by Paula Gail Benson
Pressing the buzzer on the entrance’s stone column caused the towering wrought iron gates to open sedately. As Miles Henshaw drove onto the estate, his new wife, Clare, and Clare’s ten-year-old daughter Dorrie watched in silence as they passed the clean, well-tended, seemingly endless lawn. When the mansion came into view, Miles stopped, allowing them to take in the enormity of the structure.
The stillness was interrupted by a
gnarled fist rapping against the driver’s window. When Miles opened it, an
elderly, humped-back man wearing a dark work uniform asked if he could be of
service.
“No, thank you,” Clare answered.
“We’re expected.”
They parked the car in the drive beside
the mansion and stood before the massive exterior entrance doorway. Clare
simply swooned.
“It’s impressive, isn’t it?” Her
voice purred as she squeezed Miles’ hand. Turning back to Dorrie, who carried a
packed duffle, she said, “Darling, you must try to make a good impression. Aunt
Astrid never really fancied me, but if she took to you, she might leave you everything.
She has no one else.”
Miles nodded as he turned about
taking it all in. “Not to mention, what a great place this is for you to spend
school holidays when your mother and I are out of the country.”
Dorrie assumed from the eagerness
with which the lovebirds planned their Christmastime delayed honeymoon, their
trips outside the country could be quite frequent. Of course, having a place to
deposit the bride’s daughter during school breaks would be advantageous.
The great door opened. A tall
blonde woman, past middle age, but still youthful in appearance, greeted them.
“Serenity Walcott!” Clare exclaimed. “You
simply never age, do you?”
“Only in unexpected ways,” Serenity
replied with a smile. “Please come in. Your aunt is waiting for you. Mr.
Henshaw, she’s especially looking forward to meeting you.”
The newlyweds exchanged a glance.
“And I her,” Miles said.
Serenity took a moment to observe
Dorrie. “Miss Pandora Whittaker, it’s been too long since last I saw you.”
“Oh, we’ve simplified things a lot
these days,” Clare said. “She’s just Dorrie and I’m Clare instead of Clarissa.”
Serenity looked skeptical, but
spoke as if in agreement. “Very sensible, considering modern technology,
particularly with the limited characters on Twitter responses.”
Henshaw laughed. “Seems
anachronistic to be talking about modern social media in this ancient edifice,”
he observed.
Serenity gave him a discerning
look. “You might be surprised how often discussions of technical advances have taken
place in this house. Some family members were quite enamored with the sciences.”
Extending her arm toward the hall,
Serenity ushered them inside before closing the door. Then, she took them
through a series of front rooms adorned with heavy curtains and furniture
upholstered in velvets and tapestries. Above a massive mantelpiece hung a
life-sized portrait of twin girls, likely in their early twenties. One stood straight
and tall, peering out with piercing eyes. The other sat, misty-eyed, with a
dreamy expression. They wore identical flowing pastel dresses and posed at the
edge of a garden bursting in blooms. An ancient wooden fence rose just behind
the flowers. One of the fence boards seemed to contain writing or drawing. It
was difficult to see clearly.
Dorrie stopped, transfixed by the
painting. Her mother and stepfather moved forward toward the back of the house.
Serenity remained at the connecting doorway, watching Dorrie’s face.
“Hurry, darling,” Clare called.
Serenity walked over and placed her
arm around Dorrie’s shoulders. “After you meet your aunt, you’ll have to tell
me which twin she is.”
“Aunt Astrid has a twin?”
“She did. Miss Ingrid passed away
many years ago. Not long after that painting was completed.” Serenity stared up
at the portrait. “Her death changed your aunt’s life dramatically.”
They walked into a large room with a wall of
windows. Through the sheer drapery panels, hazy shapes of a portico and bushes were
visible. In the center of the room, a white haired woman sat on a wheelchair,
her right elbow perched on the arm support so her hand could cup her chin. She
gazed toward the shrouded grounds as if not really caring about the view.
“Auntie, how glorious to see you,”
Clare cried out, clutching her husband’s hand tightly. She stopped a few feet
in front of Aunt Astrid.
Lifting her head, Aunt Astrid gazed
at the group assembled before her. She sighed. “I presume this is your spouse?”
“Indeed it is!” Clare smiled and grasped her
husband’s hand more tightly. “Aunt Astrid, this is Miles Henshaw. Miles,
darling, this is my aunt, Astrid Eagerton.”
“Such a pleasure, madam.” Miles
made a step in Aunt Astrid’s direction, but Clare pulled him back beside her.
Aunt Astrid’s lower lip bulged
forward. “I would have come to your wedding if I had been invited.”
“I know, Auntie,” Clare chattered.
“The elopement was very romantic for us, but completely dissatisfying for
family and friends. We mean to make amends by having a huge party in the new
year. We promise that you’ll be the guest of honor.”
“How perfectly ridiculous to honor
an elderly spinster at a wedding reception. I suppose you suggest it because
you want me to host it here.”
The response genuinely stunned
Clare, and confirmed that Aunt Astrid had never really fancied her. “Of course,
we would have no right to expect such an extravagance,” Clare said.
“You seem confident enough to leave
your daughter here for the holiday while you head off to tropical locales.”
This time, Miles took his step
forward. “Please know how grateful we are for your generous hospitality. If you
would be willing to have our reception here, I would certainly pay all expenses
as well as a rental fee.”
Aunt Astrid took a moment to look
him over before dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “This home is not a rentable
event venue, but I gladly open it to family celebrations. We can discuss
details later. I’m sure you’re anxious to begin your journey.”
Clare moved to tentatively kiss her
aunt’s cheek. “Thank you so much. May you have the best ever of holidays!”
“It will be what it is,” Aunt
Astrid replied.
Miles bowed. “Delighted to meet
you, Miss Eagerton.” He gently cuffed Dorrie on the shoulder. “Take care, young
scamp!”
“My sweet darling.” Clare pulled
Dorrie close in an embrace. “We will miss you dreadfully, but how we shall
celebrate when we are all together again.”
As Serenity escorted the couple out,
Dorrie found herself alone with her aunt, who took the time to examine her from
head to toe.
Finally, Aunt Astrid spoke.
“Pandora seems a bit pretentious. What do they call you at school?”
“Dorrie.”
“Like that fish in the cartoon?”
“Yes. Except spelled with two ‘r’s’
and an ‘ie’ instead of a single ‘r’ and ‘y.’”
Aunt Astrid shook her head. “A poor
choice.”
Dorrie traced a pattern in the
carpet with the toe of her shoe. “I suppose it’s preferable to ‘Panda’ or
‘Ora,’ although there’s nothing wrong with either of those.”
“Huh.” Aunt Astrid rolled her eyes.
“Your father was a fanciful sort, but I rather admired his desire for you to
have a classical name. I doubt he’d approve of having it shortened. I shall
take the matter under advisement and let you know when I determine how to
address you.”
“May I call you Aunt Astrid?”
The question seemed to please her.
“Yes, thank you. I can think of no alternative.” When Serenity reappeared at
the doorway, Aunt Astrid turned to her. “Please escort the child to her room.
Whichever one you think appropriate, just not the one we discussed.”
Serenity led the way back through
the rooms they had passed. Dorrie took a moment to look again at the portrait.
She wasn’t sure which twin was Astrid and which Ingrid.
As they went up the broad
staircase, Dorrie asked, “What room did Aunt Astrid not want me to stay in?”
Serenity gazed back, then continued
climbing. “Don’t take any offense. Miss Astrid doesn’t like for anyone to go
into the rooms she shared with Miss Ingrid when they were young. She barely
lets us keep them dusted.”
“Why?”
“That’s a good question. Miss Astrid
used to go there often herself, until her arthritis left her dependent upon the
wheelchair and restricted to the first floor. I believe she hoped to find a
message from her sister in their childhood suite.”
“What kind of message?”
Serenity stopped at a door. “You
should be very comfortable here. Let me help you get your things put away.”
With its mahogany canopy bed and
writing desk, the room seemed a very dreary, adult place to Dorrie. They
unpacked her bag, and Serenity showed her the connecting bathroom where fresh
towels awaited.
“Now, is there anything else I can
do for you?” Serenity asked.
Dorrie was about to ask for more
information about the twins when a bell rang.
“Please excuse me. I need to check
with your aunt. Dinner will be at six o’clock sharp. Come downstairs a little
before that time and I’ll take you to the dining room.”
Serenity hurried off. Dorrie looked
around the room. No reading matter or television. Dorrie didn’t feel like
spending the time on her tablet.
Exiting, she made her way along the
upstairs hallway, passing by portraits of stern looking ancestors and closed
doors. As she neared the end of the hall, and was ready to turn around, she
heard the soft tinny notes of an old-fashioned song, “My Wild Irish Rose.”
Listening closely, Dorrie located
the room with the music and opened the door. For a moment, she felt blinded by
the sunlight. When she could focus, she saw white furniture groupings and white
bookcases lining the walls. In the center, twin desks and chairs faced the
windows. A tall woman--her hair cut short in a bob; her dress long and
straight, ending just below her knee; and her skinny legs in dark stockings
crossed and propped across one desk--sat holding a music box.
She glanced in Dorrie’s direction.
“Took you long enough.”
Dorrie had become fascinated by the
image on the top of the music box--a painting of a sweet, cherub-like face
ringed by curls and wearing a morning glory blossom upside down on its head,
like a pointed hat. She turned her attention to the woman. “I beg your pardon?”
“You might well do so, since you’ve
taken so much time to get here.”
Dorrie didn’t understand why she
was being criticized. “I just arrived.”
“You’ve been well on your way to
this spot since you saw the portrait. Hearing that you shouldn’t be in one room
of the house piqued your curiosity to find the forbidden place.”
Dorrie had to concede that was
true. “Have you been waiting for me?”
“Of course not.” The woman swung
her legs off the desk, closed the music box, and put it down. “You’ve been
conjuring me up. I’m a figment of your imagination.”
Dorrie hadn’t conversed with an
imaginary figment before. “You look very real to me.”
Standing, the woman shrugged her
shoulders and took a few steps toward the windows. “I would expect nothing less
from your imagination.”
“Thank you,” Dorrie said. “Could
you tell me who you are?”
“Ingrid, of course.”
Dorrie took a closer look. “Yes, I
see a resemblance to the portrait.”
“But, to which twin?”
Dorrie examined her critically. Ingrid
seemed sharp and direct, like the twin with the piercing gaze. But, somehow,
Dorrie couldn’t imagine Aunt Astrid as dewy eyed and dreamy.
“I’m not sure. Both, I suppose.”
“Many people confused us, mostly
because they didn’t know us and took no time to learn about us. They’d say, ‘Those
are the Eagerton twins.’ Never, ‘that’s Astrid, whose drawings capture the
essence of their subjects, or that’s Ingrid, who’s brilliant at the sciences.’ Only
Wilton Smythe looked deeper.”
“Who’s Wilton Smythe?”
“The portrait painter, of course.”
Ingrid sighed dramatically, crisscrossing her arms around her waist. “Astrid
always suspected that he loved me instead of her.”
“Did he?”
Ingrid turned to face her. “Why are
you asking me questions for which you don’t have the answers?”
“You’ve already provided
information I didn’t know.”
Ingrid shook her head. “You’re
mistaken.”
Dorrie remained resolute. “I didn’t
know Wilton Smythe’s name until you told me.”
Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Then you
must have seen his signature on the portrait.”
“But, I didn’t,” Dorrie insisted.
“I was looking at the faces.”
Ingrid stamped a foot. “Well, Wilton’s
always skulking around pretending to look after the landscaping so he can be
near Astrid. He’ll never quit hoping that she’ll forgive him for helping me.”
Dorrie thought back to the man they
met after coming through the gate. “We did see someone on the lawn.”
“Bent over and wearing a black jump
suit?” When Dorrie nodded, Ingrid continued, “That’s him. You must have seen
his name stitched on a pocket.”
Dorrie shook her head. “No, I
didn’t. Look, why are you purposely trying to hide your identity?”
Ingrid tilted her head and
scrunched her eyebrows. “How dare you accuse me, and what on earth do you
mean?”
Dorrie gave her a quick nod. “On
earth exactly. Since Ingrid is deceased, you can’t be here, except as a ghost.
That’s what I believe you are--a ghost, not something I’ve made up.”
Ingrid threw her head back,
laughed, and flopped back into the desk chair. “You are fanciful. Just like
your father.”
“You couldn’t have known my father.”
“But, you did.” Ingrid propped her
legs back across the desk. “Which is why my contention, that I’m a figment of
your imagination, is more probable than me being a ghost. What you’ve made up
about me is based more on your own creative speculations than any facts. Besides,
as a student of science, I know ghosts aren’t real.”
Remembering her own scientific
studies, Dorrie recognized something false about that statement. “How do you
know ghosts aren’t real? Can you prove it?”
Ingrid stared at her coolly. “I
don’t have to prove nonexistence when there is no credible evidence of a being
in reality. Ghosts are the stuff of legends and belief systems. They have been
used by charlatans to manipulate, storytellers to entertain, and . . .,” she
paused, maintaining eye contact, “by children to analyze situations they don’t
understand. That is why you have conceived me.”
As Dorrie formulated a response,
she heard Serenity’s voice calling to her from below. “Please wash your hands
and come downstairs, dear. Your aunt has decided to have dinner early.”
Ingrid stretched out her arms and
legs. “By all means answer the call. No doubt your mind can summon me up at a
later time, if you’re still interested.”
Dorrie headed to the door, looking
back to see if Ingrid had levitated from her position across the desk. No one
was there, which convinced Dorrie all the more that Ingrid was a ghost.
“If I had imagined you, then I
would have made you polite enough to not disappear until I had left,” Dorrie
said to the empty room.
#######
The meal offered simple fare: a
hearty beef and vegetable soup accompanied by a crusty roll with creamy butter.
Dorrie figured it was to let her know that a great house did not always provide
sumptuous cuisine. She didn’t mind, particularly when served a treacle tart for
dessert.
She remained preoccupied with the
ghost or figment she had experienced upstairs. She didn’t realize how quiet she
had been until Aunt Astrid asked, “Why are you so lost in contemplation?”
Dorrie shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Aunt Astrid made a huffing sound.
“Of course you do. You’re just reluctant to tell me.”
Dorrie considered that Aunt Astrid
was always forthright. Perhaps she should be, too. “That’s true,” she admitted.
“Good.” Aunt Astrid nodded. “Tell
me anyway.”
How was the best way to put it?
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Tell me the question you’re
pondering.”
“Have you . . .,” Dorrie hesitated,
took a deep breath, and continued, “ever had to convince someone they were
real?”
Aunt Astrid sat back in her chair.
“That’s a very peculiar thought.”
“I know. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“What would you consider doing, to
convince someone?”
Dorrie thought for a moment. “If it
were a usual situation, I would pinch the person.”
Aunt Astrid laughed. “Good answer.
Show the person by a sensory response. My scientific sister would approve. Why
can’t you pinch the person?”
Dorrie was elated to hear her aunt
mention Ingrid, but puzzled as to how to answer the question. “This person is
difficult to get close to.”
Aunt Astrid straightened her back,
holding her head higher. “I hope you don’t mean me.”
“Oh, no, Aunt Astrid. I’m very sure
you know you are real.”
Aunt Astrid laughed again. “And, I
presume you don’t question your reality, because if you pinched yourself, you
might still wonder if that action was real or imagined.”
“True.”
“You have admirable intelligence.
Let me ask you a question. Have you ever heard of pareidolia?”
Dorrie shook her head. “No.”
“Well, it’s how a brain processes
information by putting all the sensory pieces together. Have you ever looked at
the clouds and seen shapes of animals or thought there was a face on the moon?”
Dorrie had to admit she had.
“That’s how pareidolia works,” Aunt
Astrid continued. “It translates what a person sees or experiences based on
what the person knows of life.”
Dorrie nodded without really
understanding. “Yes, ma’am,” she said to be polite. “How did you learn about
it?”
“From my sister. We talked about it
while having our portrait painted. But, I see that you don’t truly comprehend. If
you did, I’d see the light in your eyes. Never hesitate to ask questions. Let
me try another example. Do you know the musical, Hello Dolly?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I will tell your mother that your education
is lacking. Hello Dolly is the story
of a woman who acts as a matchmaker for others while seeking a spouse for
herself.”
Dorrie didn’t see the connection
with pareidolia, but continued to nod politely.
“The matchmaker’s first husband had
a saying. ‘Money, pardon the expression, is like manure. It’s not worth a thing
unless it’s spread around, encouraging young things to grow.’”
Dorrie still had no idea what it
all meant, but she had to stop nodding. She was getting dizzy.
“The matchmaker picked out her new
spouse, but wanted a sign from her first husband that he approved.”
“Her dead first husband?” Dorrie
found this remarkable. She couldn’t imagine her mother seeking her dead
father’s permission to remarry.
“Exactly.” Aunt Astrid’s eyes
twinkled. “Do you know how she got the sign?”
“No.”
“She heard her intended speak the
same words her first husband used to say about money. To her, that confirmed
that her first husband approved and that she could continue to live as a
community benefactress.”
Dorrie pondered what she had just
heard. At first it seemed to support the argument that Ingrid was a figment
rather than a ghost, but then she thought a little more. “It was sort of like
the matchmaker’s intended channeled a message from her first husband.”
Aunt Astrid thought about that for
a minute before agreeing. “Yes, particularly since the intended seemed to be a
stingy man while the first husband had been generous.”
“Thank you, Aunt Astrid. You’ve
given me a lot to consider.”
#######
During the next morning, while a
huge evergreen was being delivered and set up in the room with the portrait,
Dorrie wandered outside onto the portico. In the winter, the garden had only
short green bushes along dark patches of ground where flowers would bloom in
the spring. Following the path, Dorrie reached the place where a set of
weathered boards remained anchored in the soil, remnants of a fence. As she
drew closer, Dorrie noticed a pattern on one of the boards. She reached out to
touch it, wondering if it had occurred naturally or been drawn there.
“Young miss, you’ll take care,
please,” a voice called to her.
She turned to see the dark-uniformed
caretaker who had asked if her family needed assistance when they arrived. He
took off his cap and bowed his head slightly.
“Might be you think it silly,” he told
her, “with those boards so close to falling down, but they have a sentimental
meaning, you see, so I mean to preserve them as long as possible.”
“They are in the portrait with the
twins,” Dorrie said.
Smiling, the man replaced his cap.
“You noticed.”
“Oh, yes. And this one,” she
pointed to the pattern, “reminds me of an image I’ve seen. A child or maybe a
fairy wearing a morning glory blossom as a pointed hat.”
The man’s face turned ashen. “You
saw it drawn? Where?”
“In the twins’ room. On a music box
that played ‘My Wild Irish Rose.’”
Somehow, the man’s face grew paler.
“But that’s impossible.”
“Why?”
He shook his head. “That box left
here long ago.”
“With Ingrid?”
He looked frightened by her
question. “How is it you know?”
“The same way I know you’re Wilton
Smythe. Ingrid haunts this place and told me. She carries the music box with
her.”
He stood, eying the cold, hard
ground as if reasoning out what he had just heard. Finally, he sighed. “I can’t
say I’m surprised. She wouldn’t let go of this place without her whole story
being told. She only left because she thought she might never have another
chance to work at a lab and that was her life’s dream, to make wonderful
discoveries and better the world. How she would have loved to work on a cure
for the arthritis that plagues Astrid.”
“Tell me about her. Tell me about
the three of you.”
He pointed toward a bench. After
Dorrie followed and sat, he perched beside her and began the telling. “We grew
up in this community, the three of us the same age. The twins had private
tutors while I went to the small public school, with all the year-groups in a
single room. When Mr. Eagerton learned I had some artistic talent, he invited
me to take drawing lessons with his daughters in their home. I’d finished
public school and had no means to go to college, so I gladly accepted, along
with a job to keep up the landscaping. Astrid and I loved composing pictures
and painting, while Ingrid excelled at copying images with precision and
detail. She adored filling her notebooks with sketches of plants and animals. Observing
how things were put together gave her the same joy as solving a mathematic
equation.
“Back in those days, the goal for
young ladies was to marry well, have families, and keep organized homes.
Astrid’s love of art seemed an appropriate hobby that provided decorating
skill, but Ingrid’s wanting to be a scientist was viewed as odd. Her father
forbade her to study the biology and chemistry texts she found so captivating.
She defied him by finding a position with a lab in Birmingham. I agreed to take
her to the station after the rest of the house had gone to sleep.”
He leaned against the back of the
bench, breathing hard, as if talking had taken something out of him. “Late that
night, Ingrid snuck out of the house and got into my old truck. We rode along
in silence for a bit. Then I noticed she was crying.
“‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘I’m
leaving without a remembrance of my sister,’ she said. I felt like saying,
can’t you look in the mirror, but that seemed unkind when she was so forlorn. So
I did a thing I shouldn’t have done and now live to regret.”
Dorrie patted his hand. “You loved
her very much.”
“No!” He drew his hand away. “Oh, I
liked Ingrid well enough, but my heart belonged to Astrid. Always has. If only
I’d just consoled Ingrid that night, or even taken her back home, things might
have been different. Instead, I gave her the music box I’d made for Astrid. The
one with the image you described, the fairy wearing a bloom for a hat. What, as
young art students, we thought we saw in the plank from the old wooden fence.”
“That’s why you included the fence
in the portrait.”
“Yes. That’s why. For Christmas
that year, I had found a music box that played ‘My Wild Irish Rose,’ the song I
hummed for Astrid, and painted the image on the cover. I planned to give it to
her and ask her to marry me. Sadly, that was all I had to offer Ingrid. She
took it with her to Birmingham. When she was killed in a traffic accident,
crossing the road as she left the station, her bag was returned to the family. Seeing
the music box among Ingrid’s possessions, Astrid thought that meant I had loved
Ingrid instead of her. I heard Astrid threw the box away. She’s only spoken to
me in passing since.”
Dorrie took his hand. “I have an
idea.” She whispered her thoughts in his ear.
As he listened, he became more
animated. “Yes, yes,” he agreed. “That I can do.”
“Then, bring it with you and return
tonight as we are finishing the tree.”
#######
Following dinner that evening,
Serenity had a fire going in the room with the portrait and Christmas tree. She
wheeled Miss Astrid in to admire the decorations while having a cup of tea.
Giving it a thorough once over,
Astrid agreed, “It is quite handsomely appointed. I commend your efforts.”
“There is one ornament more, Aunt
Astrid,” Dorrie told her. “May I invite in a Christmas guest?”
“It seems a late hour for
visiting.”
“But, this is important and already
has been delayed too long,” Dorrie said.
The doorbell rang. Serenity went to
answer it and returned with Wilton Smythe, still dressed in his black uniform
and holding his cap in his hands.
Aunt Astrid flinched. “We have no
need to communicate.”
“Please Aunt Astrid,” Dorrie
begged. “See what he has brought.”
Wilton handed her a flat, round
wooden circle with a painting of the fairy wearing a bloom hat. “I drew this
for you many years ago, placing it on a music box that played ‘My Wild Irish
Rose,’ the tune I always hummed for you. I gave the box to Ingrid because she
was sad about leaving home. I thought I could make another for you, but after
she was killed and you found the box in her bag, you presumed my love had been
for her.” Slowly, he knelt beside the wheelchair. “I admired Ingrid’s
intelligence, but I loved only you. I still love only you.”
The logs in the fireplace crackled.
The firelight shone in Wilton Smythe’s and Astrid Eagerton’s eyes.
“I’ve been such an old fool,”
Astrid said, dropping the ornament in her lap and reaching for Wilton’s hands.
He lifted her fingers to his lips.
“No more so than I.”
Quietly, Serenity stepped forward
to retrieve the ornament. “We’ll place this on the tree and leave you alone to
talk.”
As Serenity hung the ornament,
Dorrie looked at the portrait. It had a third figure. A younger version of
Wilton knelt beside the sitting girl who looked at him adoringly. Meanwhile,
her standing sister looked out toward Dorrie and winked.
Declining Serenity’s offer of hot
chocolate, Dorrie took the steps two at a time to the second floor. She opened
the door to the twins’ room. The moonlight shown on the white furnishings
making them glisten. The music box sat on the desk where Ingrid had lounged.
Beside the music box, Dorrie found
a note with her name. She opened it to read: “I concede you are correct. I am a
ghost, haunting this place until I could find someone to believe me and return
the music box to my sister. I entrust that task to you. In your future, may you
come to value pareidolia as we did. With gratitude, Ingrid P.S. Despite being
incorrigible, pinching me would have been a sound method of proving reality, if
it could have been accomplished. Farewell.”
#######
When Miles and Clare returned to
the mansion on the morning of December 30th, they found themselves surprisingly
intruding upon a rollicking party.
Greeting them at the door, Serenity
welcomed them warmly. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilton Smythe will be so delighted you
returned in time for their wedding reception.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Wilton Smythe?” Clare
asked.
“Your Aunt Astrid, of course,”
Serenity explained. “She wanted to have the ceremony while Pandora was still
here and could be her attendant.”
“Pandora?” Miles asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Smythe and your lovely
stepdaughter much prefer that to a nickname. Come join them. The bride is about
to toss the bouquet.”
Miles and Clare found themselves following Serenity into an unexpected world.
Charming story! A satisfying resolution after so many years.
ReplyDeleteA fun story and good reminder of the cost of not speaking the truth.
ReplyDeleteA wonderful Christmas story. May the Smythes have a long and happy life!
ReplyDeleteDelightful story and I enjoyed how you worked your love for Broadway into it.
ReplyDeleteHow I loved this story! What a charmer!
ReplyDeleteIt's perfect! Even your settings, furniture, drapes, and so forth, are inserted so skillfully that I didn't gloss over a thing. Love it!
ReplyDeleteWhat a wonderful story! I loved the setting, the characters, and the premise. Thank you for a great read.
ReplyDeleteI loved it! A big manor house, a young girl left in her aunt's care by her parents, a mysterious portrait... Wonderful atmosphere and a great ending.
ReplyDeleteKM, thank you. How kind.
ReplyDeleteJim, you make an excellent point. Thanks!
Kait, so glad you enjoyed it. Definitely, a toast to the Smythes!
Debra, you know me too well, my friend. Thank you for reading.
Shari, thank you. You are an inspiration to me.
Kaye, your words mean so much. Thank you!
Pat, you are so kind. I'm delighted you enjoyed the story.
Thank you, Korina! Many thanks!
I enjoyed this story!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Marilyn. Happy New Year!
ReplyDelete