Love Almost Lost Read online

Why does the caretaker prefer an absentee owner?

  “Welcome to Arrowwood, Mrs. Hern,” his wife said. “You’ve come up in the world.”

  Ellen shrugged her shapely shoulders. “I have, haven’t I?” She turned toward the stairs. “If you can show me to the bedrooms, we’ll settle in for the night.”

  “The servants’ rooms are over the kitchen. The room Mr. Hern fitted out for you is upstairs—second on the right.”

  Henderson motioned Bentley and Ercell toward the rear of the house, and Ellen followed his wife up the circular stairs to a long hallway.

  Mrs. Henderson pointed to the first door they passed. “Mr. Hern’s room. It has a connecting door to yours.”

  I’m creating a pink room to show off your honey-toned loveliness, Timothy had told her, and when she stepped over the threshold, she felt a pang of remorse that he’d not lived to see her occupy it. The massive four-poster bed was covered by a pink bedspread matching the window curtains. Although the rest of the house had smelled musty from disuse, this room seemed fresher, and Ellen wondered if this was the room where she’d seen the light.

  “Mr. Hern installed his own generating plant, but it shuts down every night at eleven o’clock, so you may want to get ready for bed right away.” Mrs. Henderson indicated the oil lamp on the dresser. “There are lamps in each room if you need a light later on. I suppose you still remember how to light an oil lamp.”

  Ignoring the irony, Ellen thanked Mrs. Henderson and dismissed her. In a few minutes, Ercell arrived with her traveling satchel, and after Ellen changed her gray traveling suit for a nightgown and robe, she raised one of the massive windows. She opened the door and surveyed the connecting room, having only a glance before the room was plunged into darkness. Ellen knew it couldn’t possibly be eleven o’clock and thought the lights might come back on, but when they didn’t, she groped toward the bed, wishing she’d lit the lamp.

  Ellen didn’t expect to sleep, but she settled down in the spacious bed to wait for morning. When a faint smell of tobacco wafted through the room, she slid out of bed to look out the open window. Was someone outside smoking? She could see nothing, and she decided she must have imagined the scent. Within an hour, Ellen’s bed resembled a war zone—her continual turning, rubbing her legs, and scratching her head had dislodged the heavy comforter and the bedspread, which ended up on the floor.

  Suddenly, Ellen muscles contracted and she sat up, shaking and trembling. Had she been asleep? If so, what had awakened her? Her spine tingled and cold sweat spread over her body. She sensed furtive movements around her, and she cried out, “Who’s there?”

  Silence! Terrifying, absolute silence blanketed the pitch-black room, and she realized how isolated she was. How she wished she’d placed the lamp on the bedside table, but as frightened as she was, she wouldn’t consider crossing the room to the dresser.

  Ellen clutched the sheet around her. Movements seemed to come from the adjacent bedroom; then stealthy steps sounded on the stairs. Smiling a bit at the childish gesture, Ellen pinched her arm to be sure she wasn’t dreaming. Her stinging flesh convinced her she hadn’t imagined the sounds.

  Although she didn’t sleep again, Ellen was still in bed when Fannie entered her room soon after daylight.

  “My sister’s husband dropped me off as he went to work at the mine. I thought you might be needing me.”

  Slipping out of bed and putting on her silk robe, Ellen said, “I needed you last night. I think someone was prowling around these rooms.”

  Fannie shrieked and followed Ellen into Timothy’s room. They searched the closet that contained a few of Timothy’s garments. A locked rolltop desk stood in the corner by the closet, but when she couldn’t find a key, Ellen passed that by. She peered under the massive bed and pulled out a tin of smoking tobacco. She sniffed at the open lid, detecting the same scent she’d smelled last night. Timothy hadn’t used tobacco in any form, so this couldn’t be his.

  “Wonder how that got here?” Fannie said.

  “If Mrs. Henderson cleans the house regularly, seems as if she would have found it, so someone must have dropped it last night.”

  Their close inspection of the room didn’t turn up anything else suspicious, but Ellen said, “I want you to move into this bedroom, Fannie. You can visit your sister during the daytime, but I won’t spend another night alone up here.”

  “Here’s a speaking tube like the one you use in Cleveland,” Fannie said, pointing to the tubular device hanging on the wall.

  “That will come in handy if we have another prowler.”

  Ellen spoke into the tube, but when she didn’t get any response, she said, “I’ll have to find where this connects. And if there’s a telephone somewhere.”

  “This house is probably haunted, Ellen. You know the Daltons built over Deerslayer’s village, and his ghost probably returned last night on that star. I warned you.”

  “That’s nothing but a legend. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  But Ellen could tell Fannie wasn’t convinced, and she wondered if she should have left Fannie in Cleveland.

  Two

  Ellen and Fannie quickly surveyed the rooms on the opposite side of the hall and glanced outside at the two-story wing where the kitchen and the servants’ quarters were located. The first floor contained an entrance hall, a drawing room, ballroom, family dining room, and a small living room.

  “Is this the way the house looked when the Daltons lived here?” Fannie asked.

  “I imagine so. Timothy kept as much of the original as he could, but he made some structural changes because the house had deteriorated so much.”

  Three crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling of the ballroom, and they tinkled into brilliance when Ellen twisted the electric switch. There was an adjacent decorative powder room and small parlor for the convenience of female guests.

  “Looks like we have all the comforts of home,” Ellen said lightly.

  “I don’t think you should have come here, Ellen.”

  “Why not?” Ellen ran her hands lightly over the keys of the grand piano that dominated a corner near the main entrance.

  “It’ll be a sad homecoming for you. Who do you think will ever come to this big ballroom? You know people in Daltonville won’t like it that one of the girls they mistreated when she was a kid has come home rich as Croesus.”

  Ellen’s hand thumped the keys of the piano violently for a few minutes before she closed the lid and slumped down on the bench.

  “I didn’t come here to throw any big parties,” Ellen said, and when she felt Fannie’s suspicious gaze upon her, she turned off the lights and left the room.

  “I smell food. Let’s see if Mrs. Henderson has our breakfast ready.”

  When they reached the dining room, Bentley ushered them to chairs, and Ellen found a copy of the Cleveland Plain Dealer lying beside her plate as she always had at home.

  “Thank you, Bentley. How did you find a daily newspaper here in the boondocks?”

  Pouring her coffee, he said, “Newspapers come into the area by train, Mrs. Hern. Ercell got the paper in Daltonville early this morning, a practice he followed when he was here with Mr. Hern.”

  “Any particular news this morning, Bentley?”

  He always read the paper before it reached her hands.

  Standing at attention behind her, he said, “Yes, Madam. The Babe hit another homer yesterday, and it’s believed that 1927 is the year he’ll set a record. Also, you may find the account of Lindbergh’s homecoming interesting. New York City is gearing up for a big celebration in Lindy’s honor.”

  Ellen scanned the paper, pleased to find that some good news intermingled with the accounts of rising crime and violence. An article about a gangster shoot-out in Detroit reminded her of her own situation, and she laid the newspaper aside when Bentley entered with a tray. He set plates of eggs and grits before her and Fannie. Apologetically, he said, “Mrs. Henderson didn’t have much to prepare this morning.”


  “This food is fine, Bentley. I grew up eating grits for breakfast. A cook, maid, and gardener are coming today. I’ll take Fannie into town this morning to buy groceries.”

  When she left the breakfast table, Ellen said, “Bentley, we’ll be in the living room. Please ask Mrs. Henderson to come talk with me.”

  The small room adjacent to the drawing room contained a davenport, covered with floral cretonne, a matching chair, a comfortable rocker, and several tables.

  Ellen went upstairs, brought down the tin of tobacco, and laid it on the library table in the living room. Fifteen minutes passed before Mrs. Henderson wandered in, and Ellen motioned to the tobacco. “I found this in my husband’s bedroom. How did it get there?”

  “How should I know?” Mrs. Henderson said, shrugging her shoulders, her gaze not meeting Ellen’s. “Mr. Hern must have left it.”

  “Timothy didn’t use tobacco.”

  “Then maybe his guests did. He always had someone coming and going when he was here.” She imparted this information with a smirk, which caused Ellen to realize how little she knew about her husband’s visits to Arrowwood.

  “Supposedly, this house has been vacant for the past six months. If you’ve cleaned the house periodically, why wouldn’t you have seen the tin of tobacco?”

  “Didn’t you find the house to your liking, Mrs. Hern?”

  “That isn’t what I asked you. This tobacco must have been left in the room after you cleaned it, and I also believe there was someone in this house prior to my arrival last night.” She withheld her suspicions about a midnight prowler. “Has anyone been living in this house?”

  “Not by my say-so.”

  The woman’s attitude was grounds for a dismissal, but Ellen overlooked her shortcomings for the time being. Marshal Warren wanted to investigate the Hendersons, and he could do it easier if they remained in the gatehouse.

  Ellen dismissed Mrs. Henderson, and Fannie whispered, “I told you so. She’s not about to knuckle under to the former Ellen Rayburn. That’s the way everyone will treat you.”

  Ellen’s eyes filled with tears. Immediately contrite, Fannie put her arms around Ellen. “Don’t cry, Dearie. You don’t need the approval of Mrs. Henderson and her kind. You don’t have to stay here.” When Ellen didn’t answer, Fannie whispered, “I’m worried about you. You’ve never gotten over your bitterness about the way people used to treat you, and coming back here will only make it worse. I fear for your immortal soul.”

  Ellen blotted her tears with a handkerchief and patted Fannie’s hand. “I’ll be all right, Fannie. Coming home might be what I need to cure the deficiency of my soul.”

  ❧

  Ellen left Fannie at the grocery store, drove two blocks, and parked her small Rolls-Royce in front of the post office. Wallowing in sentiment, both good and bad, Ellen walked along Daltonville’s back streets, remembering the many times she’d met Lane in this area. They’d planned their meetings to appear happenstance, and sometimes they’d circle the town several times before they met. If no one was watching, they’d drive out of town in his car. Her thoughts were full of him as she returned to Main Street and approached the post office.

  She rented a box for three months, for she’d directed all of her mail to be forwarded to Daltonville during the summer. The clerk’s face was unfamiliar to Ellen, but the woman treated her kindly.

  Leaving the building, Ellen stepped carefully across the uneven porch that had seen too many floods, and she ran lightly down the steps. On the sidewalk, she came face-to-face with a tall man dressed in brown corduroy trousers and a blue shirt. They stared at each other for a moment, and startled recognition lit their eyes as they gasped simultaneously.

  “Ellen!”

  “Lane!”

  She’d been thinking of him, and it seemed as if he’d stepped from the past.

  “I didn’t know you were here,” they said in chorus and laughed at themselves.

  Not a bad way to meet after nine years.

  “Hello, Lane,” she said. “This is quite a surprise.”

  After his first startled exclamation, Lane silently looked up and down the street.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still afraid to be seen talking to me?” Ellen said bitterly.

  “It isn’t that at all,” he reproached her. “I don’t care who sees us, but after I’ve dreamed for years of seeing you again, I wish our reunion hadn’t occurred in the middle of town.”

  Ellen’s heart seemed to stop suddenly, and for one breathless moment she wondered if it would ever beat again. Her conscience cautioned, Don’t forget how he hurt you.

  Her hesitation was short-lived. “I have my car here.” She motioned to the Rolls-Royce at the curb. “We can drive out of town.”

  Lane nodded, and without speaking, he opened the door for her and took the passenger seat. Ellen steered the automobile toward the hills beyond Daltonville, and as they climbed out of the valley, Lane ran his hands approvingly over the leather upholstery and the burled walnut paneling of the automobile.

  “You’ve come up in the world,” he said with a grin.

  “I always intended to, but it wasn’t easy.”

  His soft bass voice had deepened through the years, but the cadenced nuances of his words were still music to her ears.

  An appraising glance showed that Lane hadn’t changed much. His lean, six-foot frame dominated the seat. His dark hair formed a crown over his rounded powerful forehead. The sloe-black eyes, still the most charming feature of his well-shaped face, were filled with wonder.

  Ellen headed toward the high point overlooking the Ohio River, a place they’d often visited. After she stopped the car, Ellen stared unseeingly at the river, too disconcerted to look at Lane.

  “We have a lot of catching up to do, Ellen.”

  “Nine years.”

  “Nine long years. Let’s start with the present. Why are you here? Visiting?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Not exactly. I’m living at Arrowwood.”

  “At Arrowwood?” He touched the wide band on her left hand. “What’s your name now?”

  “Mrs. Timothy Hern.”

  “It was your husband who bought Arrowwood last year!”

  “Yes. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “If I can’t live there myself, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather own the place than you. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I’d heard you were married, but I didn’t know who the lucky man was.”

  Was she being overly sensitive? Did she detect some sarcasm behind the word “lucky”? If so, she chose to ignore it.

  “Since you don’t seem to know anything about me, I’ll give you a brief rundown. When I left Daltonville in 1918, I was determined to make something of myself. I went to Columbus where nobody would know me as Ellen Rayburn, the girl whose father was in the state penitentiary. I worked in a restaurant for five years to put myself through the university.”

  Lane observed her with startled admiration on his face.

  “Just a few days before I graduated with a teaching degree, Timothy Hern came into the restaurant. He had all the possessions he wanted except a young, beautiful wife. He was thirty years older than I was, but he wanted me, and I wanted what marriage to him could provide. We were married, and I don’t have any reason to regret my bargain.”

  “Did you love him?” Lane’s hand lay motionless on the dashboard, and a heavy silence hung between them as he waited for her answer.

  “Of course not.” Not sparing herself, she continued, “I married him for his money. He knew that, but I was a good wife, and he didn’t have any reason to regret his bargain either.”

  “Didn’t have?”

  “He was killed in an automobile accident six months ago.”

  “So you’re a widow.”

  She nodded. “Timothy bought Arrowwood more than a year ago. Since it has been completely renovated, I decided to spend the summer here.” She’d never kept any secrets from Lane, but she’d
promised Marshal Warren she wouldn’t tell anyone why she had come to Arrowwood.

  They exchanged smiles, and she said, “Now it’s your turn. What have you been doing?”

  “You probably know that both of my parents died with influenza while I was in France, and when I returned home, I didn’t have any roots. I spent a year looking for you, but no one knew where you were. Not even Fannie.”

  “I did a good job of disappearing. I didn’t contact Fannie until after my marriage.”

  “I put Arrowwood up for sale,” Lane continued, “and bummed my way to California, working as I went. I started to college and graduated two years ago. Among other things, I studied archaeology. Some college students and I are excavating on Indian Island this summer. I’ve always had an interest in Indian Island. Remember?”

  Her heart hammered a little stronger, and she murmured, “I’m not likely to forget anything that happened on Indian Island.”

  To halt her churning thoughts, Ellen said, “Don’t stir up Deerslayer’s ghost with your excavation. We saw a shooting star last night, and Fannie, who now lives with me, was sure it would bring back the Shawnee’s curse.”

  “We’re after bigger game than the Shawnees. I’m convinced that island was a site of prehistoric people.”

  “Our history teacher always said the mound dated from the Adena period.”

  “It probably does, but we’re searching for Hopewell artifacts. I found an effigy pipe over there when I was a boy, and I’ve since learned that it’s a Hopewell relic. In ancient times, there was probably a village or camp on the island.”

  “Sounds as if you’ve chosen an interesting profession.” Then she tried to ask in an offhand manner, although she couldn’t suppress a slight tremor in her voice, “You haven’t said if you’ve married.”

  “No,” he said huskily. “I’ve never married.”

  Memories of the past hung between them, and there didn’t seem to be anything else to say. Ellen reached for the starter, but Lane’s hand covered hers.

  “Don’t go yet.” He turned her face toward him. “I’ve dreamed of seeing you for so long, and I still can’t believe you’re actually here beside me.” He touched her hair. “You haven’t changed much either. Oh, you’re chic in the new fashions and makeup, but I’m glad you haven’t cut your hair.”