A few weeks before
Christmas, I started writing a short story called The House at the End of the
Road. Its prose was set to reflect
the season, and I planned to post it here on Christmas Eve of 2018. Well, eve, day and the rest of December came
and went with the story remaining unfinished.
I then thought I could rework it, making it a new year/new resolutions
type of story with the intent of posting mid-January. Again, I’ve missed my self-imposed
deadline. It’s incomplete and I’m
stuck. If I could simply publish as one
the number of short stories I’ve written, not finished, or ones which remain in
first draft form, it would be one heaping anthology of work. I could do the same with all of the rejection
letters I’ve received over the years from literary agents, but I’d rather
ignore that one.
When I revisit the
stories, I sometimes wonder what in the world I was thinking when that one was
taking shape; at times I think “Hey, that’s pretty good,” while some make me
laugh out loud because they are funny. They
really are. Some make me cringe, and others
are just awful and deserve to be burned.
I’ve written short stories about everything from guardian angels to
community theatre, which by the way has far-surpassed the short story word
count and has ventured into novella length.
I might have to rethink that one.
Now I’m in a funk
and a fog. I can’t complete one now for
some reason, and I don’t think it’s writer’s block. There has been no problem for me to work on a
play that’s been hanging around in my head for a while. The title of “Playwright” looms, so goals do
give one motivation; too many irons in the fire hinder it, too. My website is under construction, I’m in the
post-publishing slog of promoting my current book, the next book is in the
outlining process, I have many photographs that I’ve yet to edit, and I recently
lost a dear, “old” friend of mine.
That last part has
been the toughest, so finishing much hasn’t been easy. Maybe my priorities and directions are changing,
too. I do have some work I haven’t
shared here though. Finished. Complete.
Published. Ready to be read by
anyone and everyone. So, January’s blog offers
an excerpt of Williamsburg Hill.
Two timelimes - Chicago,
2015 and Williamsburg Hill, 1880, tied together in one neat story. Excerpts of
both are below. Thanks to all who have already
purchased, read, plan to read, shared on social media, offered feedback and
given reviews of this book. It is so appreciated. I’ll add that if you’ve read a book that you
truly enjoyed (by any author), give that person a shout-out. If you liked it, share it. If you’re so inclined, give it a review. These are little things that matter more than
you can imagine, and it costs nothing.
Writing is a solitary job, and when it takes years to complete one
project, kind words matter a great deal.
It makes me feel as if all of the work meant something.
Finally, another
year has passed and I’ve kept this blog going.
Seven years. Yay! Happy anniversary to me.
Williamsburg Hill
By Veronica Randolph
Batterson
Chapter One
Chicago, 2015
Rain pelted the
storefront. The wind drove the water against the window in sheets, creating a
blurred view of headlights, brake lights and traffic lights from inside. A watery scene of red, green and yellow
covered most of the glass. If she
squinted, she could make out a pedestrian or two rushing along the sidewalk,
umbrellas whipped inside out and useless.
Rush hour, two hours after rush hour should’ve ended, made her happy to
be inside and already at work.
“Beecham
Antiques,” she answered the ringing telephone.
Another
hang-up. She glanced at the caller-id,
which indicated a private caller. It had
been the third one that morning. There
was no choice but to answer the business line, but she never answered her own
cell phone if the number was unknown. If
it were important, the caller would leave a message.
A slow morning of senseless calls and only one
customer allowed her to focus on new inventory.
She’d been the winning bidder of a few items and box lots at the auction
on Saturday. A more successful day than
normal. Too many individuals, guided by
reality television, thought bargains were found at auctions. However, most didn’t know the value of the
items they were bidding on. People would
bid until they won, oftentimes overpaying and driving the price too high for
business owners, such as herself, to resell.
The only winner in all of this was usually the auctioneer. She’d had better luck lately at house and
estate sales.
But Saturday’s
event was different, probably due to low attendance caused by the weather. It had been raining for days and showed no
sign of ending anytime soon. She had
thanked the cloudy skies and downpour afterward. Now to evaluate everything.
A Victorian era
lamp that once held sconces for candles and was later wired for electrical use
sat on her desk. Its base comprised of a
twelve-inch tall figure of a woman, in a long gown, supporting a metal staff
that held four globes at the top. Low
wattage light bulbs were screwed into each and about forty crystals dangled
from the entire lamp. The wiring was
faulty but an easy fix and overall the item was interesting and unusual. She’d place it in the window once it was
ready to resell.
A box lot of
jewelry, mostly costume, which held rhinestones, cameos, pearls and crystals
stared at her. Necklaces mixed with
bracelets and lever-backed earrings looked to be in excellent condition with no
missing stones. Some pieces were marked
with the designer’s name. A half dozen
brooches, unlike the rest of the jewelry, were true antiques and not vintage;
the hooks revealed the era to her.
Cleaning and pricing the inventory would take a few days, but she’d have
most of it on display by the end of the week.
The rest of the
items were comprised of framed paintings for the walls, a couple of
marble-topped plant stands, two sets of Havilland china chocolate pots, damask
napkins from the 1930s and a unique nineteenth century dressing table. She thought the dressing table so beautiful
that she was tempted to keep it for herself.
It was made of
mahogany in the Sheraton style. The bow-fronted
piece sat atop four delicately carved spindle-like legs, with a center drawer
flanked by two smaller drawers on each side.
Attached to the top of the table was a smaller set of drawers and
compartments in various dimensions.
Triple mirrors, oval in shape, appeared to rest on top but were securely
attached and part of the beautiful design.
The maker’s name, “Dunaway Carpentry, Established 1840, Williamsburg
Hill, Illinois” was reflected underneath the item.
According to the
auction listing, the dressing table had remained in the same family for
generations and contained all original hardware. It was in perfect condition and had never
needed refinishing. She couldn’t find
much of a scratch anywhere and all legs were firmly attached, with each drawer
sliding smoothly. No cloudiness marked
the mirrors. The piece was sturdy and
solid.
It sat in the
corner of her office. Most of the
inventory that wasn’t yet for sale in the front of the shop was stored in an
area off the back of the building. When
she had her van unloaded after the auction, she simply had the dressing table
placed by her desk. It seemed the
natural place for it even though it meant stepping around and squeezing through
an already cramped space. Now the
beautiful piece of furniture sat regally, tempting her to stare.
She wondered
about the family who had owned the antique.
She knew Williamsburg Hill no longer existed, but in the nineteenth
century it was a busy small town in the southern part of Illinois. When railroad tracks were laid east of the
village, the railroad eliminated the need for a stagecoach line and eventually
ended the era of that means of transportation.
Residents of Williamsburg Hill moved to towns closer to the new railroad,
ultimately turning the deserted area into a ghost town. She’d done a little historical research after
her auction win but had more questions that couldn’t be answered by a simple
Internet search. Were the first owners
of her new dressing table originally from Williamsburg Hill? And who were they?
The love of
history and old things had always been an obsession of hers. Learning from the past and appreciating what
came before her time were ways of accepting and understanding the present. She loved browsing antique stores and
wondered about the people who had once owned the items for sale. Those things mattered and were important to
individuals and families at one time.
Living and breathing souls once held, observed, used and cherished every
single piece of vintage or antique item sold.
It caused her to dream of the families gathered around that antique
dining table over Thanksgiving dinners during the 1940s; she wondered about the
families listening attentively to the old wooden radio, or “wireless” as it was
called in Britain during the era of World War II.
Because of this
fascination, it seemed the natural choice for her to open an antique store
after her divorce. Buying inventory
nearly depleted her savings and storefront rent in the Lincoln Park area of
Chicago wasn’t cheap. But business had
been steady and she’d learned to look beyond the traditional antique
store. She mixed vintage and antique,
specializing in things that appealed to her.
Newly made items never made it into her store, and she’d learned that
not only inventory but beautifully displayed inventory, enticed the
customers. If a shopper couldn’t look at
an item due to clutter, it was likely that sale and customer were lost.
Changing displays
often mattered, too, and unsold items never remained on the floor for longer
than a few weeks. She simply swapped
them for items in storage, but sometimes reintroduced the former things months
later. And every piece of inventory was
clearly priced and marked. Her store was
comfortable and welcoming; most of her clientele were repeat customers who
didn’t feel the need to haggle over prices.
She appreciated this. While she
didn’t always object to lowering a price if she were asked, it was something
she didn’t like doing as she felt her items were always fairly marked.
Nearly a year had
passed since her divorce. It ended
quickly and somewhat amicably, even though it had taken years for her to get the
courage to go through with it. A miscarriage,
arguments, mistrust, affairs, and inferiority described her existence during
her marriage. All were words that pretty
much summed up life with her ex-husband.
There were too many years in that marriage, with most of it being the
unhappiest times of her life.
Ironically, it had taken the simple words of a stranger to open her eyes
and provide the courage she needed to leave.
It had been at
yet another event. The endless
fundraising requirements and dinners she had to attend and endure as the wife
of a board member, committee chair or someone’s guest of honor. While her ex-husband served a role of
importance in these circles, she had not.
And she never felt more out of place than during these times.
“Why can’t you
just talk to people?” her husband had complained.
Talking to people
wasn’t the problem for her. Making
unnecessary small talk was. She wasn’t outgoing
and found it difficult to approach strangers.
It wasn’t a character flaw; it was just how she was. Her husband saw it differently. An extrovert who commanded attention as soon
as he entered a room, he didn’t understand anything else. Nor did he accept it. He was always belittling her as to how she
should be, coaching and comparing her to so and so.
And the
comparisons were always with other women, most of them looking for favors from
him or for the shallow thrill of simply being associated with him. Most didn’t care that he was married; she’d
lost track of how often women had pushed her out of the way, handing her their drink
to hold while they could be photographed with her husband. She also knew the interest extended after
hours and out of her sight. The whispered
joke had been that he couldn’t keep his ego inside of his pants. And she’d endured his unfaithfulness, and
the humiliation and pity of others. It
made her feel ashamed.
The cocktail hour
had been as usual that night. Holding
her glass of white wine, smile plastered on her face and standing dutifully by
her husband’s side, she watched as the readily available women approached. She nearly made it through the hour until one
of them squeezed in close to her husband, bumping her arm in the process. She was given the woman’s back and a partially
wet dress, as the woman made her spill part of her wine in the process. The reason why she’d given up red wine at
those events, she remembered. Her
husband’s hand brushing the woman’s hip didn’t escape her notice either.
An excuse to
vanish for a few minutes, she grabbed a napkin and went to the lobby. She didn’t hear the stranger approach;
dabbing at the wet spill had taken all of her attention.
“You should have
dumped the rest of it over her head,” came the man’s voice.
“Excuse me?” she
asked, turning to see who was talking to her.
“The wine. I saw what happened. It would’ve served her right,” he said.
“Believe me, I’ve
wanted to. Many times,” she smiled.
“Then why haven’t
ye?” he asked.
By the accent, she
guessed he was from Scotland and wondered if he interchanged “ye” for “you”
often, or just for her benefit at that moment.
Either way, she kind of liked it.
“Because it would
do nothing but get me into trouble,” she replied.
“Where I’m from,
those kind of things start brawls. Why
if one lass did that to another lass, you’d have a whole room of lasses
fighting. Never mind a glass of wine, they’d
be grabbing bottles of the stuff, which would’ve been cracked over the skull of
that man of yours by the way. He
wouldn’t have come out looking too pretty,” he said. His eyes seemed to dance, challenging her to
believe him.
“Where you’re
from sounds like my kind of place,” she laughed. “If I did that here, I’d probably get
arrested. Then highly chastised. Possibly committed. Pitied some more. I’d only be hurting myself.”
“Seems to me you
need to live a little,” he teased.
“By starting a
brawl?” she asked.
“Nah, but if ye
do, I’ll deny any part of it,” he laughed.
She laughed, too,
and it felt good. Simply standing there
flirting with a strange man felt good.
Was she flirting? And how easy it
had been to talk to him, something she usually felt as stifling and difficult. She was at ease and enjoying the moment.
“I think you’re
making it worse,” he nodded toward the spot on her dress.
Following his
gaze, she saw her dress was covered in lint from the white napkin, the spot
still faint.
“Here, take this.
It’ll help some,” he said, reaching in his pocket. He handed her a silk handkerchief.
“Thank you,” she
replied.
“Damn napkins. Who needs them?” he smiled.
“Don’t tell me
where you’re from you don’t use them,” she teased.
“We just use the
back of our hand. And if we’ve eaten
something real messy, then we start at the elbow crease and make one long
forearm swipe across our mouths. Usually
does the job,” he joked.
She laughed
again. He was funny and she was enjoying
herself.
“You should do
that more often,” he said.
“What?” she
asked.
“Laugh. Smile even.
It’s obvious you don’t,” he said quietly.
“How is it
obvious? We’ve only just met. I don’t even know your name,” she
replied. Surprised that even a stranger
could read her so well.
“Because your
eyes say so,” he answered. “It’s true
what they say about eyes being the window to a person’s soul. Your eyes tell me they need to laugh a wee
bit more.”
His words hurt
and touched her deeply. How transparent
was she? Yet, people she knew closely
and saw everyday never said such things to her.
If they saw through the charade, they never let on. She had felt lifeless for a long time and
didn’t think anyone cared. The stranger
had surprised her with kindness and she didn’t know how to respond.
“I’d offer ye
another, but I only have the one on me,” he said.
“You’ve left me a
little speechless, so I’m not following,” she mumbled.
“The
handkerchief. It does wonders for tears,
too,” he replied.
She nodded, using
the handkerchief he’d given her to wipe her face. Closing her eyes, she felt embarrassed that
her emotions had gotten the better of her.
It wasn’t until her breathing became steady and the tears finally
stopped that she could look at him.
“Thank you,” she
said.
“I’ve never been
thanked for making a lass cry. I’ve been
yelled at and had to dodge some things thrown my way, but never thanked,” he
teased.
She laughed
again. “I guess there’s a first for everything,” she said.
“Aye, there is,”
he began.
“There you
are! The car is ready,” a man’s voice
interrupted. He was addressing the
stranger standing before her.
“Be right there,”
the stranger replied. He turned to face
her.
“Well, my chariot
awaits and I mustn’t miss my flight,” he said.
“Enjoy your trip,
and again, thank you,” she replied.
“Tell me why
you’re thanking me,” he said.
“For opening my
eyes,” she answered.
“Well, then. You’re welcome,” he began, “and it’s Robert,
by the way.”
“Safe travels,
Robert,” came her reply, “and I’m Rose, by the way.”
“Laugh, Rose,” he
smiled.
He touched her
arm then he was gone. Several minutes
passed as she stood watching the door he’d exited. In her hands, she still held his
handkerchief. Feeling the soft silk
through her fingers gave her courage as she immediately left the party. Without saying goodbye, she hurried outside,
afraid that talking to anyone would make her change her mind. Hailing a cab, she went home and packed her
bags...
Williamsburg Hill, Illinois, 1880
She was
exhausted. The trip from St. Louis had
been long and hot. There was little air
in the close quarters of the stagecoach and Evelyn had shared the small space
with three other passengers. They had
stopped the previous night for lodgings at an inn that offered little more than
stale bread, runny stew, warm ale and a thin mattress. She had welcomed the opportunity, however, to
stretch her legs and breathe fresh air, regardless of the less than perfect
accommodations.
Her room had been
a private one, often a scarce luxury as most guests are forced to share rooms
with strangers. She was grateful for
that at least. Breakfast hadn’t been
much better than supper, consisting of only porridge and strong coffee; she
looked forward to finally reaching her destination at the end of the day.
The town of
Williamsburg in Illinois was where her father’s sister Grace had settled in the
1850s. Her husband and Evelyn’s uncle,
Tom Middleton, had passed away just last year.
When her aunt’s letter arrived six weeks ago begging Evelyn to visit,
she felt the timing could not have been better.
It was a chance to leave a past behind her; one she hoped did not
resurface and find her.
She had been
raised an only child by kind and loving parents with more than modest means. Her father, Victor, widowed now for over ten
years, was a reputable tailor, owning his own shop in St. Louis. When her mother Annabelle died, he took to
his work even more, retreating physically and emotionally, leaving Evelyn to work
in the store, and pick up neglected housekeeping duties while mourning the loss
herself. The decade had quickly passed,
her father the eventual recipient of a small piece of land from a grateful
client, and she still caring for him and tending his house.
At thirty years of
age, Evelyn was considered a spinster.
She considered herself lucky. She
had escaped being forced to marry a ruthless and cutthroat land developer with
the help of her poor father, who would not sell that inherited acreage to
him. The man appealed to her father’s
favor, proclaiming love for her in hopes of acquiring the land through
marriage, but her father had seen through the charade. Furious, the developer turned to threats
against her family if Evelyn did not marry him.
It had taken her father involving the sheriff and about a dozen
vigilante types to run the man out of town.
The last she had heard about him indicated he was on his way to New
York. Something told her she might not
have heard the last of the scoundrel.
The team of
horses pulling the conveyance came to an abrupt stop, bringing her attention
back to the present, and the shotgun messenger riding on back jumped down. Laughter followed.
“Good way to get
yerself kilt,” he yelled.
Evelyn could see
nothing from the small window to her side but could hear muffled
conversation. The voices of the shotgun
messenger and driver she recognized, but there were at least two other men she
heard. They must have been the reason
the stagecoach had stopped. She suddenly
remembered the tales of bandits and outlaws plaguing stagecoach passengers
throughout the years; the victims had been robbed or assaulted, some kidnapped
or even murdered. Years ago the horrors
that were told involved Indians when people ventured west. Evelyn could see the fear in the faces of her
fellow travelers.
“Holy Mother of
God,” the woman mumbled, crossing herself.
“What is it,
Mama?” her daughter asked. Evelyn
thought the child to be about eight or nine.
“I am sure it is
nothing at all,” replied the gentleman traveling with them. His demeanor said otherwise, as he craned his
neck to see out the window, rubbing his hands nervously over the tops of his
thighs.
One of the
unfamiliar voices rode into view. He sat
astride a piebald horse, with the mane and tail mixtures of the black and white
that covered its body. Evelyn thought
the rider looked as magnificent as his horse.
The man sat tall in the saddle, his clothing was conventional; he wore
chaps over his trousers and a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his
forehead. His range vest was partially
unbuttoned, as was the shirt underneath; Evelyn assumed it was due to the
heat. She knew she should avert her
eyes, but could not.
Less conventional
was the saddle blanket. The bright reds
and blues were woven with black and white, forming a jagged pattern across the
horse’s back. The colors were a stark
contrast to the rest of the hues she saw.
Then the man tilted his head and she noticed a flash of silver at his
left earlobe. So startled was she to see
a man wearing an earring that Evelyn did not hear the other stranger approach
the stagecoach.
“Sorry for the
delay, folks,” the second man said, as he opened the door to the
conveyance. “My partner and I will be
escorting you the rest of the way.”
Evelyn and her
companions jumped in surprise and she thought the woman across from her might
scream. Her face had gone from red to
white in a matter of seconds and she held a fist at her mouth. If nothing else, the woman would either faint
or get sick. When they turned to face
the new man and saw he was wearing a sheriff’s badge, a little of the fear
subsided but the anxiety had not. Evelyn
knew they must get the woman out of the stagecoach so she could catch her
breath.
“Sir, my
companion appears ill. Could we step out
for a moment of fresh air?” Evelyn asked the man.
He looked around
warily then nodded. “Have to be
quick. It’s not safe to dawdle.”
They exited the
coach and Evelyn watched the trio of passengers wander together, finding the
nearest tree’s shade. The woman appeared
to look better as the man and child fussed over her. Evelyn walked around the stagecoach to
stretch her legs some; her back was stiff and she was thirsty. She wiped at the sweat gathering at her neck
and wished for a nicer breeze. While it
was better than inside the compartment, the air was still a little thick and
she wondered if it would rain. A storm
might cool things down. She hoped.
Evelyn saw the
driver and shotgun messenger talking with the sheriff. There was an air of alertness from all three,
but they were making light-hearted conversation. She heard the sheriff laugh at something the
driver said.
“Have some,” the
man’s voice said behind her.
Startled, she
turned to see the man she had observed earlier handing her his canteen. He was still on his horse as he looked down
at her, and she wondered at how quiet both had been. She hadn’t heard them approach.
“You are
thirsty. It is water,” he said.
Evelyn nodded and
took the canteen. At first she sipped,
but the water tasted so good that she found herself gulping. She hadn’t realized just how thirsty she was.
“Not so fast,”
the man smiled. “You don’t want to get
sick, too.”
Embarrassed, she
stopped and wiped her mouth, handing the canteen back to the man. “Thank you,” she said.
“You are going to
stay in Williamsburg?” he asked.
“Yes,” she
replied.
He nodded. “It’s getting late. We should move along if we’re to make it into
town before sunset.”
“Why are you
escorting us?” she asked.
“A rumor of some
outlaws back in the area. They tend to
target stagecoach passengers,” he said as he tipped his hat to her and rode
over to the others.
She watched as he
and the other men rounded up her fellow passengers and urged them into the conveyance
once again. Just before the team of
horses was urged on, she watched him from the window. He looked at her briefly then took off ahead
of the stagecoach, riding ahead of them for their protection.
Evelyn wondered
about the strange man and his kindness.
He had not worn a badge of identification, as the other man had, so she
wasn’t sure of his role or place. The
glare of the sun and the brim of his hat had concealed his features but his
smile had been evident, revealing strong teeth in a tanned face. The exchange had been so quick that she
hadn’t noticed the earring or anything else; his presence was all she’d been
aware of.
The afternoon
wore on and she found herself being lulled to sleep. Her fellow travelers were already napping,
the man with his mouth open and head thrown back, the woman’s eyes twitching
revealing vivid dreams and the child asleep upon her lap. She caught rumbles of thunder in the distance,
far enough away to hope their journey would end before the storms began. She dreamed of her father and the new town
she’d call home, at least temporarily; the stranger filled her dreams, as well,
his face shadowed but his voice kind.
She awoke to a
tugging at her skirt. “Miss. Miss, we’re
here,” the child said. Evelyn opened her
eyes to the girl’s face staring at her with concern. The man was checking his pocket watch and the
woman adjusting strands of her hair that had loosened from underneath the hat
she wore. The driver opened the door of
the compartment and Evelyn was the first to exit.
The station house
was small and busy. People were milling
about waiting for parcels or letters that might have been transported with the
stagecoach she’d traveled on; some were hoping to send packages with the next
coach out the following day. A couple of
older men, who looked to be there just to grab some gossip, cornered the
shotgun messenger and all three stood around talking and laughing.
Once her luggage
had been unloaded, along with all of the other parcels, the driver moved the
coach to the carriage house in the rear, where the team of horses would be
groomed, watered and fed. The trio she’d
traveled with had already met their family and moved on. She wondered where her aunt was and why she
hadn’t been there waiting. Her stomach
grumbled in hunger and all she wanted was food and a change of clothing.
“Dearest, I do
apologize,” came her aunt’s voice. “I
invite you all this way and leave you waiting.
Please forgive me.”
“Of course,” she
replied, receiving her aunt’s kisses.
The woman was
thinner than Evelyn remembered; she looked frail and carried an air of sadness
in her mourning black clothing. Her
uncle’s death had taken her aunt by surprise and it hit her hard; she wore it
for all to see. Evelyn suddenly felt
protective of the woman and a little guilty.
It had been years since she’d seen her relative in St. Louis.
As they made
their way to her aunt’s waiting carriage, thunder rumbled a little louder. She hoped Aunt Grace’s home wasn’t too
far. Then Evelyn noticed the stranger
that had offered her water. When he saw
them, he rushed to help with Evelyn’s luggage and ask after her aunt.
“How have you
been, Mrs. Middleton?” he asked.
“Frederic, you’re
a dear. I’m doing well, but I just get
tired too easily these days,” her aunt replied.
“The heat does
that to most of us,” he sympathized.
“It certainly
does,” her aunt started, “Well, we must beat this storm. Will you come to
supper tomorrow evening? I’ve invited a few people to meet my niece, Evelyn,
here. It would be nice if you’d come,
too.”
“I wouldn’t miss
it,” Frederic replied.
“Good. About
six,” she said.
Evelyn watched
the man as they drove away; he watched them, and her aunt missed none of
it. If Evelyn hadn’t known better, she
might have suspected a sudden spark to her Aunt Grace’s demeanor and Evelyn
couldn’t resist asking.
“Who is that man,
Aunt Grace?”
“You mean
Frederic Dunaway? My manners are horrible and I should have introduced
you. One of the nicest people here in
Williamsburg, he is,” her aunt replied.
“Is he a
lawman? He and the sheriff accompanied
our coach into town a few miles out,” Evelyn explained.
“Heavens,
no. But he is the best scout and shot
this side of the Mississippi. More than
likely that’s why he was helping the sheriff.
Some no-good thieves have been seen back in the area. Stirring up nothing but trouble and fear,”
her aunt said, with a wave of her hand.
They reached her
aunt’s house with little time to spare.
Just as the driver got the horses to the barn and they were safely
inside, the skies darkened and opened.
Rain fell in a quick, steady downpour, suggesting it was a passing storm
but one that would cool the evening’s temperatures.
Her aunt’s home
was comfortable and hinted of a family that had done well in life. Oil lamps and candles had been lit, welcoming
them inside; beautiful furniture in rich upholstery and dark wood filled the
parlor and Evelyn guessed the rest of the house, as well. Drapes of lavish fabric framed the front
windows and thick rugs covered the hardwood floor. Framed portraits and landscapes adorned the
walls and some of the artwork appeared familiar. Her Uncle Tom had been a prolific painter;
she recognized a very young and beautiful Aunt Grace in one over the mantel.
“Oh, so long
ago,” her aunt mused, as she saw Evelyn staring at the painting. “I never saw myself looking like that, but
Tom did. He made me feel beautiful every day of my life.”
“I know you miss
him, Aunt,” Evelyn said.
“More so each
day,” came the reply. “Well, I’m certain
you would like to freshen up. I’ll show
you to your room and have some tea sent up, maybe a little something else to
tide you over before supper.”
“That would be
wonderful,” she answered.
Her room was one
of four bedrooms on the second level and farthest from the front of the
house. Its walls were painted pale blue
and a thick rug of delicate blue, yellow and pink flowers covered the floor. A four-poster bed, draped in a woven white
bedspread stood against one wall and a small hearth was opposite. A tall mahogany wardrobe graced one corner of
the room, with the remainder of the furniture being a desk, nightstand and an
oversized chair in light brown fabric.
The windows faced the back of the property. In the twilight and rain it was difficult to
see, but Evelyn suspected the view would include the pastures and barn. In the distance, it appeared an adjacent
property and house could be seen, but she wasn’t certain...
Thanks for reading! Williamsburg Hill can be purchased in paperback and Kindle versions on Amazon and in exclusive bookstores. Copyright applies. ©Veronica Randolph Batterson
