Katherine's Story, 1848 Read online

  “And nothing matching,” Elizabeth said. “Katherine and I rarely wear matching dresses like some twins do. Don’t bridesmaids’ dresses usually match?”

  “Oh, I do wish we had thought to pack our gowns from our birthday ball,” I said to my sister. “They would have been perfect.”

  Anna turned to us with a mischievous smile and threw open the other door of her armoire to reveal two dresses made of lilac silk. “Matching bridesmaid dresses!” she announced.

  I reached out to touch the fabric. The dresses had high necklines and fitted sleeves, with pretty little ruffles at the collars and wrists. The bodices had elaborate lace dyed lilac, which matched the lace pattern of the bride’s gown.

  Anna clapped with glee at our astonishment. “Essie sent me your measurements,” she said. “And she told me about how the two of you compromised with purple flowers at your birthday ball.”

  Elizabeth nodded with a smile. “Our two favorite colors—combined—make purple.”

  “I thought this lilac would complement my gown beautifully and would be a tribute to my new cousins,” Anna said. “I hope we will celebrate many occasions together in the future. The best seamstress in New York made these gowns especially for you.”

  We barely had time to express our thanks before Tabitha came in with our luncheon on a tray and laid it on the table in the sitting room.

  “I’ve been doing all the talking,” Anna said, taking her seat. “Now I want to hear all about you. Tell me about yourselves, your interests.”

  Anna leaned forward with an interested expression while Elizabeth told her all about our birthday ball and how we had first fooled Cousin Maxwell and then his parents about which one of us was which.

  “Maxwell realized his mistake almost immediately, but he danced the first dance with Katherine anyway. His parents, Lord and Lady Tynne, never did catch on. But our cousin Cecily suspected,” Elizabeth said with a laugh. “Our necklaces gave us away.”

  I recounted the story of Essie finding her father, and the author clapped with happiness. “That would make a great mystery story,” she said. “I hope one of you will write it.”

  “My sister, Katherine, is the writer in the family,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “I love to paint and sketch, and she loves to write. We make stories together sometimes. In fact, I’m working on a painting right now of the dolphins we saw in the ocean, and Katherine’s writing a poem to go along with it.”

  “You must let me read it when you’re ready,” Anna said to me. “And I’d love to see your painting, Elizabeth.”

  I blushed at her kindness. “I’d love to read the story you’re writing now,” I said. “Is it about women and independence and the other things we talked about?”

  “Indeed it is,” she said with a smile. “As a writer, you must know how one’s passions take over the imagination.”

  I was filled with a warm glow to be taken so seriously as a writer.

  “Now, tell me about what you like to read. That’s the best training for a writer, as I’m sure you know,” Anna said. “Who are your favorite authors?”

  “We’re big fans of Charles Dickens,” I told her. “Especially Oliver Twist.”

  “Ah, yes. Mr. Dickens is a great favorite in America as well,” Anna said. “He’s a wonderful storyteller. People wait on the docks in New York and Boston to get the latest installments of his stories.”

  “Mama loved Jane Austen, and we do, too,” I said, including my sister in my statement. “But I do like rather more excitement in the stories I read.”

  Elizabeth burst in. “We have something called penny dreadfuls in England. Do you have them here? They’re wonderfully thrilling stories about pirates and highwaymen and strange events in mysterious, haunted castles.”

  Anna laughed. “I have seen them, and they are exciting, indeed.”

  I didn’t want the great writer to think we read only those kinds of tales. “And we read the stories in father’s magazines, too,” I added.

  “Tell me, have you ever read the stories of my friend Louisa Branson?” she asked. “I believe one or two of her tales have been printed in English publications.”

  I shook my head.

  “I think you’ll like her work,” Anna said, “especially since you like to solve mysteries.” She moved toward her writing room. “She writes stories about a wonderful female detective, a Miss Millhouse, who solves all sorts of thrilling mysteries.”

  She came back holding two magazines and a sheaf of parchment. “Here are two of her best stories, and a new one she asked me to read before she sends it to her publisher. I’m afraid I’ve been too busy with the wedding and my own story to send her any comments, but perhaps you can read it and tell me what you think,” she said. “I’m sure she’d love to have the opinion of a young writer.”

  “I—I’d love to read it,” I stammered. “But I couldn’t presume to give advice to a published author.”

  “Of course you can,” Anna said. “A writer should always invite the opinion of readers. That’s how we improve our work.”

  I was about to ask another question when the author jumped to her feet and swept into her bedchamber. I heard a door open and then some rustling before it closed again. Did she have a sudden insight into her story? I wondered. Has she left us for her writing chamber?

  A moment later she came back into the sitting room, holding a book and a small box. She handed me the book with a smile, and I saw that it was a lovely handmade journal with a silk cover and creamy white pages.

  “I bought that in Florence, Italy, on a trip last year. I believe you’ll find that it’s the perfect thing for capturing your stories and poems,” she said. “And your thoughts about Louisa Branson’s story.”

  I ran my hand over one of the blank pages. “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Thank you. I hope my words will be half as beautiful as the pages that hold them.”

  Anna waved her hand. “Your words are what will make the book beautiful. Don’t be afraid to write in it. Make a mistake on the first page and then move on. Never be afraid to make mistakes in your writing. You can always go back and fix things later, but if you expect yourself to be perfect, you’ll never get anything down on paper.”

  I barely had time to register her wise advice before she turned to Elizabeth and handed her the box. “I haven’t forgotten you, dear,” she said. “I bought these in Florence, too. I didn’t know what I wanted them for at the time, but now I do—I was anticipating meeting you.”

  Elizabeth opened the box to find a lovely set of pastels. “Oh, these are wonderful,” she said. “I can’t wait to use them.”

  We left with promises of many happy meetings with Anna DuMay, soon to be Anna Vandermeer, in the coming weeks. I couldn’t have been more delighted with our new relation.

  At dinner that night, I was pleased to see Anna. Uncle Willem gave her an exaggerated bow when she and Samuel entered the room. “Thank you for joining us,” he said.

  I thought there might be a touch of sarcasm in his greeting, but Anna only smiled graciously in return. Her son, Samuel, responded with a scowl, but Uncle Willem turned to one of the other guests with his usual friendly smile. He even found a moment to give me, Elizabeth, and Maxwell a wink. We smiled back at the kind older man.

  The dining room was crowded with guests from New York and Boston, and I thought Anna and I might not get to talk again, but she made a point of asking to be introduced to Maxwell and introducing us to her fourteen-year-old son, Samuel.

  Elizabeth, Samuel, Alfred, Maxwell, and I were all seated together at one end of the table. I thought we would make a jolly party, but Samuel was sullen and distant. Anna had mentioned earlier that day that he was a bit downhearted about moving from New York City to Bridgeport. The Vandermeers had a home in Manhattan, but they spent much of their time at the manor house. I wondered if that was the reason for his displeasure, or if he was melancholy about his mother remarrying. I couldn’t imagine anyone having objections to Henry V
andermeer or to his son, but perhaps Samuel saw the marriage as a slight against his father. If Papa remarried, would I be sad?

  I shook off those thoughts and turned to Alfred and Maxwell with our happy news. “Elizabeth and I are going to be bridesmaids at the wedding,” I said. “Anna told us so at luncheon and surprised us with the most beautiful gowns.”

  “If there’s even going to be a wedding,” Samuel muttered under his breath.

  “Stop that,” Alfred said, his face flushing. “Of course there is.”

  Samuel shrugged and turned away, saying no more.

  I was puzzled by his remark. I could see that my sister was, too. But we both decided it was best not to ask questions.

  Still, I couldn’t help but turn Samuel’s words over and over in my mind. He sounded very sure of himself.

  If there’s even going to be a wedding. What did Samuel know?

  That night, I read two of Louisa Branson’s published stories before bed. Anna was correct in saying I would enjoy reading them. In fact, I could not put them down once I started them. Miss Millhouse was much like Anna—direct and outspoken but warm and friendly at the same time. She got herself caught up in the most exciting mysteries.

  I was in the hands of an expert storyteller, too. In the first story, a mysterious young woman appeared at the home of a New York high society family, claiming to be the daughter who had been lost at sea many years before. I went back and forth many times, believing the young woman was telling the truth and convinced she was an imposter, calling out my opinions to Elizabeth as I read along.

  The second story went much faster, mostly because Elizabeth begged me to stop talking so that she could go to sleep. In this story, a precious family heirloom went missing during a house party in which the detective was present.

  In both cases, Miss Millhouse solved the mystery by calm, careful attention and by refusing to settle for easy answers. Even when all the clues seemed to be pointing in one direction and everyone believed the dashing stranger had stolen the jewels, she kept probing until she discovered the truth. It was the secretly destitute cousin from New York all along.

  They were brilliant—both the author and her character.

  I was too tired to read Louisa Branson’s unpublished story, but I couldn’t resist reading just the first few pages to see what it was about. It opened with a wedding party, and no doubt something disastrous was about to happen or Miss Millhouse would have no mystery to solve. Perhaps it was best that Anna didn’t read it until after her wedding.

  I blew out my candle and settled under the covers. I didn’t think anything disastrous could occur to ruin Anna and Henry’s wedding, but Samuel’s strange comment at dinner popped into my mind.

  If there’s even going to be a wedding.

  What could Samuel have meant? I was pondering that when once again I heard voices. An angry rumble reached me, sending chills down my spine. It was followed by knocking and banging. I sat up with the same frightened feeling as the night before, clutching my coverlet to my chest. It was no consolation to me that what I had heard last night hadn’t been my imagination.

  I strained to hear more and hoped the sounds would go away at the same time. Who was that man talking to and why was he angry?

  What would Miss Millhouse do if faced with such a mystery? She would investigate the sounds until she discovered the perfectly practical explanation behind them. I wasn’t quite as brave as the fictional detective, so I dashed through the bathroom into Elizabeth’s bedroom to find a partner for my search. My sister was sound asleep. I reached out to shake her awake, but standing next to her bed, I couldn’t hear anything at all. Where had the sounds gone?

  Instead of waking my sister, I crept back into my own bedroom. I heard the voice and the banging again. I stood next to the wall from which the sounds seemed to come, between my bedroom door and the closet. I heard a lighter voice, probably that of a woman, respond to the angry growl. With shaking hands, I quietly opened my closet door and peered inside. It was empty of everything but my dresses.

  “Where is the portrait?” I distinctly heard the voice say. I jumped back. Where was this voice coming from?

  I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked over to the outer door of my room. I opened the door, sure that I would find the source of the commotion in the hall, but no one was there. There was nothing outside my door but an empty hall and quiet nighttime sounds.

  Something very curious was going on, but what?

  I closed the door, tiptoed back into bed, and slipped under the covers. If we were at Chatswood Manor, I would know where the voices were coming from, but Vandermeer Manor was new to me and I did not know how the sound traveled in the house. And that’s when I had the most horrid thought: Could these voices possibly be otherworldly?

  I was wide awake again but too distracted by my own mystery to return to those of Miss Millhouse. I tried to time my breaths with the ocean waves, as I had done the night before, willing my heart to stop racing. Everyone said that Chatswood Manor was haunted. In a game of hide-and-seek on our eighth birthday, Elizabeth and I thought we saw a ghost in the library. Were angry ghosts the source of the noise I heard? Could Vandermeer Manor be haunted, too? With thoughts of ghosts in my head, it was a long while before I was able to fall asleep.

  The next morning at breakfast, Elizabeth and I discovered that Maxwell and Alfred had already eaten and were playing chess in the parlor. As soon as we finished our own breakfast, we sought them out—Alfred had promised us a tour of the grounds today.

  On the way, I shared the strange events of the past two nights and wondered aloud if the manor could be haunted.

  Elizabeth’s eyes danced at the thought. “We will ask Alfred about it,” she said.

  “I’d rather not,” I answered. “He’ll think I’m silly. Maybe I did imagine the voices after all.”

  The boys were sitting under the portrait of Alfred’s mother, deep into their game, when we arrived.

  “Is Vandermeer Manor haunted?” Elizabeth asked Alfred bluntly.

  “Haunted?” Alfred asked.

  Elizabeth shared what I had told her about the mysterious voices in the night and the lack of bodies to go along with them.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Alfred said with a laugh. “Vandermeer Manor is only fifteen years old, not nearly old enough to have attracted any ghosts.” He looked at Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye, and then his voice took on a deep, ominous tone. “But there is that rumor about the Revolutionary soldiers that are buried on this land. And, of course, nearly every man who helped build the house died a ghastly death.” He paused for a moment, looking away. “Did you hear battle cries?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s it,” Elizabeth cried delightedly. “Revolutionary soldiers are lurking about, not knowing that the war is long over!” She grabbed my hand, and I jumped with a scream.

  Alfred and Elizabeth burst out laughing.

  “I am sorry,” Alfred said, seeing my red face. “There are no soldiers buried here. And no ghosts. But I did hear from Uncle Willem that Chatswood is said to have its share of ancient spirits lurking about.”

  Elizabeth laughed as I took a moment to catch my breath. “It does. Katherine and I thought we saw one once, but that might have been our imaginations running away with us.”

  “What do you make of the voices I’ve been hearing in the night?” I asked, having regained my composure. “The first night I thought it might be my imagination, but it’s happened twice now.”

  Alfred shrugged. “The maids and footmen are up around the clock, getting ready for the wedding. I’m sure that’s it. No doubt whoever you heard was angry about some overlooked detail.”

  “There was no one in the hall when I checked,” I said.

  “But you did say that the voices had started to fade before you opened the door,” Maxwell said gently. “Perhaps the people they belonged to had already turned the corner and gone downstairs.”

  I nodded, but I
wasn’t convinced. At least Maxwell hadn’t participated in Alfred and Elizabeth’s ruse. What I had heard didn’t sound like staff members getting ready for a wedding. The maids and footmen we had encountered were nothing but happy about the wedding, even with all the hard work that came along with it. That voice was angry about something else.

  Alfred was wrong. There was definitely something disturbing afoot. I only hoped it wouldn’t get in the way of the wedding.

  I had no choice but to put those thoughts out of my head. It was time for our tour of the grounds.

  “Will Samuel be joining us?” I heard Elizabeth ask as I ran to fetch our sunhats, as Alfred had suggested it was rather too windy for parasols.

  “No, fortunately,” Alfred replied. “I presume he’d rather sulk in his room than enjoy the nice day.”

  I returned quickly, and the four of us were soon strolling on the grounds in the sunshine.

  Vandermeer Manor had a lovely, wide green lawn stretching all the way to a white brick wall at the edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean. To one side were formal gardens, and to the other were the stables, carriage house, and a wooden stairway leading down to the sand.

  Maxwell and I wanted to tour the gardens, but Elizabeth and Alfred pushed for a walk to the ocean, so we decided to go there first. As we passed the stables, we came upon Uncle Willem and his valet climbing into the coach.

  “I’ve business in Providence,” he said with a cheerful wave. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Do hurry,” Alfred said. “The wedding is the day after tomorrow.”

  Uncle Willem nodded seriously and motioned to the carriage driver to set off.

  It was a long way down to the beach on a weathered wood staircase, nearly as steep as the secret staircase that led to Chatswood Manor’s cellar. The waves looked rough today, and the wind whipped about, pulling our skirts this way and that. I kept one hand on the banister and one on my hat. The wind tugged at it, pulling against the bow under my chin. It felt as if a great gust would tear it away at any moment.