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LILACS AND LACE

by

Lynda Douglas

Beth leaned against the crumbling chimney and peered into a black void. If she hadn’t known the chimney was directly across from the tiny entrance panel, she’d have had no point of reference at all. Like an unwitting animal, she was trapped. Her only hope of escape lay just a few feet away on the other side of the blocked opening. It may as well have been on the other side of the world.

Five days ago Emil McClure handed her the keys to the family home and congratulated her on her good fortune.

What had he said? “I hope you appreciate just how lucky you are, Beth Trahern. Another week and I would have convinced Beatrice to give up her search for an heir. Indeed, a fortuitous turn of events.”

Had it been only five days since she and Ryan took their first look at The Warren House--her house? They stood there staring at it for a long time.

“Ah, Ryan. It isn’t what I expected at all.”

“Disappointed?”

“Are you kidding? It’s so much more than I thought it would be--so big, so grand. I didn’t think it was a hovel, but I wasn’t expecting this.” Beth’s arms spread wide, gesturing toward the large two-story Colonial mansion before them.

Ryan slid his arm over her shoulder. “Well, let’s don’t just stand here. Let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?”

The interior was an antique collector’s dream. A few rooms looked as if they hadn’t changed in a hundred years. Others, the more lived-in, were furnished in 1970s contemporary--old but not special. Beth roamed through the rooms touching, caressing, and admiring everything.

It was nearly dark when Ryan suggested calling it quits for the day. “Okay, my beautiful heiress, time to go. The electricity will be on tomorrow and you can explore to your heart’s content.”

“One last thing. I’d like to take a quick look at the attic. Judging from the pitch of the roof, I’ll bet it’s huge.”

“We’ll be staying here all day tomorrow and tomorrow night. Can’t it wait until then?”

“Just a quick peek, please.”

“The light’s nearly gone, Beth. We won’t be able to see anything.”

“Bring the flashlight,” she said, nearly dragging him up the attic stairs. She pushed the door open. “You’re right. Can’t see a thing.”

Ryan played the beam over the area nearest the stairs. “I don’t see a light switch or lamp anywhere. Might not be any lights up here.” He swung the light overhead. “There’s a nail sticking out of that rafter right up there. Looks like a good place to hang a light. But, that can wait till tomorrow.”

Beth slid her hand into his and followed him out of the attic. “Tomorrow,” she whispered.

* * *

Beth stepped through the low attic doorway, pulling an extension cord and trouble light behind her. Dust motes, like silver-winged fairies, danced in the early morning rays of sunlight streaming through a small octagonal window. Its light fell into insignificance in the vastness of the dark attic room.

Holding the light in her outstretched hand, Beth reached for the nail Ryan discovered in the rafter. Just as she secured the temporary lamp overhead, it flickered out. She pushed the button several times but nothing happened.

“Ah, darn it.” She made her way back through the doorway tugging lightly on the loose, almost weightless cord. Midway down the stairs she found the problem and reconnected the ends of the two extension cords.

Back in the dimly lit attic, hands resting on hips, she surveyed the expansive room. The excited fluttering in her chest calmed into mild apprehension. “Where do I begin?”

An assortment of steamer trunks, wooden crates and discarded furniture, lined every wall, several rows deep. She removed the muslin sheet draped over a tall piece of furniture and sighed with surprised pleasure at a mahogany desk and bookcase with ivory drawer escutcheons. She ran her fingers over the silky smooth surface, marveling at its flawless finish. She was no expert, but this looked like Federal New England furniture, maybe a Seymour or a Thomas Williams.

“What have you found?”

Beth gasped. “God, Ryan, you scared me half to death.”

He moved to her side and dropped a kiss on her dusty cheek. “Looks like you’ve been busy. Either that or you’ve been rolling around up here.” He brushed cobwebs out of her hair.

“It is pretty messy, isn’t it? There are some beautiful things here. Look at this desk. Have you ever seen anything so elegant? I’d say it’s circa 1820 or maybe earlier. I don’t know enough about antiques to be sure.”

“Question is; is it worth anything?”

“Ryan, some things are more valuable than the price you stick on them.”

“Sounds good in theory, Babe, but it isn’t very practical.” He turned slowly, surveying the attic. “There’s probably a small fortune up here, not to mention the house itself.”

Beth stepped away from him. “I thought we agreed last night that I’m not going to sell the house--at least not for a long time. It’ll take years to go through all of this stuff,” she said, sweeping her hand to encompass the attic room. Her eyes betrayed her excitement at the prospect. “And I don’t want some stranger doing it. All they’ll see is its dollar value. It means more than that to me.”

“I don’t see why. You hardly knew your aunt.”

“That wasn’t my fault. I wish I’d had more time with her. She was a fascinating woman. I could have listened to her stories for hours on end. I wanted to know more about her, about my family, and especially about my mysterious namesake, Elisabeth Madison Warren. Did you know they never did find out what happened to her?”

“Come on, Beth. We don’t have time for ghost stories.”

“It’s not a ghost story, but I’ll admit it is a mystery. I can’t help being curious.”

Maybe not a ghost story, exactly, she thought, but it could almost pass for one. Beth’s ancestor had disappeared without a trace nearly a hundred-fifty years before. Over the years, tales of murder and accusations of adulterous misconduct, and even ghost stories had generated two novels and a multitude of speculative articles about Elisabeth Warren.

Beth’s father’s side of the family had moved away from the family home around the turn of the century, and although contact with the Williamsburg Warrens had been lost, Elisabeth had not been entirely forgotten. At least, not as far as the name with its vintage spelling was concerned. Beth’s mother had also been an Elisabeth.

Five months earlier, when near death, Beth’s great aunt sent her attorney, Emil McClure, to find any of the Warren heirs. Until he found Beth in Nashville and brought her to meet Beatrice Warren, Beth hadn’t known there was a connection between the Madisons and the Warrens.

Since their first meeting at the hospice center, Beth and her aunt had been kindred spirits. For the next four months, Beth looked forward to holidays and weekends as much as her students did. She spent them in Virginia listening with rapt attention as her aunt related family history and generations of handed-down stories.

A month before Beatrice Warren’s death, she told Beth she was leaving the entire Warren Estate to her, not because she was the only living heir, but because she was the only rightful heir. Beth questioned her reasoning, but her aunt refused to discuss it further, saying Beth would understand everything at the reading of the will.

She turned her attention back to Ryan. “Please, allow me the time to savor all of this. Even the ghost story, if you choose to call it that.”

“I’m sorry, babe. I’ll try not to push.” He kissed the top of her head and reached for another muslin sheet. “Let’s take a look at what we’ve got here.”

Beth scarcely noticed the large mirror set in a four-inch wide gilded frame. “You go ahead,” she said. “I’m going to start with the these.”

Ryan’s intrusion forgotten for the moment, she raised the lid on one of the trunks. It held several boxes of 78 and 45 rpm records and clothing, mostly from the 1950s and ‘60s.

She held up a pink flared skirt with a white poodle appliquéd at a saucy angle on its front. She twirled around and then crushed it to herself, giggling. Whose had it been? What had her life been like, she wondered, as she carefully refolded the skirt and returned it to the trunk?

She moved to an older looking trunk near the end of the room and began fumbling with the catch. A faint scent of something sweet tickled her nose. She sniffed the air trying to pinpoint the source of the elusive fragrance. “Smell that?” she called to Ryan. “What is it?”

“I don’t smell anything. What are you talking about?”

“It’s... It’s lilacs, I think. Come over here for a minute.”

He left what he was doing and joined her. “I don’t smell anything except dust and more dust.”

“Surely you smell it. Right here. Sniff.”

He sniffed around the trunk, the wall and chimney and then around Beth’s neck which he nipped with feathery kisses. “Smells pretty good over here,” he said from behind her left ear. “It’s your perfume.”

“I’m not wearing perfume, I’ll have you know.” She stifled a giggle. “Stop that. It tickles.”

“Um, there’s perfume and then there’s perfume,” he said.

“Come on, now. Be serious. Don’t you smell it?”

“Nope,” he said as he slid his hands under her blouse. “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s go downstairs and christen this old place right.”

“A little early for bed, don’t ya think?”

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” he said, nuzzling her ear.

* * *

Later, Beth lay staring at the water marks on the ceiling thinking about Miss Bea, as everyone had called her great aunt. Then the same faint but unmistakable fragrance she had noticed in the attic reached her. She turned to Ryan and started to speak but the expression of peace and contentment on his face said he was asleep.

She gingerly slid off the high four-poster bed and reached for her terry cloth robe. Wrapping it around her, she followed the scent from the room and into the hallway, then up the attic stairs. It was stronger now, seeming to drift to her from the cracks around the attic door. She pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. Shimmering moonlight sifted into the blackness from the small window. A chill shook her and she pulled the robe more tightly to her, rubbing her arms. She wasn’t afraid, exactly. It was more a sensation of excitement, she told herself. Nevertheless, her hands shook as she reached for the light overhead.

Its artificial glow seemed to dissipate the scent like a mist in sunlight. Disappointed, she worked her way across the room to the spot where she had first become aware of it. It was very subtle, but it was there. She felt her way along the storage crates and furniture, looking for the source. Finally, near the old chimney on the short wall at the end of the room, the scent grew stronger.

“What the hell. For God’s sake, Beth, what are you doing up here? I thought we were making an early night of it.”

A shriek burst from her throat as she fell backward over a steamer trunk, striking her head. Ryan’s face ebbed in and out of her view like breaking surf.

“Beth! Beth, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, sitting up. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”

“I didn’t sneak. I just walked in. You were so busy doing... What were you doing?”

“Nothing. It isn’t important.”

“I don’t want you coming back up here until I get more lights strung. You could break your neck. Now, let’s get some sleep. I have an early day tomorrow.”

Beth lay next to him wondering why she hadn’t told him about the lilacs. Was it because he hadn’t smelled them earlier? And why hadn't he smelled them, she wondered. Had her subconscious conjured the idea because of something she remembered reading, or from something her aunt had said? No, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t believe that. The scent was real.

Soon, the sound of Ryan’s slow measured breathing lulled her to sleep. It would be her last peaceful night for a long while.

* * *

An inviting aroma--coffee this time--beckoned to Beth from the oversized kitchen. She pushed through the swinging door to find Ryan sitting at the table poring over several sheets of paper.

“Coffee smells wonderful,” she said, heading for the ancient Westinghouse percolator. A white coffee cup, chipped and stained from years of use, sat next to the pot. She was surprised to find the pot was nearly empty. Turning to look at Ryan, she said. “You been up awhile?”

“A while. Why?”

She shook the pot. “Pot’s nearly empty.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

Beth poured the remainder of the hot brew into the cup. “I’ll put on another pot.”

“Not for me. I told you I have a busy day.” He looked at his watch. “Need to be going.” He folded the sheets of paper and stuffed them into his shirt pocket.

“What've you got there?” she asked, reaching toward his pocket.

He caught her hand and squeezed. “Nothing important.”

“Ouch! Ryan, you’re hurting me.”

He relaxed his grip and turned her hand over, palm up. “Sorry, guess I don’t know my own strength.” He kissed the underside of her wrist and then the tip of her nose.

“I really have to get a move on.” He turned away and then back to her, and added, “Stay out of that attic.” Then he was gone.

Beth stared after him. He’d changed. For months now, he had been preoccupied, distracted, or something. She couldn’t put her finger on just what. She pushed the thought from her mind and went upstairs, taking her coffee with her.

She hadn't expected to need more than two changes of clothes because they had planned to take a quick look at the house and then close it up until summer break at the University. They'd have plenty of time then to explore everything and make some decisions.

That had changed when Mr. McClure told her he wanted to do a preliminary inventory of the house. Since Ryan was between construction contracts and she was sure she could get an extension on her leave from the university, she had volunteered to do it herself.

Dressed in jeans and a comfortable school jersey with frayed cuffs, she headed for the kitchen to refill her cup. She had already passed the door leading to the attic stairs before it registered that the door was ajar. She turned back to the door and stepping through it, called out. “Ryan, did you forget something?” When he didn't answer, she moved up a few steps. “Ryan, is that you?” she called again. A warm stirring of air wafted down the silent stairs wrapping her in a heady wave of lilacs.

Ryan’s warning to stay out of the attic niggled at her conscience, but she dismissed it. It might be summer before she’d get another chance to explore the attic alone. After all, there was enough light to do what she wanted to do.

Setting her empty cup out of the way on one of the crates, she followed the scent to the ancient chimney. The aroma, stronger now, hung in the air around a massive grandfather clock. She tried to see behind it, but a large cedar chest and a collection of crates wedged it securely against the wall.

“How can the fragrance be coming from here?” she asked herself aloud, and then jumped in startled surprise at the sound of her own voice echoing around the attic walls.

Determined to see what was behind the clock, she spent more than an hour clearing enough space to move it to one side. A barely audible hiss reached her ears and she leaned toward the wall to listen. Air, heavily laden with the perfume of lilacs, surged across her face. Cracked stucco-like material lay crumbled on the floor exposing the partial outline of a wood panel. She pulled away more of the remaining layer of loose material. The patches of exposed wood were dry and brittle with age. In the poor lighting, she couldn’t even guess how large the panel might be or why it was there.

She needed more light and something to clear away the remaining stucco, but since she didn’t want Ryan to know she had been in the attic, she reluctantly went downstairs to wait for him.

Hours passed before Ryan pushed through the kitchen door, his arms loaded with Kentucky Fried Chicken, a two-liter Coke and a bag from Rally’s Hardware.

“Hi, beautiful.” He put the packages on the table and reached for her. “Miss me?”

“But of course, seeing as how you’ve been gone most of the day.” Her smile betrayed her mock anger.

“Things took longer than I expected.”

“What things?”

He picked up the box of chicken and pushed it toward her. “Peace offering,” he said.

He avoided answering her question, but she let it slide.

Accepting the proffered chicken, she said. “Is this all you did today?”

“Not exactly the only thing.”

“I see you found a hardware store. Does that mean we get lights in the attic today?” She tried to smile.

“Almost, but with this old knob-and-tube wiring, the first thing I’ll have to do is find a place to tie in a new wire. It’ll be dark soon, so I’ll probably have to finish it tomorrow.”

Beth said nothing--just put the dishes and food on the table and sat down.

“You miffed with me?”

A long moment passed before she answered. “Not exactly. Is it my imagination, or are you being evasive? You were gone nearly all day, and from what I see here,” she said, indicating the food and hardware bag, “you don’t have much to show for your time.”

“I didn’t think I had to provide an itinerary. I told you I had some business in town. It took longer than I thought.”

“That’s what I mean. What business?” Her gaze dropped to his empty shirt pocket. “Business concerning the papers you didn’t want me to see this morning? What’s up with you, Ryan?”

“Okay, Beth. Here it is. I did a rough inventory of the house and took it to an antique dealer to get some idea of its value. So shoot me.”

Before she could comment, he held his hands up, palms facing her. “Wait, before you say anything, hear me out. The dealer said some of this furniture is worth thousands. We could use a little cash right about now.”

Beth pushed her plate back, her food untouched. “I told you we’d sell some of it, maybe even soon, but I haven’t even had a chance to see it all. Can’t you wait a few days before you start trying to make deals?”

He sat staring into his lap, shaking his head.

“Don’t go behind my back, Ryan.”

Ryan’s chair turned over as he catapulted himself out of it and slammed the kitchen door behind him.

Confused and hurt, Beth sat for a long time staring after him. Finally, leaving the food untouched she went to bed. Sometime after midnight, she felt him slide in beside her.

“Beth.”

She didn’t respond.

“God, Beth, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be so upset. Out in the open, okay? No more secrets. I promise.”

Secrets, she thought. Didn’t she have her own secrets? Like not telling him that she had been back in the attic--not telling him about the panel she found behind the clock. Were his secrets any worse than hers were?

She turned to face him, pressed her fingertips to his lips, and allowed him to pull her against him.

Sometime later, something awakened her. Something breaking, maybe? She listened, but hearing nothing more, drifted off again. She had no idea how much time had passed, but a scraping sound from above the bed awakened her again.

She pressed her fingers into Ryan's shoulder. “Ryan, listen. I hear something in the attic.”

“What?” He turned his face toward her.

“In the attic. I heard something.”

“It’s just rats. Old houses have lots of rats. Now go back to sleep.” He rolled over, turning away from her.

She didn’t sleep again.

* * *

Exhausted, Beth leaned against the wall while Ryan searched for a place to tie in the attic wiring. He backed out of the narrow passage they found concealed behind the massive armoire in their bedroom.

“I always thought secret passages in old houses were just stories. Lucky for us, you thought of it. The splice-box is there all right, but it’s a long way from where I thought it would be. I’ll have to buy more wire. You want to come with me?”

She hesitated. “How long will it take?”

“Probably an hour or so. No more than two.”

“I think I’ll stay here, look through the other rooms, or better yet, take a nap.”

“Suit yourself, but stay out of the attic.”

“Aren’t you a little paranoid about that attic? The only time I was in any danger up there was when you nearly scared the life out of me.”

“Just the same, it’s dark, and you could get hurt. There’ll be plenty of light soon. Be patient.”

Avoiding his eyes, she nodded agreement.

Beth watched from the bedroom window as he pulled out of the driveway. The soft thick quilts on the bed beckoned to her, and she fell across them with a sigh. She was just dozing when a thought struck her. If there are secret passages down here, could there be a secret passage behind the panel? Then, compelled by a sense of urgency, she snatched a large screwdriver and a hammer from Ryan’s toolbox and headed for the attic.

A length of muslin sheeting lay in a heap across the top two steps. Beth picked it up absently and laid it on a nearby crate. Something crunched under her feet. She picked up a small piece of white crockery, stared at it a moment, dropped it on top of the crate and turned toward the old chimney at the far end of the house.

She wedged herself into the small space behind the clock and set to work on the panel. Finally, it pulled free. Ducking as low as she could, she strained to see what lay behind the opening.

A door slammed downstairs making her heart thud painfully against her ribs. Too soon! He’s back too soon.

On tiptoes, she hurried to the stairs and listened.

“Beth, where are you?”

He’s still on the first floor, she thought. She hurried down to the second floor, shot down the hall and into their bedroom. She quietly closed the door behind her and dropped the tools into the box. Then, forcing herself to breathe normally, she snatched a book on antiques from the lowboy chest and sat on the stool in front of a wingback chair.

“Beth?” Ryan burst into the bedroom. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

“Sorry. Guess I was lost in my reading.” She didn’t like lying to Ryan, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit she had been in the attic.

“Get the extra wire?”

“Sure, no problem. Shall we get started?”

She went through the motions of helping Ryan with the wiring, but the significance of the opening dominated her thinking, and she had to force herself not to look in that direction. Ryan broke into her thoughts.

“One more to go.” He maneuvered the ladder closer to the old chimney. Beth stood between the ladder and the opening holding her breath while he stapled the wiring and the last ceramic light socket into place overhead.

“That should do it,” he said as he screwed in the last bulb. He carried the ladder across the room to the stairs and reached for the light switch. “Let there be light.”

“Great. Now do I have your blessing to work in the attic, Sir?”

“Permission granted,” he said, laughing. “You’ll have to work alone for a while though, I gotta see a man about a dog.”

“I thought you didn’t know anybody here.”

“I don’t, really. It’s a surprise.”

“What surprise?”

“If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise, will it?” He looked away. “I’ll tell you when I get back.”

Beth followed him downstairs and out to the front porch. She watched as he tested the strength of the chains secured to a hanging swing. Satisfied, he eased her into it.

“I have a great idea,” he said. “Let’s go out for supper when I get back. Some place special. I’ll only be gone a couple of hours. What do you say?”

She couldn’t resist his boyish enthusiasm. “It’s a date.”

“Fantastic. You won’t be disappointed.” He kissed her hair and skipped down the steps.

The attic forgotten for the moment, she sat there quietly swinging until a fresh wave of lilac scented air drifted to her through the open door.

Although the attic was flooded with light, she still couldn’t see beyond the opening. She plugged in the trouble light, and, pushing it in front of her through the opening, she got her first glimpse into the six-by-eight-foot room.

On hands and knees, she crawled inside. A single trunk rested against the far wall, and a four-foot square Persian style rug lay centered in front of it. A footstool upholstered in a tapestry fabric depicting a foxhunting scene stood against the wall to the right of the trunk. A hurricane lamp sat next to the stool, its chimney resting on the floor beside it.

It was as if time stood still here. The atmosphere in the small space gave Beth the sensation of having entered a room someone had just stepped out of rather than a sense of desertion.

Beth slowly raised the lid of the trunk. Lilac scent wafted on the disturbed air and caressed her face. Tiny sachet pillows filled with crushed lilac petals had been tucked into the compartments of a removable tray.

The tray's six compartments held an assortment of combs, hair ribbons and a stack of fine muslin handkerchiefs edged with tatted lace. Beth picked up one of the handkerchiefs and fingered the beautifully embroidered initials on one corner.

“EMW--Elisabeth Madison Warren,” she whispered, her heart racing with excitement.

Almost reverently, she replaced the handkerchief. As she lifted out a white chemise and lace-edged pantalets, several more petal-filled pillows tumbled out onto the rug.

Near the bottom of the trunk, a black box inlaid with ivory, jade and mother-of-pearl lay on top of a thick bundle wrapped in muslin. She lifted the box and carefully raised the lid. It held a book, a journal, its pages edged in gold leaf. An inkwell, its ink long since dried up, and a quill pen were tucked inside the box. The end of an embroidered ribbon fluttered between the pages of the journal as Beth opened it. Delicate stitches forming the name “Elisabeth” had been skillfully worked into a field of tiny flowers. “What were you like? Will I every know why you went away?”

The ribbon marked the last entry in the journal. The handwriting was elegant with the flowing style of the era. Beginning at the top of the page, Beth read:

April 23, 1848

I fear I shan’t be able to put him off further. He requires an answer tonight. Should I refuse to sign the trust into his hand, he will be enraged to violence, for in no way, aside from my signing it, could Edgar legally acquire my holdings. My dear father had arranged it so. I would care not what my fate holds, except for the sake of my precious child. I leave this journal, in this, my place of solitude and respite, as a testimony against a man whose once gentle nature has been poisoned by the enticement of riches.

Beth’s heart sank as she closed the journal. “Poor woman,” she said with a sigh, then laid the journal aside and reached into the trunk.

An elegant floor-length, pale blue dress unfurled from its wrappings. Beth held it up to her body. Where the voluminous skirt was gathered and attached at the waist, a row of pearls covered the stitches. It had an off-the-shoulder neckline and short puffed sleeves.

As Beth brushed her hands over the wrinkles in the skirt of the lovely ball gown, a sad sureness crept into her heart. She carefully replaced the items in the trunk leaving the journal for last, telling herself she would read more from the journal later.

Not ready to share this find with Ryan, she pushed a small crate between the clock and the wall to conceal the opening from easy view.

Only minutes after she moved away from the wall, she heard Ryan coming up the attic stairs. She busied herself with an open crate.

“Busy?”

She looked up at him and was surprised to see he was grinning at her, his eyes bright with excitement.

“You look like the proverbial cat who swallowed the canary. What’s up?”

He took her hand and pulled her along behind him as he made for the stairs. “Come see. It’s your surprise.” At the bottom of the stairs on the first floor he said, “Close your eyes. I’ll lead you the rest of the way.”

Laughing softly, Beth obeyed.

After they had moved through an arch way and into another room, Ryan said, “Now you can look.”

She blinked, focusing on an elaborate fireplace mantel. They were in the parlor at the front of the house. Her gaze drifted upward to a portrait in a wide gilt frame hanging over the mantle: a portrait of herself--no, not of herself--of someone so like her. The auburn hair, the light sprinkling of freckles and the green, almond-shaped eyes seemed to reach out of the frame to touch her. Fear so real that Beth could taste it made her shudder and her hand flew to her mouth as her breath caught in her throat.

“May I present Elisabeth Madison Warren?”

When she finally spoke, the only thing that came out was, “How? Where? How do you know it’s...?” She was dizzy suddenly and rocked back on her heels.

Ryan grabbed at her elbow and helped her to the chair beside the hearth. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I didn’t think...I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am. I am, truly. It’s just such a surprise, a shock. Where did you find it? How do you know it’s her?”

“I found the portrait in the attic. It was rolled up in oil cloth and her name was written on the back along with a date.”

“Date?”

“Yes, January 1848. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw the resemblance.”

He was still talking, but Beth heard only the echo of words from the journal. The portrait had been painted only a few months before Elisabeth Warren’s mysterious disappearance. She forced her gaze back to the portrait and only then did she notice a child of about three years standing beside and a little behind the wide skirts of the woman.

“The child?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. Her name was Anna. I found out from a lady at the library that two years after Elisabeth Warren’s disappearance, when Elisabeth would have turned twenty-five, the trust set up by her father, Charles Madison, would have come into her hands. As it was, it went to her only child. Of course, being a mere child and a girl child at that, her father probably took complete control of her money.”

“Of course,” she said. “That was the whole idea.”

“What idea?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter now.” She sighed. “Did I tell you that the estate was called Madison Glen until after Elisabeth’s disappearance? Aunt Bea said when Edgar Warren remarried he changed it, in effect, erasing the Madisons. To add insult to injury, when he died, he left everything to his son by his second wife. In protest, Elisabeth’s daughter took her mother’s maiden name and moved out with nothing more than a small dowry specifically set aside for her by her mother.”

Ryan shook his head and clicked his tongue in disgust. “Women’s rights sure have come a long way since then.”

“You say the portrait was rolled up in oil cloth. Where did you get the frame? It’s familiar somehow.”

When he didn’t answer immediately, she turned to look at him. He was staring at his hands. He looked up and saw her watching him. He must have seen something in her eyes. He said, “Don’t look at me like that. It isn’t like I stole it or something. I just sold the mirror that was in the frame so I could have the portrait mounted in it.”

The vague recollection of the framed mirror in the attic shifted through her memory.

“That frame is teak and gold plate. If I wanted to steal something, I would have sold the mirror and the frame. The mirror wasn’t important anyway. I just wanted....”

Beth held her hand up, and he stopped speaking. “It’s okay, Ryan. I understand you wanted to surprise me. What bothers me is you know how I feel about disposing of anything before I’ve--before we’ve had a chance to look at everything.”

He walked to the window then and stood staring out into the near darkness for a long time. Finally, he said, “For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. Isn’t that what we said when we promised to share our lives? Didn’t that include material things? We had nothing when we married, now we have--no, you have--all of this.” He swung away from the window and swept first his left arm out in a circle and then his right, indicating the house in its entirety. “Have I no say in any of this?”

Beth’s ears rang with the words from the journal. “ I leave this journal as a testimony against a man whose once gentle nature has been poisoned by the enticement of riches.” She put her hands over her ears and shook her head as if to dislodge the unthinkable. “Stop. Stop. It’s not like that. I love you and what’s mine is yours. I just wanted to savor it, touch it, dream of it for a little while. Is that so much to ask?” She began to cry.

He knelt before her. “Ah, Beth.” He took her hands in his and pressed his face into her hair. “I love you. I’d never intentionally do anything to hurt you. I swear it, Beth.”

They sat in maudlin silence for a long time under the sightless gaze of Elisabeth and Anna Warren.

Beth made the first move toward reconciliation by taking Ryan’s hand and leading him upstairs to their bedroom. After their love making, Ryan slept cradled in her arms like a child.

A fiery pain burned in her heart. Questions without answers assaulted her. How could he betray her this way? How could he believe that using part of the money to frame the portrait would justify that betrayal? Had he taken other things? He couldn’t have taken the frame out of the house without her knowing, could he? With crystal clarity, the answer came. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to remember the nighttime crash from the attic, the broken crockery, the muslin sheets on the attic steps, and Ryan’s assertion that there were rats in the attic. Had he let someone in the house last night before he slipped into bed with her? She knew it with all her broken heart.

Haunting dreams robbed her of rest--dreams of Elisabeth and Edgar Warren, dreams of betrayal.

A rasping buzz jerked Beth from fitful sleep. It took several seconds for her to recognize the source--the ancient doorbell at the parlor entrance to the house.

Ryan was already up and would probably answer the door. Still, she slipped on her robe and started downstairs. Part way down she heard Ryan speaking in subdued tones. “I told you not to come here. What if my wife had answered the door?”

She heard only a mumbled response, followed by Ryan’s now raised voice. “I will, damn it, but you have to give me more time.”

Beth stretched out as far as she could over the stair railing trying to get a look at the visitor. The railing screeched in protest against her weight, and in the same instant, the voices fell silent. She stepped back out of sight, holding her breath. The front door closed, and Beth sprinted up the stairs just as Ryan called out, “Beth? Is that you, Beth? What are you doing?”

Was there something threatening in Ryan’s tone? There was, Beth decided. It was evident as he spoke to whoever was at the door and again when he called up to her. I’m being paranoid, she told herself. All the same, she stepped into the bathroom and worked furiously to get toothpaste on her brush and in her mouth.

When Ryan opened the bathroom door, she forced herself to smile through the cloud of minty bubbles on her lips.

He stood rigidly in the doorway. “How long have you been up?”

She held up her index finger to make him wait. She rinsed out her mouth and then the sink. Taking the towel from the towel bar, she said, “Not long. Did I hear the doorbell?”

At first, he only stood watching her, then said, “Somebody asking directions.” His face softened then and he leaned against the doorframe. “Your hair looks like a family of mice slept in it.”

She looked in the mirror and laughed at her reflection. Her auburn curls did indeed resemble a rat’s nest. Anxiety ebbed away from her under his boyish gaze.

“How about we go back to bed?” he said, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb.

“I’d like nothing better, but don’t you think we need to get busy with this inventory?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

By ten o’clock, they were finishing up the downstairs rooms. Beth’s surprise at the number of items on the list was second only to Ryan’s dismay over the commonness of most of it.

“Most of this stuff is just junk, reproductions. And all that glassware; why would anybody keep all those odd pieces?”

“But some of it is so beautiful and so old. Maybe its value is only sentimental, but you never can tell. Why don’t we just put it on the list for now.”

“Maybe we could learn something about this stuff at the library. Why don’t I go downtown and see what I can find out. I need a break anyhow.”

Beth started to protest, to remind him of their time constraints, but she decided against it. “Okay. I have plenty to keep me busy. You go ahead. I’ll probably start on the upstairs inventory while you’re gone.”

However, she didn’t start on the inventory. Like a magnet, Elisabeth Warren’s journal drew her back to that tiny room.