The House Of Secrets. Elizabeth Blackwell
won’t be disappointed.”
“Thanks for the recommendation.” Elaine’s words echoed the description she had gotten from Danny’s references the night before. Dependable. Honest. Hardworking. No one volunteered the information she really wanted: why someone like him—handsome, smart, well-spoken—was working as a glorified carpenter in the middle of nowhere.
“I’m glad you’re finally getting some help,” Elaine said. “Though I’m impressed with what you’ve accomplished on your own.”
Elaine seemed like the kind of person who’d call an electrician to help her change a lightbulb.
“There was one more thing I wanted to mention,” she continued. “I was at the library yesterday—have you been there yet?”
“No,” Alissa said. “I’ve barely left the house since I moved in, except to run to the hardware store.”
“I got to talking with Claire Polley, who’s been the librarian there for ages. I mentioned you and the house, and she said the library has a whole box of materials on the Brewsters. You should talk to her. That is, if you’re still interested in the history of the house.”
“Oh, yes,” Alissa said. “Very much so.”
“Good,” Elaine said. “Claire works Mondays through Thursdays. On Fridays and Saturdays, the new girl’s there. She’s sweet but quite useless. Claire’s the one you want.”
“I’ll try to get down there later this week,” Alissa said. But as soon as she hung up the phone, she found herself distracted from her latest project, stripping paint off a doorway molding. She glanced at her watch. Three-thirty. If she hurried, she would have an hour or so to glance through the documents. There might even be pictures of the house. Maybe, if she found one of the home’s interior, she could restore the rooms to their original decor. She could bring the house back to the way it used to be, when it was filled with happiness and love.
Alissa spotted Claire as soon as she entered the library. She was a delicate older woman who looked as if she had been living among the stacks for decades. Her curly white hair was almost the same shade as her pale white skin, and when she reached out to shake Alissa’s hand, her arms were nearly translucent, revealing the veins beneath the surface.
“No one’s looked at this for years,” she said, “so it’s all a bit dusty.” She pointed to a document box in a corner behind her desk. “I’m not even sure what’s here. The contents were never cataloged, I’m afraid.”
Alissa carried the box to a long table in the center of the room. She removed the top and saw a stack of magazine and newspaper clippings piled loosely inside. She scanned the headline on the first article: Brewster Mansion Falls to the Wrecking Ball.
“I don’t know much about the family,” Claire said, “but I’ll try to help you if I can.”
Alissa nodded distractedly. Claire’s voice had already faded into the background. She dug through the articles, going back from the 1960s to the 1920s, reading stories about the Brewster Shipping Company and tea parties given by women of the town. Then, toward the bottom, she spotted a headline.
Lavish Brewster Wedding Dazzles. The date on the newspaper was April 21, 1904.
Alissa read the subhead: Charles Brewster Introduces His Bride to Baltimore Society.
She pulled out the article, staring at a photo of a young couple standing together, facing the camera. Charles and Evelyn Brewster. He seemed stiff and serious; she clung to his arm, wearing a formal gown with puffed sleeves, a shy fairy-tale heroine clutching her dashing prince.
Suddenly, Alissa envied them with a force that caught her by surprise. For months, she had heard her new home described as the Brewster house. But the Brewsters themselves had remained shadowy figures. Now, finally, she would find out who they’d really been—and what had happened to them.
CHAPTER FOUR
ON HER FIRST DAY in her new home, Evelyn awoke to find her husband gone. A slight young woman was standing in the doorway. She almost dropped the tray she was holding when Evelyn sat up.
“Excuse me!” the girl said, hunching her body as if to hide behind the tray.
“It’s Peggy, isn’t it?” Evelyn asked. She remembered the maid’s face from the night before, when she and Charles had returned from their honeymoon and been introduced to the household staff Alma had hired.
“Yes, Mrs. Brewster.”
Evelyn patted the quilt next to her. “You can put that down here,” she said, pointing toward the tray.
“Mrs. Gower wasn’t sure what you took for breakfast and asks if you’ll speak with her later. She can make anything you want. Some ladies hardly eat anything in the morning, as you know, but I said I thought you’d want a hearty meal after all your travels. Oh! I was supposed to ask if you take coffee, because I could get you that instead of tea if you prefer.”
Evelyn smiled at the maid’s nervous chatter.
“This smells delicious,” Evelyn said, looking over the plate of eggs, toast and fresh berries. “Tea is perfect. Is it customary for the ladies of the family to take breakfast in their rooms?”
Peggy’s face crumpled with concern. “Oh dear, I don’t know, Mrs. Brewster. I do what Mrs. Gower tells me. She worked in the kitchen at Mrs. Brewster’s. I mean, the older Mrs. Brewster, Mrs. Brewster.”
Evelyn smiled reassuringly. “Thank you, Peggy. Oh—one more thing. Is Mr. Brewster downstairs?”
“No, ma’am. He went out quite early. Six o’clock or so, I’d say.”
“Thank you.”
Peggy pulled the door shut behind her, and Evelyn was left to face the beginning of her new life alone.
It had been just a week since her wedding, but the days had passed in a blur of activity. Charles and Evelyn had spent their first night as man and wife at the Palace Hotel in Baltimore. As soon as they’d entered their suite, Charles had started pulling at the hooks and tiny buttons that fastened her elaborate gown.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “This must be the true test of a husband!”
She joined in his laughter, and that shared moment calmed her enough to face what came next. Once her gown was discarded, Charles pushed her onto the bed and pulled her underskirts aside. She lay nervously rigid beneath him, not knowing what to expect. He thrust into her body while she held her breath, wincing and wondering how long the pressure would last. After a few minutes, Charles rolled off her.
“That’s it, then,” he sighed. “You should find it less painful next time.” He paused and gave her a quick assessing look. “Wash up, darling, you look a fright!”
In the bathroom, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was flushed in embarrassment. Her hair hung in tangled ringlets. She turned on the tap and took a few moments to enjoy the luxury of warm water spilling over her hands and wrists. She washed up as best she could, then changed into one of the silk nightgowns her mother had sewn for her trousseau. She listened for a moment at the door when she was ready, but heard nothing. What happened now? Would Charles pounce on her again?
She opened the door slowly and peeked out. Charles lay on the bed in his underclothes, his jacket and trousers flung on the floor. He was snoring.
Evelyn tiptoed to the other side of the bed and slid under the covers, careful not to disturb him. Her body was exhausted, but her mind hummed with thoughts that kept sleep at bay.
The following day, Charles whisked her off for a week in New York. There were dinner parties every night, a visit to the opera, carriage rides through Central Park and shopping trips to expensive boutiques.
“You’re a Brewster now,” Charles said. “You need to look like one.”
Charles