We were that couple. Madly in love, financially stable, and ready to embark on the “children and a white picket fence” stage of our nauseatingly perfect lives.
Then came Michael’s diagnosis.
Canada has a wonderful health system, but that didn’t keep me from spending our new home down payment on experimental treatments. I knew they were a waste of money. I didn’t care. I couldn’t live my life without knowing I’d done everything I could to save his.
By thirty, I was a widow. A broke widow, barely clinging to her job because she’d spent every spare minute with her dying husband.
After that, my life paused. Or, more accurately, I paused. I stood at the tracks, watching the train whip past. At first, I didn’t care. When I finally did, I couldn’t figure out what to do about it. My dreams and my future and part of my soul died with Michael, but now, deep inside, a voice has begun to scream that I’m letting the best years of my life slip past.
I’m sure someone like Del would laugh at me. At thirty-eight, I’m as much a kid to him as Ronnie is to me. Yet when I look in the mirror and see the first deepening lines, the first strands of silver, I imagine a wrinkled face and gray hair and a woman who has not taken a single step forward since her husband died half a lifetime ago.
This may explain why I don’t run screaming from Thorne Manor after my ghostly encounter. Granted, I’m not the sort who’d do that anyway, which isn’t an excess of courage so much as an excess of self-consciousness and ego. I’ve been in that place before, the distraught fifteen-year-old ranting about ghosts only to be told it was my brain rebelling against me. That had been humiliating beyond measure. So I’d never run and pound on Del’s door at midnight, sobbing about ghostly figures in black.
Come morning, however, I could have calmly decided I no longer wished to stay at Thorne Manor. Too isolated. Too many memories. I’d sell it and let someone else return the old dame to her former glory.
Instead, I tell Ronnie I’d like the car fixed if that’s possible with my budget. Once I’d crawled from under the debt of Michael’s treatments, my mother borrowed money from me for her own hospice care, insisting it’d be covered by my inheritance. The only thing I inherited was her collection of pointe shoes. So I can afford to spend no more fixing the car than I would renting a vehicle for the summer.
I also invest a hundred pounds in drapery material, paint stripper and varnish. Which means I’m staying for the summer. This is my house, the only one I’ve ever owned, possibly the only one I ever will. Along with the adopted cat, it’s forward motion. Another milestone to be ticked off the long-neglected List.
It’s not just a home, either, but a summer home abroad. It makes me feel as if I’ve drawn a special card in the board game of life, fast-forwarding me to where I could have been if Michael lived. I might not have the husband or kids or suburban home, but I have a summer house in England, as an overachieving middle-aged professional should.
Thorne Manor is a start. A huge one for me, terrifying in its way. Like watching that passing train, realizing it’s not going to stop for me, and taking a running leap onto it. I am taking that leap, starting with renovating the house. First, though, I’m having a guest over for afternoon tea.
6
Del brings Freya by at exactly four. Ronnie’s younger brother, Archie, drove them. He waves as I step outside but stays in the car while Del helps his wife to her walker. The moment I see Freya, I recognize her. She’s smaller than I remember her, my mind’s eye being that of a child. She’s a good six inches shorter than me, plump and pretty, with the kind of smile that makes you smile in return.
I hurry to help them, but Del only hands me a basket with “More scones, apparently. And pastries. And sourdough bread. And choccy biscuits. At least you won’t starve.”
Freya embraces me in a cloud of sweet sage and browned butter as the car backs out with a friendly honk. “He’s just grumbling because I’m baking more for you than I do for him.” She turns to Del. “You, my dear, are supposed to be retired. You have plenty of time to bake for yourself. Miss Bronwyn is a university professor on sabbatical, which means she has a paper to write.” She glances at me. “Yes?”
“Allegedly, though my real work this summer is fixing up the house and relaxing.”
“Not doing much of the latter, I’ll bet.” She pats my arm. “You will, once you’re settled, and I’ll keep sending you scones and biscuits and bringing them up when I have the excuse.”
“That’s her real goal,” Del says. “Forget this nonsense about giving you time to do your paper. She’s angling for visits to her favorite house. Seeing if the ghosts will finally spark her gran’s second sight.”
I give a start at that, but they don’t notice.
Freya chuckles. “I don’t want the Sight, but I’ll take the visits. I do love this marvelous house. Now, get on with you, old man. You have work to do on that car. Give the lass back her mobility.”
Del stays until she’s in the house, and then tromps out to do whatever first aid Ronnie prescribed for my car.
Freya and I chat as I bring out tea, and I relax, partly because I realize I won’t need my rusty dialect deciphering skills. I suppose that has something to do with Freya being a former teacher—if she uses the dialect at home, she code-switches with me.
When we’re settled, Freya glances toward the door and then says, her voice lower, “Thank you, dear. For being understanding with him.”
“Of course. Like I told Del, I’m a university prof. For a lot of young people, college is the one place they feel comfortable being themselves.” I start to pour tea. “I suppose it’s not easy being here. I know kids from rural areas have a much tougher time of it.”
“Actually, we’re blessed that way, and it’s one reason Del decided to retire in High Thornesbury. He says it was because he met me”—her gray eyes twinkle—“but really, he found a place where he’s comfortable. Our village has always had a soft spot for outsiders. They have the Thornes to thank for that. Hard for a town to be judgmental when its most esteemed family had its share of eccentrics. Let’s just say it isn’t the first time this house has seen someone like Del.”
I smile. “I have heard the Thornes were an unusual lot.”
“They were, indeed. Whatever their eccentricities, though, they were kind, and they were generous, and it had an impact on those around them. I’m no monarchist—and I despise the lingering class system—but the Thornes led by example, and the village is the better for it. Plus, they left a lot of stories. Strange and wonderful stories.”
She watches me, expectant. Yet what flies to the tip of my tongue isn’t a laughing request for a fun tale, but a very specific one.
Do you know the history well? Was there a Lord Thorne named William? Silly question—I’m sure there was when it’s such a common name. But was there one named William with a sister named Cordelia?
Even if Freya doesn’t know, I could look this up online. There’s a reason I haven’t done that. A simple reason. Fear.
Fear of what, exactly?