“What can you tell me about the previous owners?” Hillary asked.
“Miss Esme Whitstone was the last of them. My mother knew her quite well, actually. Here now, here is the file,” she said, placing a box between them. It was labeled Whitstone. Mrs. Browning put her glasses on her nose and opened the box. “I know there were four siblings, three girls and a boy. The boy married an American, which is how you’ve come to have it,” she explained. “Poor Esme never married and lived out her days in the very house in which she was born.” Mrs. Browning picked up a yellowed newspaper clipping. “Ah, that’s it, I recall now,” she said nodding. “This is Esme’s obituary. Her older sister Aurora married a London boy and lived there until her death.”
“What of the other sister?” Hillary asked.
“Oh dear, that would be Agnes.” Mrs. Browning put the yellowed newsprint aside and sifted through the papers, picking up another one. “This is the late Mr. Riggin’s work. He fancied himself the local historian and wrote little papers about all the old houses and esteemed families round here. Agnes is the one who died so young. Only seventeen years, can you imagine it?”
“She died?” Hillary said. “How?”
“Oh, a nasty fall,” Mrs. Browning said, wrinkling her nose. “Broke her neck. Now, depending on what story you choose to believe, she either jumped to her death when her father wouldn’t allow her to marry her beau, or she fell out a window trying to escape. Either way, a tragedy.” She clucked her tongue. “The note the poor girl left for her parents is in the box. It was in Esme’s things when she passed.”
Hillary gaped at Mrs. Browning. “Agnes died at Whitstone House?”
“Indeed she did,” Mrs. Browning said, nodding enthusiastically.
“What…what happened to the boy?”
“Well now, that’s the worst part of it. When he found that Agnes was gone, he took his own life. Very Romeo and Juliet, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Hillary agreed.
“It’s all in here. You are welcome to check out the file if you’d like for a small surety,” Mrs. Browning offered.
“Thank you. I believe I will,” Hillary said.
***
The bed and chairs were delivered at four o’clock as promised, and with the linens and the small area rug Hillary had purchased, the room at the end of the hall was suddenly very cozy. Hillary’s vision of what the house could be was improving. She could imagine a pair of chairs by the hearth, a nice wardrobe as well. She was beginning to see the potential in the resale value of the house. She was beginning to believe that Matthew was right—that with a couple of weeks of hard work, it would be an outstanding property.
She said as much to Matthew over dinner.
He looked at her with surprise. “Wow. That’s a sudden change of heart.”
“Maybe,” she said with a sheepish shrug. “But I’ve had a few days since we left New York to decompress and…and I guess I am starting to see what you see.”
“Really?” he said, grinning now. “I think we can do it. I’ve lined up all the labor we need. If you and I tackle the cleaning and painting, I think in a couple of weeks, we might have a gold mine on our hands. So you’re in?” he asked, lifting his wine glass.
“I’m in,” she agreed, and clinked her glass to his. “Hey, I stopped in at the library today and got some history on the house.” She told him about the Whitstones, as well as some other things she had read in the file about the construction of the house. She showed him some grainy pictures, too, of people standing next to Model-T cars in early twentieth century dress. In those pictures, the house looked really very grand. They looked at an old bill of sale for tallow. And they found the note from Agnes Whitstone. Hillary told him what Mrs. Browning had told her about Agnes’ death.
Matthew read the note again. He shifted uncomfortable.
“What is it?” Hillary asked.
“I don’t know. I just had this strange feeling,” he said, shaking his head, and looked at Hillary. “I know what that feels like, that desperation to be with someone.”
Hillary gazed back at him. She felt a something flow between them—something she had felt in years.
“Look at that,” Matthew said, breaking the spell and pointing at the picture. “They had a butler.”
“I want a butler,” Hillary said dreamily.
“You have one,” Matthew said, and kissed the top of her head as he stood to clear the kitchen table of paper plates and the empty pizza box.