Widow's Tears Page 11

  Rachel had been torn. She had already found herself wishing that she and the children had gone to the Ursulines with Mrs. O’Reilly. But to leave seemed to her a betrayal of her husband’s confidence in the storm-worthy house he had built for them. She would stay where they were, she told Mrs. Baxter. Mr. Blackwood would be home shortly. And the storm would surely blow itself out soon.

  But that had been two hours ago, and things were much worse. She peered through the sheeting rain and saw with a leap of her heart a man coming down the street, bent over against the wind and struggling to wade through the rushing water. A breathless moment later, she saw that it wasn’t her husband but their neighbor, Isaac Cline, on his way home from his work at the Weather Bureau.

  She tried to swallow her disappointment. “Mr. Cline!” she called, and waved to attract his attention. “Mr. Cline, is there any news about the storm? Will it let up before dark?”

  But the wind was so loud that she had to repeat her question when Mr. Cline had waded through the yard and stood at the foot of the steps up to the front gallery. His face drawn with worry and strain, he spoke gravely. “I wish I could tell you that it will be over before nightfall, my dear Mrs. Blackwood, but I can’t. The wind is swinging around to the east. This will raise the level of the tide, so there is likely to be more flooding.”

  More flooding? More than…what? Rachel pushed down a rush of hysteria and asked, “And the wind?”

  “Oh, a bit stronger, I should think.” He paused. “You’re not alone? Your husband is with you?”

  “He went to Ritter’s for lunch,” she said. “I haven’t heard from him since—although of course the telephone lines are down,” she added, not wanting to sound like an accusing wife. “I’m sure he’ll be along any minute. My housekeeper and her family went to the Ursulines, and Mrs. Baxter and her sister went to the Tremont. I was just wondering whether I should perhaps have gone, too.”

  “Ritter’s?” Mr. Cline’s tone was jarring and there was something in his eyes that made her suddenly afraid.

  “Has there been—” She stopped. No, surely not. Ritter’s was in the heart of Galveston’s energetic commercial quarter and was patronized by the most prominent businessmen. There could be very little flooding there, and the buildings, all of them well built and three and four stories high, would break the wind.

  Mr. Cline seemed to consider her unfinished question for a moment. Then he replied, in a soothingly careless tone, “Oh well, not to worry. I’m sure he’s just been detained. In places, the flooding has made it a bit of a challenge to get around. As far as your safety is concerned, I believe that you and the children will be as secure here as you would anywhere in the city. But while you’re waiting for Mr. Blackwood, you might move your most valued possessions to the second floor—and perhaps the papers from Mr. Blackwood’s desk, as well. That way, they will be safe from any flooding that might occur.”

  “Move our possessions—” She stared at him, then looked down at the level of the water. In the little while she had been standing on the gallery, the water had risen from the fourth to the fifth step—the fifth of seven. Two more feet and it would come in through the front door.

  She picked up her skirt. “Why, yes, of course,” she said with a forced cheerfulness. “What an excellent suggestion, Mr. Cline. It’s something that the children can help with—while they’re waiting for their father.”

  Mr. Cline smiled cordially. “Very good, Mrs. Blackwood,” he said. “I shall wish you a pleasant afternoon, then.” He bowed slightly and lifted his hat exactly as if the two of them had been chatting on the beachfront promenade. Then he waded away, stepping aside to avoid a bobbing barrel labeled Pickled Herring.

  “Mama! Mama!” Behind her, Matthew was shouting excitedly. “Mrs. O’Reilly’s come back for the party! And she’s all wet!”

  Rachel turned. There, in the front doorway, stood strong, capable Colleen O’Reilly, her carroty hair in a tumble of wet curls around her shoulders, her skirt—soaked literally to the waist—clinging wetly to her legs, her Irish freckles standing out like brick crumbs across her nose and cheeks.

  “I’ll have t’ trouble you for somethin’ dry to wear, ma’am,” she said apologetically. “It’s a mite deep out there, and the rain’s pourin’ down to beat the band.”

  “But I thought you were going to the Ursulines!” Rachel exclaimed, astonished. “Where you’d be safe.”

  Little Ida came running with a towel, and Mrs. O’Reilly wrapped it turban-style around her wet hair. “I did that, ma’am. I took Mother and me little Annie and left ’em in the sisters’ good hands. And then I thought…Well, I thought of you by yourself and that you might be needin’ me, so here I am.”

  Rachel, nearly overcome with relief, thought she had never been so glad to see anyone in all her life. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you!”

  “No need for thanks,” Mrs. O’Reilly said sturdily. “I’m glad to do it.”

  Matthew was hanging on her arm. “We’ve only had sandwiches,” he said. “We were hoping you’d come back in time to see me blow out my candles.”

  “Well, I did, didn’t I?” Mrs. O’Reilly twinkled at the children. “An’ now that I’m here, we can do it up proper.” Then she did a very strange thing. She held out her hand to Rachel as if they were friends or even sisters.

  And they all went back into the house together.

  Chapter Eight

  In the language of flowers, several plants might be used to convey the same message, but with subtle differences that were known to the people of the period.

  Protection against lightning and storms: Mistletoe (Viscum album) was thought to have been planted in trees by bolts of lightning; hence, mistletoe hung in a house would protect against lightning and storms. In the language of flowers: “I overcome all.”

  Protection against evil: The Greeks offered the smoke of burning juniper branches to the gods of the underworld, and juniper berries were burned at funerals to ward off evil spirits. In the language of flowers: “I protect.”

  Protection against disease: Feverfew (Tanacetum parthenium) was once used as a treatment for fevers, flu, sore throats. Leaves of the plant were bound around the wrists at the first sign of a fever. In the language of flowers: “I remedy.”

  Protection against violence: The crushed leaves of pennyroyal (Mentha pulegium) have been used since ancient times as a flea repellent. A tea made of the leaves was used to induce abortions. (Ingested, the essential oil can be a deadly poison.) Ritually, pennyroyal was used to protect against domestic violence. In the language of flowers: “Flee! Escape!”

  China Bayles

  “Herbs and Flowers That Tell a Story”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  Ruby kept a wary eye on the pot rack while they finished their pie, but the pans hung motionless and quiet, not a peep out of them.

  “I guess that was just the house’s way of saying hello and welcome,” Claire said with a crooked smile. “We’re lucky. It might have been a broken window. Or a puddle in the hall.”

  “That I would like to have seen,” Ruby said. Then she thought better of what she’d said and added, loudly, “On second thought, maybe not so much.”

  Claire pushed back her chair and stood up. “Come on. I want to show you around the main floor. Leave your stuff here—we’ll take it upstairs later.”

  Ruby followed her out of the kitchen and into a wide, oak-paneled hallway that stretched the length of the house. Oddly, the incongruous wrongness of the outside didn’t seem to persist inside, and things seemed in decent repair. It wouldn’t take much work to make the wood floors gleam. The brass fittings of the old-fashioned wall sconces could use a polishing, although they were clean and unbroken. When the dark Victorian wallpaper above the paneling was replaced with something lighter and a few pictures and potted plants were added, the hallway would be gorgeous.

  “Mrs. Blackwood and Aunt Hazel seem to have neglected the exterior,” Claire sai
d, “maybe because they didn’t like the idea of strange workmen coming around. But indoors, they took care of things. Of course, there’s still a lot to be done. Old draperies and rugs that need replacement and furniture that should be reupholstered or gotten rid of—that sort of thing.” She opened a French door. “This is the dining room.”

  Ruby followed her into a large room, the walls richly wainscoted in oak with wine-and-gold wallpaper and a ceiling that featured a crystal chandelier hung above a long table of polished mahogany. On the opposite wall were four French doors that opened out onto what might have once been a rose garden. At one end stood a tall, glass-fronted cabinet filled with fine china; at the other, nearest the kitchen, was a large sideboard. The oriental carpet still glowed with vivid reds and blues.

  “Amazing,” Ruby muttered, counting. “Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen chairs! Mrs. Blackwood must have intended to throw some big dinner parties. I wonder where she thought she’d find the guests, way out here. Invite them from Houston, maybe?”

  Claire chuckled wryly. “Aunt Hazel said there never were any parties. At least, not in her day. She came here to live in 1925 when she was sixteen years old. And she died here at the age of ninety-six.”

  Ruby did a quick calculation. “Eighty years,” she marveled. “Imagine living in one house for that long and never seeing anyone. I’d go crazy.”

  “I can’t begin to imagine it,” Claire replied. “But Aunt Hazel always seemed content, at least when I knew her.” She grinned crookedly. “And no, I don’t think she was crazy. She was in her early sixties when old Mrs. Blackwood died, and my mother invited her to come and live with us in Smithville. But she wouldn’t. She said she liked it here. This was her home.”

  “Did she ever mention the…ghost?” Ruby asked warily.

  “Not to me,” Claire said. “And my mother died a few years ago, so we can’t ask her.” Then, as if she wanted to get on with the tour, she pointed to the china cabinet. “Mr. Hoover had the good china—it’s Haviland and very old—put into storage when he was thinking of renting the place. He sent it back a few days ago, and I unpacked it and put it in the cabinet. There’s a box of silver to put away, too. I think I’ll put it in that sideboard…”

  Her voice trailed off. The sideboard was a large, mahogany affair. Over it hung a large, gilt-framed oil painting of what looked like a tropical garden paradise: oleanders, palms, roses, and, in the distance, a white sand beach and a great blue-green ocean. As Ruby and Claire looked at it, the painting tilted slightly.

  Ruby cleared her throat. “Did you see that?” she said into Claire’s ear.

  “I guess I forgot to mention that one,” Claire said apologetically. “For some reason, that painting simply doesn’t want to hang straight. I mean, I could go over there and straighten it, and two minutes later it would be tilted again.”

  Ruby bit her lip. “You think the ghost…?”

  “I don’t know what I think,” Claire countered. “What do you think?”

  Back in the hall, Ruby tried to collect her thoughts. “You said you’ve done some research on the house. When was it built?”

  “Around 1910, I understand,” Claire said. “Mrs. Blackwood drew up the plans herself, according to Aunt Hazel. That’s why it looks so strange on the outside, so sort of…mismatched. Crooked. Like parts of it don’t fit.”

  “So you noticed it, too,” Ruby said. And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

  “How can you miss?” Claire asked with a shrug. “But there’s a reason for that. Aunt Hazel told my mother that Mrs. Blackwood had a house just like this once—a house that was destroyed. She tried to reconstruct it from memory, but she didn’t get parts of it quite right. The builder attempted to fix some of the worst things as he went along, but Mrs. Blackwood knew what she wanted.” She paused. “There are some old scrapbooks and papers in the library. Maybe we could sit down with them one evening. They might help us learn more about—”

  “What was that?” Ruby whispered, startled.

  Claire shook her head. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

  Then they both heard it. The musical sound of harp strings jangling, as if they’d been swept by light fingers. The hair rose on the back of Ruby’s neck.

  Claire grinned at Ruby. “I’m braver, now that you’re here.” With a flourish, she opened a double door. “This is the music room. Suppose we’ll see our ghost?”

  But to Ruby’s huge relief, they saw no one. The room was carpeted and furnished with a sofa and several comfortable chairs, including a child’s little red rocking chair. The space was large enough not to appear crowded by the Steinway grand piano at one end. A gold-colored silk shawl was thrown carelessly across the piano bench, the lid was open over the keys, and a piece of sheet music was spread on the rack. A silver flute lay across the piano top. The harp stood beside the piano.

  Ruby stepped forward quickly and placed the palm of her hand over the strings. She jerked her hand back quickly, as though her fingers had been burned. “Still vibrating!” she exclaimed in a wondering tone. Whatever was going on here, it wasn’t in Claire’s imagination, or in hers, either. It was in the house.

  “When I was a girl,” Claire said quietly, “this room always looked pretty much the way it does now. The sheet music for Scott Joplin’s ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ was on the piano and the shawl was on the bench and the flute was lying on the top of the piano—at least, that’s how I remember it. I found the things—the music, the shawl, the flute—in a cupboard and put them back where they belonged.” She frowned. “I haven’t found the pipe yet, though.”

  “The pipe?” Ruby asked. “As in whistle?”

  “As in smoke.” Claire pointed to a large green glass ashtray on the table beside the sofa. “There was always a pipe in that ashtray. It struck me as odd when I was a girl, since there were no men living here.”

  Ruby picked up the ashtray, feeling the smooth, solid heft of it. It was engraved with an image of a columned building and the words Galveston National Bank, a Leader for Business. She put the ashtray back on the table.

  “You said you put the things back where they belong—you said it about the china, as well. Did you start doing that before or after you heard the harp strings jangling?”

  “Gosh, I don’t know.” Claire sounded puzzled. “Does it matter?”

  “It might,” Ruby replied thoughtfully. They were back in the hallway now. “I’m just wondering if you were somehow…well, prompted to put things back. The flute, the shawl, the china—put them back the way they once were, I mean.” Like props on a stage set, she was thinking.

  “Prompted—by whom?” Claire’s voice was sharp and she looked frightened.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Ruby countered. They were standing at the foot of the grand staircase now, and she hazarded a look upwards into the dimness, half-expecting to see the woman in the gray skirt with the Gibson Girl hair, as she had seen her all those years ago. But the stairs, as far as she could see, were empty.

  “If that’s the question, I don’t think I want to answer it,” Claire said grimly, and threw open another pair of doors on the opposite side of the hall. She took a deep breath. “And here we have the drawing room. Aunt Hazel kept it shut up. She told me once that it was much too grand for her. She said she always felt like a servant when she went into it.” She hesitated and added, with a half-defiant lift of her eyebrow, “In case you’re wondering, I moved a few things around, back to the way I remembered when I was a kid. So far as I know, I wasn’t prompted, but I suppose it’s possible.”

  It was a very large, very grand room, Ruby saw, with a massive fireplace and marble mantel topped by a gilded mirror and an ornate ormolu clock that showed it was not quite three. The stained-glass windows—brilliantly colored floral patterns in shades of green and blue—were framed in green velvet swags. The light that shone through them was subtly shaded, so that a dim, mysterious glow filled the room, almost as if it were underwater. There was an e
laborately upholstered and buttoned green velvet love seat with matching chairs. A half dozen other ornate chairs and footstools and marble-topped tables were arranged in various groupings, as if to entertain a large number of afternoon callers. The doilies and knickknacks and vases of silk flowers on the tables gave the look of carefully planned Victorian clutter. There was a faint scent of violet perfume in the air that made Ruby want to sneeze.

  “You don’t suppose,” she said, “that those are genuine Tiffany windows?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Claire replied, surprised. “Surely Mr. Hoover would have mentioned it if they were. They’d be worth a tremendous fortune.”

  “If they were,” Ruby replied significantly, “they would be a tremendous tourist attraction. Art lovers would come just to gawk at your windows. They’d never get around to noticing your ghost.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “I wish you would cut that out, Ruby. She’s your ghost as much as she’s mine. In fact, you saw her first.”

  “But she lives in your house,” Ruby pointed out with a teasing smile. “Don’t you think that qualifies as—”

  She was interrupted by a sudden loud tinkle. Claire clutched her arm. “It’s the bell I’ve heard tinkling,” she said, sounding frightened. “It’s here, in this room!”

  Ruby turned around. There was no one else there but the two of them. The room was empty. And then, with a merry little jingle, the bell sounded again. “It’s coming from over there!” Ruby said, pointing, and went toward a green velvet wing chair in the corner, a table beside it.

  The chair had white crocheted antimacassars on the back and arms and a small footstool in front of it. It was a lady’s chair, Ruby thought, and could almost picture old Mrs. Blackwood sitting there in the darkening twilight. The table beside it held a lamp, several books, a basket with a small piece of delicate, half-finished embroidery, and a small brass bell with an ornate handle. The kind of bell Mrs. Blackwood might ring to summon a servant.