Isabelle’s Locket
by
Colleen Mitchell
Isabelle's Locket
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2010 by Colleen Mitchell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
ISBN 978-0-9821507-5-7
Library of Congress Control Number 2010938207
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and/or used as fiction. Any similarities to actual events, or persons living or dead is coincidental.
Published by Thistlewood Publishing; 92 Wayside Lane; Apalachin, N.Y. 13732
Visit our Website at www.thistlewoodpublishing.com
Cover by: Debra Slater Manter
Edited by: Martha Rucker
To my Dad John
His memory will always burn brightly in the hearts of those who loved him…
including me.
PART I
Chapter 1
Foxton: July 23rd 1910
“Shh,” sixteen-year-old Isabelle Luff said, laughing softly as eighteen-year-old Flynn O’Leary showered her face and neck with kisses and boldly declared his love for her. “Someone will hear us!” She glanced at the bedroom door―firmly closed of course―and strained her ears for any sound of the housekeeper.
“I don’t care,” Flynn said, planting a line of kisses from her ear to the bridge of her pert nose and then smiling at her. “We’ll be man and wife in a few hours, and it won’t matter who hears us.” He ran a hand along the edge of her blonde hair, neatly bound and almost hidden under a rather fetching wide-brimmed hat and across the smooth white skin of her cheek, and smiled. “If you still want me, that is.”
Isabelle looked into his soft brown eyes and felt her pulse quicken. “Of course, I do.”
“I’ll never be able to give you a grand home like this one,” Flynn said, casting an eye around the spacious and tastefully decorated room in the two-year-old house that was the pride and joy of Isabelle’s father, Gabriel Luff. “Are you sure you want to marry the son of a farmer?”
“Very sure.” Isabelle kissed his deeply tanned cheek and tousled his dark, unruly hair. “Very sure, indeed.”
“Then today’s the day,” Flynn whispered. “Are you ready?”
Isabelle glanced at the small leather bag that held two changes of clothing and only the most essential of toiletries. “As ready as I shall ever be,” she whispered, glancing at the door again. “But how will we get out of the house without being seen?” She glanced to the open window. “I cannot possibly climb out of the window like you do, not on the second storey.”
“Everything is arranged,” Flynn said, releasing the tight hold he had on Isabelle’s waist and running his hands down her arms to clasp her hands firmly in his. “Billy Ryder is going to provide a distraction to keep the cook and the housekeeper standing at the front door long enough for us to sneak out the back door. We’ll have to watch out for your friend though.”
“I have sent her to the town to try to locate you, just as we planned. Oh, Flynn my heart is trembling!”
“So is mine,” Flynn said softly, “and it’s the best feeling in the world.”
“It is.”
“My horse is tied up in the trees over there,” Flynn gestured out of the window to a small group of trees about a hundred yards or so away. “We’ll have to run like the wind though, as soon as Billy lights the fire to distract the others.”
Isabelle shook her head slowly. “Billy Ryder is not one to be trusted, Flynn. Surely you know that.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve paid him.”
Isabelle glanced out of the window. “What time can we expect this distraction?”
Flynn glanced at the clock on the table. “Any minute now.”
The door opened suddenly and Gabriel Luff, Isabelle’s father, burst into the room, closely followed by constable Biggs from the Foxton police and … Isabelle blinked … Billy Ryder.
“See!” Billy said, waving a hand at Flynn. “I told you!” He held out his hand to Gabriel. “You promised me ten shillings!”
“You shall have your money, Mr. Ryder,” Gabriel said, keeping his eyes on Flynn, “just as soon as I have ensured that this miscreant here rots in jail for the rest of his days.”
“But I haven’t done anything!” Flynn said, while releasing Isabelle’s hands quickly.
Constable Biggs stepped forwards and Flynn held his hands in the air at chest height.
“Have you not?” Gabriel said softly. “I do not recall giving you permission to enter my house, in fact I recall giving you explicit instructions to stay far away from my daughter. Yet here you are … so you are guilty of trespass, at the very least,” he cocked his head, “and I have cause to believe that you are also a thief.”
“I’m no thief!”
“Mr. Ryder here informs me that you are.”
“And you believe him?” Flynn said, waving a hand in Billy’s direction. “He’s a liar!”
“It is not Mr. Ryder who has been lying to me though, is it?” Gabriel said. “You and my daughter have been meeting together and doing who-knows-what for some time I have been told.”
Flynn’s face coloured. “We haven’t done anything wrong, and I’m no thief!”
“Search him,” Billy said loudly, “you’ll see.”
Gabriel turned to constable Biggs. “Search him!”
Constable Biggs stepped forwards and reached into Flynn’s pocket. “I suppose you mean to tell me that this is yours then?” he said, pulling a pearl necklace from Flynn’s pocket and dangling it in front of his face. “Well are you?”
Flynn stared at the necklace. “I don’t know how that came to be in my pocket, I swear I don’t.”
Gabriel snatched the necklace from the constable. “This belonged to my wife,” he hissed to Flynn. “How dare you!”
“I told you. I’m no thief.”
“Arrest him,” Gabriel said, his voice was very calm. “And remove him from my house at once.”
“No!” Isabelle shrieked. “No, Father! You know Flynn is no thief. You know it!”
“I know that my daughter has been swayed to act in a manner that no lady of her standing should countenance,” Gabriel hissed, “and I know that he,” pointing a finger at Flynn sharply, “is to blame.”
“But I love him!” Isabelle cried loudly.
Gabriel shook his head slowly. “You will be sent to St. Mary’s Convent, where you shall live for the next year.”
“No!” Isabelle shrieked again as the constable twisted Flynn’s hands behind his back and snapped handcuffs onto Flynn’s wrists.
Flynn, who had been struggling with the constable, suddenly stopped struggling and stood very still with his eyes locked on Isabelle’s. “I love you,” he whispered.
“Father!” Isabelle shrieked as the constable pulled on Flynn’s arm and began to drag him across the room. “This is wrong!”
The constable paused at the door and turned to Gabriel. “Don’t worry, sir, he’ll not be bothering you again.” He turned to look at Flynn. Quick as a flash, Flynn brought his elbow up into the constable’s face, sending him reeling backwards into Gabriel. As the men fell to the ground Flynn ran for the door.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Billy stood in the doorway and flexed his not inconsiderable muscles. “I haven’t been paid yet.”
Flynn lowered his head and charged at Billy, but Billy brought his booted foot up quickly and kicked Flynn across the room as he raised his fists in front of his body in a classic boxer’s pose. “You’re handcuffed,” he said, “What chance do you think you have?”
Flynn glanced at Gabriel who was scrambling to his feet and then glanced to the open window that he had climbed in not half an hour ago.
“Don’t move!” the constable said, rising to his knees and spitting teeth from his bloodied mouth.
“I love you, Isabelle,” Flynn said as he launched himself through the open window and onto the roof of the veranda below. With handcuffed hands Flynn was powerless to stop his slide down the veranda roof and into the air.
“Flynn!” Isabelle cried from the open window as he fell from the veranda roof onto the sharp pointed spikes of the wrought iron fence that ran from the house to the stone boundary fence to divide the property into two sections.
Isabelle felt vomit rise into her mouth as blood spurted from Flynn’s chest in several places as he rocked helplessly on the spikes. She quickly turned her head away from the sight. “You did this!” she shrieked to her father. “You killed him!”
“Nonsense,” Gabriel said, glancing out of the window and then glancing quickly away. “The lad brought this on himself.”
Isabelle felt the world begin to spin. “I hate you!”
“That is of no concern to me,” Gabriel snapped. “You will be taken to St. Mary’s convent forthwith,” he glanced at the bag lying on Isabelle’s bed. “I see you are already packed for travel, which will save us some time.” He grabbed Isabelle by the arm. “And there is no time like the present.”
“No!” Isabelle tore her arm from her father’s grip and grabbed at the windowsill, staring down at Flynn. The man she vowed to love forever was still twitching on the spikes. “Flynn!”
She felt her father’s strong hands close on her arm once again and made up her mind.
“Flynn and I will be together until death,” she said, stamping her delicately booted foot onto her father’s foot with all the strength she could muster and ripping her arm free from his grip as he doubled over in pain, “no matter how long that is.” She launched herself through the open window and made no attempt to slow her slide down the veranda roof.
Her descent ended abruptly, and she saw blood spurt from the sharp spikes that protruded from her own stomach and chest. Strange ... it doesn’t hurt.
Raising her head as much as possible, she looked over to Flynn and reached her hand to his handcuffed hand. He opened his eyes and grasped her hand as his lips moved. I love you, he mouthed and Isabelle smiled.
“Till death do us part,” she said, feeling blood welling in her mouth. She kept tight hold of his hand as she felt his body tense and then relax with a loud hiss. “Oh, Flynn,” she said as the world drifted in and out of focus and she heard her father wail from the window two stories above. “We shall never be parted now.”
Chapter 2
Foxton: June 2010
“Here she is,” the real estate agent, Mr. Moyes said as he turned his Toyota Prado off the street and into the driveway of what Erin could only describe as a huge but ramshackle two-storied house.
From the passenger’s seat of the Prado, twenty-eight-year-old Erin Finlay looked out at the overgrown yard and cast an eye over the house itself. Was this really all she could afford?
“It’s a really good location,” Mr. Moyes said, opening the door of the Prado and stepping out of the car, carefully avoiding a large muddy puddle. “And the house was built of top grade timber. She’s as solid as a rock.”
“Mmm,” Erin said, opening the passenger’s door and stepping out onto the rough, broken concrete of the driveway. Surely she could find something better than this! She cast her eye over the remains of what was probably once a lovely wrought iron fence that stretched from one side of the house to the sadly crumbling stone wall that surrounded the whole section. “How long has it been since anyone lived here?”
Mr. Moyes licked his lips. “A long time, I’m afraid.”
“And do the plumbing and electrics all work okay?”
“Oh yes. The house was rewired about twenty years ago, and the plumbing was upgraded when the town water and sewerage were connected.”
“Uh-huh.” Erin cast her eye to a cracked and crumbling old concrete water tank in the back yard.
“The section’s huge,” Mr. Moyes said, waving a hand at the overgrown jungle that was−presumably−the back yard. “Nearly half an acre.”
“Uh-huh,” Erin said, sighing lightly. How would she ever be able to keep half an acre of back lawn tidy? “I’m not sure this is what I’m looking for, Mr. Moyes. The house is huge and I’d be living here alone you know.” Erin felt a sharp stab of pain in her chest and swallowed heavily as the smiling face of Rowan Stevenson−the man she had hoped to marry and grow old with−sprang to her mind. She glanced down to the engagement ring on her left hand that she could still not bring herself to take off. “It’s such a big house for one person.”
“Oh yes,” Mr. Moyes said softly. “I’m sorry, Erin.” It was a small town and everyone knew everyone else’s business.
Erin flapped a hand at Mr. Moyes. “It’s alright.” She took a deep breath, remembering the night Rowan’s parents had called her a month ago and broken the news that Rowan−dear, sweet Rowan−had been killed in a car accident on the Desert Road just two weeks before their wedding date. She had yelled at them, she remembered, and told them they were lying. She had screamed down the phone to them and called them all sorts of horrible names. She swallowed again. Those dear, sweet people had just lost a son and had rung her, Rowan’s fiancée, to tell her of their mutual loss, and she had screamed at them. She shook her head slowly. Rowan’s parents had forgiven her, and they had been a wonderful support to each other at the funeral. Erin shivered, remembering that awful day. The day she had said goodbye to Rowan forever.
“Would you like to see inside?” Mr. Moyes’ voice interrupted her thoughts.
Erin looked at the rotting steps that led to a huge veranda and shivered again. She didn’t want to see inside. She wanted to go home, but the thought of sitting in the passenger’s seat of Mr. Moyes’ Prado all the way back to his office while he looked at her with that sympathetic look that she loathed, imagining him telling her how sorry he was for her loss, was just too much to bear right now. “Alright,” she said, more to give herself some breathing space than because she was interested in seeing the house. “I suppose since we’ve come all the way here we may as well go inside.”
Mr. Moyes turned a key in a huge lock on the solid wooden front door and pushed.
Nothing happened.
He grunted slightly and used his shoulder to bunt the door heavily, and it loosened and swung open on squeaky hinges. Erin held her breath as stale air from the inside of the house reached her. “Like I said, it’s been empty for a while,” Mr. Moyes said. “But it’s the only house we have listed in your price range, Erin. There’s nothing else in your price range.”
Erin managed what she hoped looked like a smile. “After you.” She gestured to the door, forcing Mr. Moyes to walk into the house first. Well, if the floor was going to give way, it might as well be him that fell through. But the floor didn’t give way; it didn’t even creak as Mr. Moyes opened the door wider and stepped inside with Erin following behind him.
The inside of the house was more dilapidated than the outside. Wallpaper hung in sheets from the walls and dangled flaccidly in mid-air, the bare wooden floorboards were chipped and gouged, and the crumbling old-fashioned linoleum in the kitchen was pitted and discoloured. The whole house smelled damp, and the high ceilings were stained a sort of mud-brown colour. Smoke, Erin guessed, glancing at the old-fashioned open fireplace. “Is that even legal any more?” she asked, waving a hand at the open fire.
“It can’t be used,” Mr. Moyes said. “The chimney’s been blocked off.”
Erin ran a hand over the ornately carved fireplace surround. This house would once have been proud and beautiful. She looked over to the huge bay windows that covered half of one wall. Someone had once loved this house, she was sure of it.
“The bathroom was updated in the 1970’s,” Mr. Moyes said as he opened a door and gestured to a hideous dark green tile-walled bathroom.
Erin walked into the bathroom and blinked at her reflection in a huge mirrored wall that was made up of a large group of small glass tiles stuck to the wall. She ran a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair, which she really should have tied up before coming out, but she just couldn’t be bothered today, and smoothed the skin around her light brown eyes. She ran her hand across the bridge of her nose where a light smattering of freckles were visible on her lightly tanned skin. She flicked a few stray hairs from her oversized green sweatshirt and blue jeans and turned to follow Mr. Moyes as he walked to a wide stairway.
“There are four bedrooms,” Mr. Moyes said, leading her up the stairs which Erin trod on carefully, mindful of the crumbling outside steps.
Erin wandered along the wide hallway and peered into each of the bedrooms. She could almost imagine this house as it had once been, knowing it had been stately and grand. She touched a door frame that was pitted and gouged in the lower three feet or so and smiled as she imagined children scurrying along the hallway on bikes or skates and banging into the door frame, leaving evidence of their play that would endure through the years.
As she walked into one of the bedrooms and peered out of the dust laden window, Mr. Moyes came to stand behind her and pointed out of the window to the dilapidated wrought iron fence visible past the veranda roof below. “I suppose I should tell you the story behind this house … and that fence,” he said softly. “You’re bound to hear it sooner or later anyway, and disclosure, you know.”
“Story?”
Mr. Moyes nodded slowly. “The fence itself was replaced at least once that I know of. Although why anyone would want to keep it standing is beyond me.”
“Why? Was it hideous?”
“No. Quite the opposite, in fact, the fence was quite beautiful. It was hand-crafted 102 years ago by a local blacksmith and it sported−” he cleared his throat, “pointed escarpments that protruded above its horizontal top bar.”
“And there is a story about the fence?”
Mr. Moyes nodded. “Nothing less than a tragedy.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. The house was built in 1908, and the fence was built soon after. The first family to live here were the Luffs.”
“Luff?” Erin said. “What a great name. It sounds like love, don’t you think?” She cast an eye around the room. “And I’ll bet they loved this house too.”
Mr. Moyes nodded. “It was the first house to be built on this street. Of course in those days Foxton was a thriving town, although much smaller than it is today. Gabriel Luff was a very prosperous merchant with two daughters, Mary and Isabelle. Sadly his wife had died when the youngest, Isabelle, was an infant, so Gabriel had lived in comfortable quarters behind his store. After Mary married and moved away, Gabriel built this house for himself and Isabelle to live in.”
“So Isabelle wasn’t a child?”
“She was fourteen when Gabriel built the house and they moved in.” Mr. Moyes cleared his throat. “But tragedy followed two years later when Isabelle turned sixteen and fell in love with a local farmer’s son named Flynn O’Leary.”
“Her father didn’t approve?”
Mr. Moyes nodded. “You see Gabriel Luff was a proud man, and he wanted his daughters to marry well. Mary had married the son of a wealthy flax miller, and he wanted Isabelle to find a similar beau.”
Erin raised an eyebrow. “Flynn wasn't good enough for Gabriel, I suppose.”
Mr. Moyes nodded again. “Gabriel forbade the match of course, and he kept Isabelle confined here to the house and ordered his housekeeper to keep watch over her. But, as you can imagine, young Flynn wasn’t going to give up that easily and neither was Isabelle. So they began to meet in secret, right here in this room.”
Erin glanced around at the spacious and airy room. Yes, she could almost imagine two young lovers meeting here, keeping a watchful eye on the door and a sharp ear out for any creak of floorboards that might signal the approach of the housekeeper, or worse, Isabelle’s father. She looked at the solid wooden framed window−the kind that opened straight up and down−and onto the veranda roof below. Had Flynn climbed in this very window to meet with his love?
“That’s very romantic,” she said softly. “But what was the tragedy?”
“Well, Gabriel obviously found out what was happening, because one day he burst into the room, accompanied by a constable. He found Flynn here with Isabelle, and ordered that Flynn be arrested and taken away to prison and Isabelle be taken to a convent.”
“Arrested for what? They hadn’t committed any crime had they?”
“No, not really. Times were different then, and a rich man like Gabriel Luff could do almost anything he wanted, including having a farmer’s son thrown in prison for the rest of his natural life.”
“So what happened?”
Mr. Moyes nodded to the window. “The window was open; and, of course, the wrought iron fence was still standing, with its spikes protruding into the air.” He took a deep breath. “It is said that young Flynn jumped out of the window, bounced along the roof of the veranda and landed on the spikes as he fell, and … and he was impaled right there on the fence.”
“That’s awful!”
Mr. Moyes nodded. “But that’s not the worst part,” he said softly. “Isabelle−distraught at seeing young Flynn lying helplessly impaled on the fence and hearing her father threaten to send her to a convent−threw herself out of the window and ended up impaled on the fence right next to Flynn. It’s said that they clasped hands as they lay there, impaled and dying, and with their last breaths they professed their love for each other.”
“And they died right there on the fence?”
“They did, and Gabriel was driven mad by the sight. They say he closed his store and spent each and every day sitting in the dark here in the house with all the curtains drawn. Then one day, several months after the tragedy, he put a pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
Erin felt her stomach heave. “That’s awful!”
“It is. And that’s one reason why the house is so cheap.”
“Is it haunted?”
“Of course not. There have been many families living here over the years, and not one report of anything like that, but people can be superstitious, you know. Some reporter got hold of the story and published an article on it about ten years ago, and no one has wanted to live here since then. The house has just stood empty all that time. The old lady that owned it died a few months ago, and her family just wanted the house sold−and fast. It’ll be a bargain for anyone who wants to put in some time to fix it up.”
Erin looked around at the room she stood in. “So you think they’ll drop their price?”
“I’m sure they will.”
“If I offer them $50,000 do you think they’ll take it?”
Mr. Moyes took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “They might.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Erin said, surprising even herself. She looked around the room again, imagining the two lovers standing in this very room and declaring their love for each other.
“Are you quite sure?” Mr. Moyes said, raising an eyebrow.
Erin looked out of the window and cast her eye over the veranda roof to what remained of the fence below. “I’m sure,” she said softly. She smiled at Mr. Moyes. “Somehow it just seems right. I don’t know why. But I think I’m supposed to own this house.”
“Er, right then, I’ll draw up the offer.”
Chapter 3
Three weeks after Mr. Moyes made the purchase offer, Erin signed the final paperwork, and the house was hers. She unpacked the few scant boxes that held all her worldly possessions and looked around at the house that she would now call home. Her eyes ran over the peeling wallpaper and rotting windowsills and rested on the beautifully carved wooden fireplace surround. Someone had loved this house once, and someday she would love it too, she just knew it.
First things first, a trip to the hardware shop for a broom, a mop, a bucket, and a really big bottle of multipurpose cleaner; and then a trip to the second-hand shop to buy some furniture. She smiled at her little crossbreed dog Snoopy as he sniffed every corner of the room carefully, wagging his tail industriously. “We’ll be happy here Snoopy, I know we will.”
The next morning Erin woke to the sound of loud banging on her front door. “Wake up sleepyhead!” her brother Ciaran’s voice came from the front veranda, “It’s freezing out here.”
Erin wrapped her dressing gown around her body and stepped into her slippers. “I’m coming,” she yelled as she quickly descended the stairs and opened the door.
“I brought breakfast,” thirty-year-old Ciaran said, holding up a large brown paper bag.
Erin cast her eyes over her brother. He was dressed in overalls and sneakers−a far cry from the tailored jackets and trousers that he normally wore−but the overalls were perfectly pressed, and the sneakers looked like they’d never been worn before. She stared at him, and he smiled, crinkling the skin around his light brown eyes. His short brown hair was neatly combed, and his whole demeanour was one of perfection, as always. “You look ridiculous,” Erin said, running her eye from his perfect hair to his perfect shoes.
Ciaran feigned indignation. “I’m here to work, not to win a beauty pageant,” he said, stepping inside the house and looking around with a look of undisguised disdain.
“You don’t even know how to work,” Erin said. She peered out of the door. “Is Dad coming?” Their father Patrick was a builder, and he and their mother Rosie lived only three streets away.
“I suppose so,” Ciaran said, walking to the kitchen and filling the jug as Erin plugged in the heater and stood shivering in front of it. Ciaran lived in Wellington where he worked as a lecturing professor at the university. He looked around the room again. “What on earth made you buy this dump?”
“We don’t all have six figure salaries you know,” Erin snapped. “And it’ll be lovely once it’s done up.”
“So it was cheap,” Ciaran said, tearing the paper bag open to reveal four Danish pastries and placing it on the bench, because Erin had no table.
“Very cheap, and it’s not so bad is it?” Erin looked around at the peeling wallpaper and stained ceilings. “I don’t know why, but … I just feel like it’s the right house for me.”
“Uh-huh,” Ciaran said, opening the kitchen cupboards one by one. “Do you have any real coffee? You know I hate that instant stuff.”
“Next cupboard,” Erin said, waving a hand at the cupboards, “and the plunger’s under the sink.”
Ciaran busied himself making coffee, and Erin smiled as her father and mother came through the front door. “It’s freezing out there,” Patrick said, hugging his arms and heading straight for the heater. He cast his light brown eyes around the room. “So this is the house?” he said softly. He shook his head and smoothed his short grey hair. “It’s, um—”
“A dump?” Ciaran said, handing his father a cup of coffee.
“It has character,” Patrick said, “and once we get some decent insulation in then it’ll be warmer too. What’s the roof like?”
Erin shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Patrick shook his head slowly. “I wish you’d taken me with you when you came to look at it. I’d have checked for all those things.”
“I wasn’t intending to buy it,” Erin said. “I was just looking around at what was on offer, and I fell in love with it.”
“You fell in love with this?” Ciaran said, shaking his head and looking around for a place to sit. “Where are your chairs?”
“I’ve only brought my bed from home,” Erin said. “But I’ve bought some second-hand furniture, and it’s being delivered on Tuesday. For now you’ll just have to sit on the stairs, I suppose.”
Ciaran settled himself on the lowest step and bit into the pastry in his hand. “Well, like it or not, it’s too late to change your mind about the house now.”
“She’ll take some work,” Patrick said, “but she’ll be grand again once we’ve finished her with love.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Erin said with feeling.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Patrick said, taking the pastry that Erin offered him. “There’s a lot of work to be done here before she’ll be anywhere near what she was.”
“I know,” Erin said, settling herself on the step next to Ciaran. “But I still feel like this is the house I’m supposed to own.”
“Well I think it’s lovely,” Rosie said, nodding her greying head slowly. “Don’t worry, love, we’ll soon have it fixed up for you.”
“Thanks,” Erin said, twirling the engagement ring on her finger slowly and wishing that Rowan−who had also been a builder and had worked with Patrick before … before the accident−could be here to share this house with her.
The weekend passed quickly, and on Monday night after work Erin climbed the stairs carefully and wandered down the wide hallway. Snoopy shuffled ahead of her with his nose pressed to the wooden floorboards. Erin stepped into room that Mr. Moyes had said was once Isabelle’s room, and walked straight to the window. She had contemplated using the huge master bedroom as her own, but this room just seemed more comfortable for her. It almost felt like she was meant to sleep here. Erin ran a hand across the dusty window and pressed her nose to the glass as she peered down to the remains of the fence below. It was raining lightly outside, and she was reluctant to open the window and let the cold southerly wind into the room. So she sidled closer to the window to see the fence better. As her feet knocked against the wooden wall under the window, she froze. One shoe had knocked the wall with a distinct thud. The other shoe had knocked the wall with equal force, but the sound it made was much duller, almost hollow. Erin dropped her eyes to the floor. Was there a cavity in the wall? She tapped the wall gently with the toe of her shoe, running her foot along in a line and listening carefully. There was an anomaly in the wall. She dropped to her knees and tapped at the wall with her knuckles, running a hand along the sadly faded wallpaper. So what if there was a hole in the wall? Someone’s kids riding a bike into the wall could have made it. Her mind flashed immediately to the deep gouges in the doorway of the next bedroom that she had imagined being the results of childrens’ play. Perhaps it was an old mouse hole that had been covered over−she shivered lightly, making a mental note to buy rat-bait tomorrow−or perhaps it was just a rotten patch in the wood. She cast her eyes along the wallpaper again. Why did it matter to her? She didn’t know, but something was there, behind the many layers of wallpaper and scrim and whatever else someone had put onto the wall over the 102 years that this house had stood, and she just had to know what it was.
She began to tear at the wallpaper and was shocked at just how many layers of wallpaper there were. There was a bland blue-coloured top layer, a funky 1970’s geometric patterned layer, two layers with floral patterns, a rigidly striped beige-coloured layer, another pretty floral layer, and the remains of some sort of sacking or scrim that fell to bits as she touched it. And behind all of this there was solid wood. Erin tapped at the wood gently and smiled. Someone had made a hiding hole here, right at the base of the wall where it wouldn’t be noticed. She ran her fingers along a seam in the wall and gently removed a square of wood no bigger than a mobile phone. She turned the wood over in her hand a few times and dropped her face to the floor to peer into the hole it had left in the wall. This was no mouse hole or rat hole. This hole had been carefully made with a snug-fitting cover. Erin hesitantly poked a finger into the hole−wary of rats or spiders or anything else that might be hiding there−and felt cold metal. Intrigued, she grasped the metal object and pulled it quickly from the hole, keeping her face well away from the hole in case anything small and hairy should jump out at her. Erin gasped as she held a large, very shiny gold locket. She dangled the locket in front of her face for a few minutes, looking at it from every angle, and then dropped her face to the floor again to look into the hole. There was something else in there. Erin reached into the hole again and pulled out a small leather pouch that had been folded in half to fit into the small space. She opened the brittle leather pouch carefully and was dismayed to see disintegrated scraps of paper in the bottom of it. What had been on that paper? And why would someone have gone to such trouble to hide it? She looked again at the locket in her other hand. Was the paper something to do with the locket? She would never know.
For the next twenty minutes, Erin sat on the top stair and carefully cleaned the locket. To her astonishment, the polish brought out an inscription on the back of the locket.
To my dearest Isabelle, Wear this over your heart when you sleep, and we will always be together in our dreams.
Erin stared at the inscription again. Isabelle? She turned the locket over and over in her hand and opened it carefully to reveal a faded but still discernible black and white photograph of a very pretty young woman. Could this be Isabelle? She stared at the cracked and faded photograph. Could this locket have been a gift to Isabelle from Flynn? That would explain why it was hidden. She furrowed her brow. Mr. Moyes had said that Flynn was the son of a poor farmer, so how could he possibly have afforded to buy a locket such as this and given it to Isabelle? And why would Isabelle hide it in the wall? Why had no one else discovered it after all these years? And, most importantly, why did it matter so much to her? She ran her thumb over the inscription as the sunlight began to fade, and she felt a cold shiver run down her spine. “Isabelle Luff,” she said softly to the locket, “did you really wear this to bed every night, right over your heart, and dream of Flynn?” She smiled. “I’ll bet you did. And I’ll bet that’s why you hid it in the wall, so the housekeeper wouldn’t find it and show it to your father. I’ll bet he would have taken it off you.” She slid the locket over her head, and it nestled softly on her skin, just above her heart. “You don’t mind me wearing it, do you Isabelle?” she whispered, looking around the room and feeling that shivering feeling again. She smiled. “Perhaps I’ll dream of Rowan when I wear it.” She blinked as visions of Rowan’s face appeared in her mind. “I understand why you did what you did, Isabelle,” she whispered, looking around the room again, “it’s a terrible thing to lose the love of your life before you’ve even had the chance to get married.” She sighed. “I wonder if you ever get over such a thing.”
Some hours later, she snuggled into her bed and clasped the locket tightly. “The furniture’s coming early tomorrow,” she whispered to Snoopy who was curled up beside her on the bed. “So I’ll have to be up early.” She glanced at the clock beside her bed and snuggled further under the blankets, clasping the locket in her hand. If you loved Flynn as much as I loved Rowan, then your dreams would have been wonderful, Isabelle. Just wonderful.
Chapter 4
After what seemed like only a few minutes of sleep, Erin woke to the sound of soft snoring coming from the other side of the room. She moved her foot, feeling for Snoopy’s heavy form on the end of her bed. He wasn’t there. Strange, these sheets feel thick. She moved her hand, rubbing it along the sheet again, and the blankets feel heavy. She moved her foot again, feeling the weight of the blankets, but I’m sure I only put a duvet on the bed. She moved slightly, hearing a rustling from the mattress. The mattress feels hard. She wriggled again. The mattress on her bed was supposed to be inner-sprung and soft. This mattress felt solid, like it was stuffed rather than inner-sprung. She inhaled slightly. And it smelled like … like what? Like nothing she had smelled before, that was for sure. She wrinkled her nose slightly, and why can’t I smell that awful damp smell any more? She inhaled slightly. It almost smells like fresh paint. She inhaled again. And there’s the definite smell of a wood fire. I must be dreaming.
She opened one eye slowly and stared at the wooden ceiling in the dim early morning light. The ceiling was made of the most exquisite polished wood. So where was the garish 1970’s light fitting that had held pride of place in the centre of what was a stained but definitely painted ceiling when she had gone to sleep? Why was Snoopy sleeping across the room? She kept her eyes on the ceiling for a moment, listening to the soft snores. Snoopy snored, sure he did; but he snored the way all dogs snored, loud and proud. These snores were soft and dainty and almost too faint to be called snores at all. Erin turned her head slightly and blinked at the softly sleeping form of a teenage girl in a bed across the room. Okay, so this really is a dream. She looked around the room. There was a small but quite beautiful table with a delightful French porcelain clock on it, a lovely set of wooden drawers with exquisite wrought iron handles, a cloak-stand, a large oval free-standing mirror, a large porcelain bowl and jug on a beautiful dry sink, and a soft velvet chair.
Erin looked carefully at the girl who lay sleeping in the bed across the room. She looked to be in her mid-teens. Her hair had probably been carefully tucked into the lacy cap she wore when she went to bed, but wispy blonde curls now protruded in several places, falling softly across her face. She had a very pretty face, Erin thought. Her nose was pert and almost pointed, her eyebrows framed huge eyes, and she had clearly defined cheekbones covered in flawless creamy skin. Erin touched the locket that hung around her neck−the picture it held looked exactly like this girl.
Erin rolled onto her side to get a better look at the girl, and her eyes fluttered open to reveal the loveliest shade of baby blue.
“I say,” the girl said, blinking at Erin. “This is a surprise! Father had not told me we were expecting guests.” She rose onto one elbow. “But it is a pleasure to meet you, nonetheless.” She glanced to the door as it stood slightly ajar. “I cannot understand why Father would house you in here with me though, when we have a perfectly adequate guest room.”
“Who are you?” Erin whispered, holding the covers to her chin.
The girl smiled. “Why I am Isabelle, of course! Who else would I be?”
“Isabelle?” Erin was surprised as her voice came out as no more than a croak. “But you can’t be.”
“Can I not?” Isabelle said with a slight chuckle. “And why, pray tell, would that be?”
“Because … because, um, never mind. What date is it?”
“What date? Why it is the 28th day of June today.”
“And the year?”
“The year?”
“Mmm. I’ve, um, I’ve forgotten what year it is.”
“Have you had a fall from your horse? I heard once of a person falling from a horse and completely forgetting who they were and where they lived. It really was most extraordinary!”
“Something like that. Now … the year?”
“It is 1910, of course.”
“1910? Are you sure?”
“Of course I am sure. I assure you I have not taken a tumble from a horse and my mind is in perfect working order.”
“So it’s the 28th of June, 1910 today?”
“Indeed, it is.”
“So there’s less than four weeks until the tragedy,” Erin whispered to herself.
Isabelle cocked her head slightly. “Tragedy?”
“Never mind.”
“You really are a most extraordinary person, Miss … er, are you not going to introduce yourself?”
“I’m Erin, Erin Finlay.”
Isabelle raised her eyebrows. “Are you a friend of my father’s, Miss Finlay? Or should I perhaps address you as Mrs. Finlay?”
“You can call me Erin.”
Isabelle shook her head slightly. “Father would be livid if he heard me address a house guest in such a manner.”
“Then don’t call me Erin when he’s around; and, um, don’t tell your father that I slept in this bed either … please.”
Isabelle frowned. “Father does not know of your presence in my room?”
“No. And I would rather not meet him if it’s all the same to you.”
Isabelle shrugged. “He leaves for work soon after dawn and does not return until luncheon, then he leaves again and does not return until dusk, so I suppose you could be concealed from him without undue problem.” She cocked her head again. “Although, now I must admit my curiosity is piqued as to why and how you have appeared in my bedroom.”
“I suppose it would seem a little weird to you,” Erin said. She took a deep breath. “Oh well, since it’s just a dream anyway, then I suppose I might just as well tell you the truth.” She sat up in the bed and drew her knees to her chest, holding the covers to her chin. “You see, it’s not your house; it’s my house. I went to sleep in my room and woke up here.”
Isabelle laughed. It was a soft, dainty laugh; just what you would expect from a well-brought-up young lady. “Oh, a dream is it? And am I a figment of this dream too?”
“Of course, you are.”
Isabelle laughed again and threw back her covers, crossing the room in two bounds and leaping onto Erin’s bed. “Then if you are truly dreaming Erin, you will not mind if I tickle you.” She dug her fingers into the soft flesh of Erin’s side, making her squeal. “Shh!” Isabelle whispered loudly, bringing a finger to her lips. “Father will hear you!”
Erin froze and listened carefully. “I can’t hear a thing. Maybe he’s already gone.”
“Perhaps,” Isabelle said, pulling back Erin’s covers and snuggling into the bed beside her. “I say!” She ran a hand across Erin’s bright pink flannelette pyjamas. “These are the most extraordinary bedclothes I have ever seen! Are they the latest fashion in Paris perhaps?”
“No, they’re just pyjamas.”
“Pyjamas? Is that what they call them? Oh, how very French! Oh, you must send to Paris for a pair of pyjamas for me, Erin. I will be the only one in all of Foxton to own such a thing, I am sure!”
“Oh, I’m sure too. Trust me Isabelle, no one in Foxton will have pyjamas like these, not yet anyway; but they will have them in the future.”
Isabelle nodded. “Indeed. It can take some time for Paris fashions to find their way to our little town.” She thought for a moment. “I have been trying to place your quite peculiar accent, is it, by chance, French? Is that where you have come from? Oh, how very exciting to meet a person from France!”
“I don’t have an accent.”
“Oh, but you do, and it is unlike any I have heard before.”
“Is it?”
“Indeed, it is, but then I have never met anyone from France before. That is where you are from, is it not?”
“I, um—”
There was a light knock at the door.
“Isabelle?” a male voice drifted into the room, “are you conversing with someone?”
“Of course not, Father,” Isabelle said, pulling the covers over Erin’s head quickly, “I was … singing.”
“Ah,” the voice came again, “and you have the voice of an angel, too, my dear. Mr. Harman will be well pleased to hear you have been practising, you know how he loves to hear you sing.”
Isabelle pulled a face. “Yes, Father,” she said to the door.
“Have you given any thought to singing at the wedding, Isabelle? That would be truly delightful, would it not?”
Erin poked her face out of the covers and looked at Isabelle. Wedding? she mouthed, and Isabelle pulled another face.
“I shall give the matter due thought,” Isabelle said to the door.
“Splendid. Once our domestic arrangements have been attended to, I shall instruct our new housekeeper to arrange for Mr. Harman to join us for a meal so that you can regale us both with your dulcet tones.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. So I shall see you at luncheon then?”
“Of course, Father.”
Erin sat very still, listening to the sound of heavy footsteps descending the steps and leaving the house. “Mr. Harman?” she whispered to Isabelle who had climbed out of bed and was splashing her face with water from the bowl.
Isabelle wiped her face dry with a small towel and nodded. “Algenon Harman, my fiancé,” she said, pulling another face. “He gave me this,” she fished inside her thick nightdress and produced a locket, “and Father insists I must wear it.” She opened the locket carefully and held it to face Erin. “I am forever immortalised in photograph.”
Erin glanced at the locket−the same one she was wearing around her own neck−and fastened the top button of her pyjamas quickly. “Did Mr. Harman give you the locket, and you are to marry him?”
Isabelle sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. “Father says it is a perfect union,” she said softly, “and I have tried to imagine spending my life with him, but…” she hung her head, “just how does one make oneself become amenable to the prospect of marriage?”
“So you don’t love him then?”
“Love? What do I know of love? Father does not allow me to mix in any company other than his boring business associates, of which Mr. Harman is one of the most boring.” She covered her mouth quickly. “Oh, you must pardon my dreadful manners! And please, please, do not tell Father I spoke of Mr. Harman or any of his other associates in such a manner.”
Erin shrugged. “I won’t say a word. Just so long as you promise me that if you ever meet a man named Flynn, you won’t go and fall in love with him.”
“Flynn? I know of no one by that name, I assure you, and even if I did I most assuredly would not go falling in love without my father’s consent.”
“Oh, but you will, and it’ll end badly,” Erin said softly.
Isabelle cocked her head slightly. “You really are a most extraordinary person, Erin.”
“I know, you’ve already told me that. The question is, what am I doing here?”
“I seem to recall asking you that exact question this very morning.”
“No. I mean what am I doing in 1910?”
“Are you about to tell me again that you are dreaming and that I am but a figment of this dream?”
“Of course, I am. I’m supposed to be one hundred years in the future, that’s where I’m from!”
“Shh,” Isabelle said quickly, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Do not say such things, Erin. They take people away to the asylum for less!”
Erin thought of the pictures she had seen of turn-of-the-century asylums and swallowed. “I, um, I was joking, of course.”
“Do not jest about such things,” Isabelle said sternly. “The future stretches before us, and it is not for us to know what it holds for us.”
Erin bit her lip. It’s 1910 now, so there’s World War I, the Spanish flu, the Great Depression, World War II and the Nuclear Arms Race to look forward to. She shivered lightly. “Of course, we don’t know what the future holds,” she said softly. “It could be wonderful.”
“And it will be,” Isabelle said. “I just know it.”
Erin forced a smile. “I’m sure it will be.”
The morning stretched on, and Isabelle acted the perfect hostess. She brought a tray of breakfast for Erin to eat in the bedroom and sat with her on the bed as she ate. Erin sipped tea from a dainty china cup and was surprised at how good it tasted. “This tea is lovely,” she said, taking a bite of thin buttered toast smeared with honey that also tasted delicious. “Everything tastes so good.”
“Does it?” Isabelle said, looking surprised. “You are very easily pleased, Erin, for there is nothing special about tea and toast for breakfast.”
Erin swallowed the toast. “Where I come from the tea tastes quite different, and I’ve never tasted such delicious honey. Even the bread tastes lovely.”
Isabelle shrugged. “Cook bakes bread every third day, and the honey comes from the hives of Mr. Willowbank, a dear, sweet gentleman of advanced years who lives not far from here.”
“You have your own cook?”
“Of course, we do. And a cleaning maid and a housekeeper, or I should say we did have a housekeeper, Mrs. Mallory was her name. She received word just yesterday of the death of her sister in Wellington. It seems the poor lady had quite a brood of youngsters who now have no one to care for them.”
“So Mrs. Mallory is going to stay in Wellington to care for her sister’s children?”
“Oh, no. She is quite indispensable here, or so Father says. She has been granted a dispensation to travel to Wellington and see to the continuing care of her nephews and nieces. She is scheduled to return here on the very first day of August to once again see to the running of our household.”
“But if you already have a cook and a maid, what could there possibly be for a housekeeper to do?”
Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “Why there is the oversight of all things domestic. Father does so love to entertain his boring associates here; and then, of course, there is the acquisition of all things pertaining to the running of the household.”
“You mean the grocery shopping? That’s all she does all day?”
“I am not familiar with the term grocery shopping. Is that another of your French colloquialisms? Oh, you really are the most interesting person I have ever met, Erin!”
“You really need to get out more,” Erin muttered as she sipped at her tea. “So who is going to run the household while Mrs. Mallory is away, if she was so indispensable?”
Isabelle flapped a hand to the door. “Father is interviewing a prospective applicant today actually, immediately after luncheon, I believe. Oh, I do hope she is genial. Mrs. Mallory is a fine lady, of course, but she can be somewhat highly strung at times.”
Erin snorted softly, trying hard to remember if Mr. Moyes had mentioned the name of the housekeeper when telling her the story of the tragedy. “So can I,” she said softly, “or at least that’s what Rowan always told me.”
“Who is Rowan?”
“He was my fiancé,” Erin said, feeling that familiar pain in her chest that always came when she thought of Rowan. She touched the engagement ring on her finger softly.
“Oh,” Isabelle glanced at the ring. “I had not noticed your ring.” She bent to peer at the ring. “It is lovely, Erin.”
Erin looked at her ring. It was lovely. A small diamond set in a smooth gold band. Then she glanced at the massive diamond ring adorning Isabelle’s finger. “It was all he could afford,” she said softly, “and I’ll treasure it forever.”
“Where is your fiancé now?” Isabelle asked. “Is he still in France?”
“No,” Erin said softly. “He died not long ago in a car crash.”
“A car crash? Whatever are you talking about, Erin? I have never heard such a term before.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead and that’s all that matters now.”
“Oh, Erin,” Isabelle reached out and hugged Erin lightly, “I am so very sorry for your loss.”
Erin sniffed. “Thank you,” she said softly. “You are very kind.”
“Not at all.”
Isabelle rummaged in a drawer and produced a snowy white handkerchief. She handed the handkerchief to Erin, who accepted it and used it to blow her nose. Erin offered the handkerchief to Isabelle, but Isabelle hesitated and cleared her throat. “Keep it,” she said. “I have plenty more.”
Erin glanced at the handkerchief. It was beautifully embroidered with the initials I and L in an intertwining pattern and had a fine lace border. “Thanks.”
“I shall have new initials in the summer anyway,” Isabelle said with a small sigh, “for I shall be Isabelle Harman.”
“That’s if you live to see the summer,” Erin muttered as she stuffed the handkerchief into the pocket of her pyjamas. She took a deep breath. “Isabelle,” she said firmly, “I must warn you about something. You face a great danger in the coming weeks. Do you know a young man by the name of Flynn O’Leary?”
“No,” Isabelle said, shaking her head. “That is the second time you’ve mentioned the name Flynn, and the name is not familiar to me. Should it be?”
Erin took Isabelle’s hand and stared directly into her eyes. “You must promise me that if you should meet a young man named Flynn that you will resist the urge to fall in love with him.”
“As I have already said, I am not familiar with anyone by that name, Erin, so wherein lies the danger to me?”
“Just promise me.”
“Very well, I promise.”
“And you’ll keep your promise no matter what happens?”
“Of course, I will. A lady’s promise is not lightly given, you know.”
“And you’ll remember that name?”
“Flynn. I shall remember that name forever, Erin. Does that alleviate your distress?”
“Yes. Thank you, Isabelle.”
Isabelle ran her eye over Erin’s pyjamas. “Now we must get you dressed, Erin.” She looked around the room. “Do you not have a bag with your clothes and other essential items in it?”
“Er, no. I didn’t expect to be waking up here.”
“Did you not?”
“No. I told you, I’m dreaming all of this.”
Isabelle laughed. “Oh, Erin you really are most delightful.” She crossed the room in small steps and bent to pull a large leather case from under her bed. “My sister has given me a number of gowns that she is no longer permitted to wear. Some of them are quite lovely, and I am sure they will be an almost perfect match for you in size.”
“Who told her she’s not allowed to wear them?”
Isabelle turned to look at Erin. “Why, her husband, of course.”
“And she lets him tell her what she can and can’t wear?”
“He is her husband, and, of course, he has the authority to command her affairs.”
“Well, I wouldn’t stand for that if I were your sister.”
Isabelle shook her head slowly. “I have no idea how the women in France conduct their affairs, Erin, but it seems to me that you come from a completely different world.”
“It seems that way to me too.”
“Ah,” Isabelle pulled out an exquisitely detailed blue gown and shook it lightly. “This will do splendidly for luncheon.”
“Luncheon? You mean I have to dress for lunch?”
“Why, of course. Father would expect no less.”
“And you think I’m going to sit at the table and eat with him?”
“I am sure you will find him to be agreeable. He is a fine gentleman.”
“He’s a tyrant. He tries to have Flynn sent to prison for a crime he didn’t commit, and he tries to have you sent to a convent.”
“Whatever are you talking about, Erin? My father is a kind and wonderful man who has always treated me well.”
“Well, maybe that’s because you never crossed him before. But believe me, Isabelle, he will ruin your life and Flynn’s too, to the point where neither of you want to live any more.”
Isabelle dropped the gown onto the bed and bunched her fists to her hips. “I will not hear another slanderous word against my father! You are speaking nonsense, Erin, and I have a mind to send for the constable. Clearly you are unwell, perhaps some time in the asylum would be advantageous!”
“No,” Erin said quickly. “I’m fine.”
“You are clearly not fine, Erin.”
“I’m just upset about Rowan dying, that’s all.”
Isabelle shook her head slowly. “Are all French women inclined to such theatrics?”
Erin shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they are.”
Isabelle laughed softly and picked up the gown again. “I am thinking that I will one day make the journey to France myself. If all the people there are as spirited and eccentric as you, then I am sure I will find the experience most exhilarating.”
“I’m not eccentric!”
Isabelle laughed again and shook the gown lightly as she held it to Erin’s shoulders. “Are you not? I beg to differ, but then I suppose that we must seem eccentric to someone who has spent their formative years in such a place as you describe.” She handed the gown to Erin. “I shall find you some petticoats.”
“Petticoats? You mean I need more than one?”
“Of course, you do. And pantaloons and a corset too.”
“A corset? What on earth would I do with a corset?”
“Oh, silly me!” Isabelle said, holding a hand to her mouth and giggling. “I imagine you had personal maids in France to see to such mundane things as dressing. Well, here in Foxton we are not blessed with such extravagance. My sister Mary and I helped one another to dress before she married, and since then Mrs. Mallory has always been here to assist me. Although I suppose we will have to help one another today, Erin, oh this is going to be such fun!”