In the Garden Trilogy (72 page)

She kept to herself because solitude soothed her.

Through the afternoon she divided more stock plants, rooted cuttings. Watered, fed, labeled.

When she was done, she walked home through the woods and raided her personal greenhouse. She planted cannas in a spot she wanted to dramatize, larkspur and
primroses where she wanted more charm. In the shade, she added some ladybells and cranesbill for serenity.

Her serenity, she thought, could always be found here, in the gardens, in the soil, in the shadow of Harper House. Under that fresh blue sky she knelt on the ground, and studied what was hers.

So lovely with its soft yellow stone, its sparkling glass, its bridal white trim.

What secrets were trapped in those rooms, in those walls? What was buried in this soil she worked, season after season, with her own hands?

She had grown up here, as her father had, and his father, and those who’d come before. Generation after generation of shared blood and history. She had raised her children here, and had worked to preserve this legacy so that the children of her children would call this home.

Whatever had been done to pass all of this to her, she would have to know. And then accept.

Settled again, she replaced her tools, then went into the house to shower off the day.

She found Mitch working in the library.

“Sorry to interrupt. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Good, I need to talk to you, too.” He swiveled away from his laptop, found a file in the piles on the desk.

“You go first,” she told him.

“Hmm? Oh, fine.” He scooped a hand through his hair, took off his glasses. Gestures she knew now meant he was organizing his thoughts.

“I’ve done just about all I can do here,” he began. “I could spend months more on your family history, filling in details, moving back generations. In fact, I plan to do just that. But regarding the purpose for which you hired me, I’m at an impasse. She wasn’t family, Roz. Not a Harper,” he amended. “Not by birth, not through marriage. Absolutely
none of the data—names, dates, births, marriages, deaths—nothing I have places a woman named Amelia in this house, or in the Harper family. No woman of her approximate age died in this house during the time period we’ve pinpointed.”

“I see.” She sat, wishing vaguely she’d thought to get coffee.

“Now, if Stella is mistaken regarding the name—”

“She isn’t.” Roz shook her head. “It’s Amelia.”

“I agree. But there’s no Amelia Harper, by birth, by marriage, in any record. Oddly enough, considering the length of time this house has stood here, there’s no record of any female in her twenties or thirties who died here. In the house. Older or younger, yes, a few.”

He set the file on top of a pile. “Ah, one of the most entertaining deaths to occur here was back in 1859, one of your male ancestors, a Beauregard Harper, who broke his neck, and several other bones, falling off the second floor terrace. From the letters I’ve read describing the event, Beau was up there with a woman not his wife engaged in a sexual romp that got a little overenthusiastic. He went over the rail, taking his date with him. He was dead when members of the household reached him, but being a portly fellow, he broke the fall of the female houseguest, who landed on top of him and only suffered a broken leg.”

“And terminal embarrassment, I imagine.”

“Must have. I have the names of the women, the Harper women, who died here listed for you. I have some records on female servants who died here, but none fit the parameters. I got some information from the Chicago lawyer I told you about.”

He began to dig for another file. “The descendant of the housekeeper during Reginald Harper’s time. She actually discovered she had three ancestors who worked here—the housekeeper, the housekeeper’s uncle who was
a groundsman, and a young cousin who served as a kitchen maid. From this, I’ve been able to get you a detailed history of that family as well. While none of it applies, I thought you’d like to have it.”

“Yes, I would.”

“The lawyer’s still looking for data when she has time, she’s entrenched now. We could get lucky.”

“You’ve done considerable work.”

“You’ll be able to look at the charts and locate your great-great-uncle’s second cousin on his mother’s side, and get a good sense of his life. But that doesn’t help you.”

“You’re wrong.” She studied the mountain of files, and the board, crowded with papers and photos and handwritten charts behind Mitch. “It does help me. It’s something I should have seen to a long time ago. I should have known about the unfortunate and adulterous Beau, and the saloon-owning Lucybelle, and all the others you’ve brought to life for me.”

She rose to go to the board and study the faces, the names. Some were as familiar as her own, and others had been virtual strangers to her.

“My father, I see now, was more interested in the present than the past. And my grandfather died while I was so young, I don’t remember having him tell me family stories. Most of what I got was from my grandmother, who wasn’t a Harper by birth, or from older cousins. I’d go through the old papers now and again, always meaning to make time to do more, read more. But I didn’t.”

She stepped back from the board. “Family history, everyone who came before matters, and until recently I haven’t given them enough respect.”

“I agree with the first part, but not the second. This house shows the great respect you have for your family. Essentially, what I’m telling you is I can’t find her for you. I believe, from what I’ve observed, what I feel, Amelia is
your ancestor. But she’s not your family. I won’t find her name in family documents. And I don’t believe she was a servant here.”

“You don’t.”

“Consider the time, the era, the societal mores. As a servant, it’s certainly possible that she was impregnated by a member of the family, but it’s doubtful she would have been permitted to remain on staff, to remain in the house during her pregnancy. She would’ve been sent away, given monetary compensation—maybe. But it doesn’t hold for me.”

After one last glance at the board, she walked back to her chair and sat. “Why not?”

“Reginald was head of the house. All the information I have on him indicates he was excessively proud, very aware of what we could say was his lofty standing in this area. Politics, business, society. To be frank, Roz, I don’t see him banging the parlor maid. He’d have been more selective. Certainly, said banging could have been done by a relative, an uncle, a brother-in-law, a cousin. But my gut tells me the connection with Amelia’s tighter than that.”

“Which leaves?”

“A lover. A woman not his wife, but who suited his needs. A mistress.”

She was silent for a long moment. “You know what I find interesting, Mitchell? That we’ve come, from different directions, to the same point. You’ve gone through so many reams of documents that it gives me a headache just to think of them. Phone calls, computer searches, courthouse searches. Graphs and charts and Christ only knows. And by doing all that you’ve not only given me a picture of my family I’ve never looked at, people whose names I didn’t know, but who are, in a very real sense, responsible for my life. But you’ve eliminated dozens of possibilities, dozens of perhapses as to who this poor woman was, so that we
can whittle it down to the right answer. Do you think, when we do, she’ll have peace?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. Why are you so sad? It rips me to see you so sad.”

“I’m not entirely sure. This is what happened today,” she said, and told him.

“I was so afraid.” She took a long breath. “I was afraid the night she locked us out of the children’s room, and when you and I came in from the terrace and she had that fit of temper, tossing things around. I was afraid that night in the tub, when she held me under. I thought I wouldn’t be that afraid again. But today, today when I stood there watching her walk toward me over the field, through the fog, I was petrified. I saw her face, the madness in it, a kind of insane purpose. The sort, I think now, that overcomes even death.”

She gave herself a little shake. “I know how that sounds, but I think that’s what she’s done, somehow. She’s overcome death with madness, and she can’t break free.”

“She didn’t touch you this time. She didn’t hurt you?”

Roz shook her head. “Not even at the peak of her rage. I couldn’t breathe—felt like I was drawing in dirt, but part of that might’ve been sheer panic on my part. She spoke of killing, bathing in blood. There’s never been any talk of murder in this house, but I wonder—oh, God, could they have killed her? One of my family?”

“She was the one talking of doing murder,” he reminded her, “not of being murdered.”

“True, but you can’t trust a crazy woman to have all the facts straight. She said I was her blood. Whether it’s true or not, she believes it.” She took a deep breath. “So do you.”

He got up from the desk to come around to her. Taking her hands, he drew her out of the chair and into his arms. “What do you believe?”

Comfort, she thought as she rested her head on his shoulder. There could be such comfort in a man if you allowed
yourself to take it. “She has my father’s eyes. I saw it at the end today. I’ve never seen it before, maybe never let myself. Did he take her child, Mitch, my great-grandfather? Could he have been so cold?”

“If all this is fact, she could have given the baby up. They might have had an arrangement, and she came to regret it. There are still a lot of possibilities.”

“I want to know the truth now. Have to know it, whatever it takes.”

She drew back, managed a smile. “Just how the hell do we go about finding a woman who may have been my great-grandfather’s lover?”

“We have a first name, an approximate age, and we assume she lived in the Memphis area. We start with that.”

“Is that natural optimism, or are you trying to smooth my feathers?”

“Some of both.”

“All right, then. I’m going to go pour myself a glass of wine. Do you want anything?”

“I could use about a gallon of water to offset the five gallons of coffee I’d downed today. I’ll come with you.” He draped an arm around her shoulders as they walked to the kitchen.

“I might have to put this aside until after Stella and Logan’s wedding. It’s snuck right up on me. Seems to me, however demanding the dead may be, the living ought to have priority.” She got out a bottle of water and a fresh lemon. “I can’t believe those boys aren’t going to be part of the household in a few more days.”

She poured and sliced, then offered him the glass.

“Thanks. I think they’ll be around enough you’ll feel like they are.”

“I like to think.” She poured her wine, but the phone rang before she took the first sip. “Where is David anyway?” she asked, and answered herself.

She listened for a moment, then smiled slowly at Mitch. “Hello, Jane,” she said and lifted her wine in a toast.

“T
HIS IS SO
exciting. It’s like a spy thriller or something.” Hayley bounced on her toes as she, Roz, and Stella rode the elevator up to Clarise Harper’s apartment. “I mean, we spend the morning getting manicures and pedicures, and the afternoon sneaking around to hunt up secret documents. It’s totally glamorous.”

“Say that later if we’re arrested and spending the night in jail with Big Bertha,” Stella suggested. “If Logan has to marry me through jailhouse bars tomorrow, I’m going to be royally pissed.”

“I told you not to come,” Roz reminded her.

“And miss this?” After a bracing breath, Stella stepped off the elevator. “I may be fussy, but I’m no coward. Besides, Hayley has a point. It is exciting.”

“Going into a crabby old woman’s overfurnished apartment and taking away what’s rightfully mine—along with a scared little rabbit—doesn’t strike me as exciting. Jane could have gotten them out herself, saved us the trip. There’s enough to do with the wedding tomorrow.”

“I know, and I appreciate, so much, you giving us the day off so we could primp.” On impulse, Stella kissed Roz’s cheek. “We’ll work twice as hard after the wedding to make up for it.”

“You might just have to. Now just pray the old ghoul is out getting her hair permed, as advertised, or this will be ugly.”

“Don’t you sort of hope it is?” Hayley began, but the door creaked open. Jane peeked out through the crack.

“I . . . I didn’t expect anyone but you, Cousin Rosalind. I don’t know if we should—”

“They work for me. They’re friends.” With no patience
for dithering or ado, Roz nudged the door open, stepped inside. “Jane, this is Stella and Hayley. Jane, did you pack all your things?”

“Yes, there isn’t much. But I’ve been thinking, she’s going to be so upset when she gets home and finds me gone. I don’t know if I should—”

“This place is as horrible as ever,” Roz observed. “Positively reeks of lavender. How do you stand it? That’s one of our Dresden shepherdesses there, and that Meissan cat, and . . . screw it. Where are the diaries?”

“I didn’t get them out. I didn’t feel right—”

“Fine. Give me the key, show me where, and I’ll get them. Let’s not waste time, Jane,” Roz added when the girl simply stood biting her bottom lip. “You have a new apartment waiting, a new job starting bright and early Monday morning. You can take them or leave them, your choice. But I’m not leaving this lavender-stinking apartment without what’s mine by right. So you can give me the key, or I’ll just start tossing things around until I find what I’m after.”

“Oh, God. I feel sick.” Jane dug into her pocket, pulled out an ornate brass key. “The desk in her room, top drawer.” Pale as glass, she gestured vaguely. “I’m dizzy.”

“Snap out of it,” Roz suggested. “Stella, why don’t you help Jane get her things?”

“Sure. Come on, Jane.”

Trusting Stella to deal with the situation, Roz turned to Hayley. “Watch the door,” she ordered.

“Oh, boy, hot damn. Lookout man.”

Despite herself, Roz chuckled all the way into Clarise’s bedroom. There was more lavender here, with an undertone of violets. The bed had a padded headboard of gold tufted silk, with an antique quilt Roz knew damn well had come out of Harper House. As had the occasional table by the window, and the art nouveau lamp.