteness had succumbed to time, giving it a faint yellowish hue, the small size suggesting it had been made for an infant. Wondering at its significance, she set that aside too, and peered into the chest once more.
The removal of the blanket had revealed a brown card-paper box, stiff with age, color faded, edges worn. Annie lifted the lid, set it aside, and stared down at a small bundle of letters, held together by a yellow silk ribbon. They also showed signs of age, the ribbon faded, the paper discolored. The ink, too, had faded, though she made out the name ‘Janet’, on the envelope. The ribbon partially hid the rest of what was written. Not that it mattered. Annie wasn’t about to read any of the letters. The mere thought of doing so was too repugnant.
