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EXCERPT
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Chapter
1
Introductions, Explanations & Such
The
comforting thing about stepping into a day gone by, even a
day long gone by, is that it never changes. Like the page
before you, it remains fixed and set. Mind you, I’m
not claiming there’s much worthy of fascination in Crimson
Hall, but we do have some rich characters hereabouts and,
upon occasion, some interesting happenings, and I do love
to revisit them in my mind.
Me, I’m an old servant, not much use to anyone anymore,
being infirm and nearly always confined to my bed, so I have
time to devote to these musings and memoirs. Plus I’m
a fair hand at writing and I can describe this estate down
to the most minute detail and recall past events with great
and utter clarity. And there is something else, something
so strange and new to me I hardly know how to describe it.
It seems the more I lie here, slipping away toward my everlasting
peace, the more I feel my mind and body part ways here and
now. I am growing able to let my spirit-self float away from
me for short spells. What I call my spirit-self travels down
the halls and into the more occupied rooms of the Hall where
life still goes on as it always did and, I imagine, it always
will.
You might be wondering to yourself, if it’s true I can
float my spirit self away then why don’t I go to somewhere
more interesting and exotic -- somewhere like Paris or Persia?
I suppose the answer is two-fold. First, I never did much
want to see those places and second, and more important, everyone
I love resides right here in Crimson Hall.
It wouldn’t surprise me a whit if you were to think
I am either senile or dreaming, perhaps by some aid of a laudanum-based
restorative. Well now, we just met so you won’t know
that I never did set store by restoratives and such. And the
God’s Honest Truth is, I thought I was dreaming at first.
But, then, people would be visiting and they would begin relaying
something that had gone on during the day and, sure enough,
I would already know all it from my dream. And that’s
how I eventually came to accept they weren’t dreams
after all. You can believe it or not, that’s your call,
but I am swearing here and now that my spirit-self is rising
up from this decrepit old body and floating away on its own.
Kind of a practice for heaven, I like to think. So, with no
further ado, allow me to introduce you to the residents of
Crimson Hall as best as one can with pen and ink and the finest
hemp paper.
Crimson Hall, the Hall itself, seems the most obvious place
to begin. I specify ‘the Hall itself’ because
the village located two and half miles away adopted the very
same name; I suppose because people around these parts used
to identify their whereabouts by the Hall, it being the biggest
landmark and all.
The Hall is an enormous, rambling stone estate, known for
its unique color, which is far more red than brown. It’s
said that the stones came from some island across the sea
– the same island that Indigo come from, although for
the life of me, I can’t remember the name of the place.
All I know is that, on an early spring morning such as this
one, a first time visitor to the Hall cannot help but gawk
at the spectacle. I know because I have seen it many, many
a time.
Once that initial wonder subsides, one begins to note the
other ridiculously bright colors that dot the mostly untamed
landscape; wild yellows, rich purples and playful pinks beneath
a sky so shockingly blue, we had the sheer audacity to name
it after ourselves -- Carolina blue. Truth be told, and forgive
me if it’s boastful, but I don’t think you could
find a more beautiful spot in the whole, wide world than this
one.
Crimson Hall was the first grand manor built in these parts,
more than a hundred years ago, back in the summer of 1742,
when North Carolina was still a colony and the village was
still in its infancy. The fact is, at sunset, the cast of
the setting sun on this particular stone makes the home look
bright crimson; thus its name.
It’s home to the Barrett family, as it always has been
and since, I imagine, it always will be, as I can’t
imagine a world without Barrett’s any more that I can
imagine a world without Crimson Hall.
Mr. Thaddeus Barrett is the current Master of the house and
he is a wonderful man. Mrs. Barbara Crosswhite-Barrett, his
fourth wife (who is expecting their first child and, thus,
not expected to live too much longer) is the current Mistress.
I would have to say the fourth Mrs. Barrett is surprisingly
pretty for having the long nose she does. She also has long,
black hair and lovely brown eyes. She’s Mr. Barrett’s
first wife to have dark hair, which doesn’t really mean
anything, it’s just an interesting thing to note. She
is a nice enough lady and there’s not a soul that I
know of that would wish her any ill will. Still, it’s
hard to make yourself get to know her too well. It’s
hard to lose a Mrs. Barrett. I should know, as I’ve
been one that’s lost three of them, although, admittedly,
only two caused sorrow. Now, understand, I’m not one
of those that say there’s some kind of curse on the
Mrs. Barrett’s, but I will say that one, such as myself,
learns to serve without getting as emotionally involved as
one used to.
The one I feel most sorry for is Mr. Barrett. He never keeps
a guard up about anything or anyone and he’s broken
to pieces every time he loses someone. Truth be told, he’s
almost childlike in some ways; the way he gets excited over
one of his new inventions or concoctions, or upset with some
silly thing that’s happening in the Senate. I have seen
him get wildly upset over some crazy thing or the other and
then forget it as soon as pudding was served. It’s not
that he’s not highly intelligent or a perfect gentleman,
because he is. He was taught all sorts of things by the finest
tutors and he went to University, as well. Plus, he has considerable
talent at business, I’ve been told.
The Barrett girls, Felicity, Grace and Amelia also are in
residence, of course, although Felicity counts the days until
her coming out (and eventually leaving the Hall) and Grace
insists on investigating every school for young ladies that
opens. So far, none have been to her liking and, personally,
I can’t see that she’d cotton to being told what
to do and when to do it. Our Grace is very independent and
headstrong.
There are only seven servants in our household at the present
time, including me, although I don’t do any serving
anymore, and also counting Mrs. Honor Gray, the washerwoman
who comes three times a week from the village. She has the
largest hands of anyone I’ve ever seen, man or woman;
so large that it’s difficult not to out-and-out gawk
at them. They always strike me as two odd flesh-colored creatures
stuck on the end of her arms. I assure you, if you were to
see them, you would drop your jaw.
Young Mr. Samuel Bellwood, the son of Old Mr. Samuel Bellwood,
who was Mr. Jonathan Bentley Barrett’s butler, does
the fetching and carrying and takes care of the fires and
such. Samuel is around about fifteen years of age I believe
and more quiet than most, due to the fact that he has trouble
saying some of his words, mostly words that have an R in them.
God love him, I know he’s had his share of difficulty
because of it, teasing and such. He’s also a fine looking
boy despite that wild mane of thick brown hair.
His elder sister, Isabelle, nineteen years of age, is one
of our maids and just as pretty as the day is long and the
other maid is Gertrude Locke. Gert’s probably in her
mid-twenties. She’s a fine young woman, not unattractive
and not unkind. The truth is, she’s one of those that
doesn’t stand out. You might see her around all day
long and not pay her a minute’s worth of thought. Of
course, in this house, you have to stick out a bit to get
any notice paid you. I wonder if that doesn’t explain
our Grace a little bit.
We have a wonderful cook by the name of Mrs. Fields and she
has a scully maid by the name of Dottie Polk. My name is Marabelle
Parker and I’ve been on this good earth better than
seventy-three years. Fact is, I’ve been at Crimson Hall
longer than anyone else that’s in residence at this
point in time, which is March in the year of our Lord, eighteen
hundred and fifty.
I gave you a brief literary-type glimpse of the outside of
the Hall; now we’ll move on in, going by way of the
front doors into the Grand Foyer (as if we’re guests,
which, truth be told, you are.) The marble floor came all
the way from Italy, I’m told, although I don’t
know if the actual marble floor came over from Italy or maybe
just the marble for the floor. I suppose that’s more
likely it. That was, of course, way before my time here.
I can tell you this; it used to look far fussier in here,
as Old Mr. Barrett was exceedingly fond of statues, sculptures
and very large paintings. (By Old Mr. Barrett, which is what
we always called him, I mean Mr. Godfrey Wilson Barrett, Thaddeus’s
grandfather.) He either set the décor or he changed
it to be the way he wanted and then it stayed that way for
decade after decade until the second and most beloved Mrs.
Barrett had most of the sculptures and near all of the statues
moved to one of the cellars. It was she that fixed most of
the house the way it is now.
No doubt you’ll notice the ceilings are better than
twelve feet tall and the staircase is so wide, four men could
climb it shoulder to shoulder at one time and not jostle one
another. To the immediate right of the Grand Foyer (facing
aways from the front doors) is an elegant looking salon, which
is cloth-draped at this moment, and, to the left, a ballroom.
These were last used just over a year ago, for the nuptials
of Thaddeus and the former Mrs. Crosswhite.
If you continue all the way through the Grand Foyer then take
a left at the portrait-lined corridor, you’ll pass the
dining room first and then the morning room before you get
to the music room (though one might call properly refer to
it as a conservatory) and this is where you should find Grace
and Amelia this time of morning. Mr. Barrett made them promise
to be consistent and methodical with their piano and harpsichord
practice before he agreed to get shed of that last governess.
Not that they took that promise all that seriously, knowing,
as they do that he’ll never remember to check up on
them. Those two run a little wild.
They’re twins, thirteen years of age and nearly identical
looking with long, light hair and light blue eyes. If I’ve
heard, “how do you tell them two apart?” onced,
I’ve heard it a hundred times. Of course, that’s
usually followed by, “I mean before the one that talks,
talks.” The fact is, they look different to me and they
always have, even from the time they were little things and
both of them did talk.
Well, what do you know! There they are in the music room,
as they should be. Ah, but not practicing, I see. In fact,
their harpsichords don’t look touched and as a further
point of fact, there seems to be a fine layer of dust that’s
settled on the instruments. The girls are staring into the
large, gilded-frame looking glass, which likely means it’s
a game of some sort.
If you’re loitering in the doorway, I would recommend
stepping to one side because I know those sharp little clicking
footfalls that are drawing closer. That would be Miss Felicity
Barrett coming towards us at a fast pace and with a scowl
on her pretty sixteen-year old face, which, unfortunately,
is not that unusual.
The first thing you’ll probably notice is how very pretty
our Felicity is, how nicely put together. The child prides
her appearance dearly. She stops just inside the music room
and thrusts her hands upon her hips, glaring at her sisters.
“If you are not going to practice, go elsewhere. Some
of us do care about practicing and improving ourselves.”
“Which is good,” Grace replies, without looking
away from her image in the looking glass. “Since some
of us need it more than others.”
If you observe closely, you will see the barest hint of smile
on Amelia’s lips as she glances back at Felicity, whose
jaw has grown slack at the insult.
Grace still does not look away from her own image as she speaks
again with somewhat exaggerated sweetness. “But the
fact is, we are going to practice. You know what Father said.
The same time every day.”
“No you’re not,” Felicity hisses. “You’re
just occupying the room to annoy me!”
“Remember what Father always says,” Grace continues.
“Consistency and dependability are so important in the
formation of one’s character.”
Felicity narrows her eyes and makes a low sound in her throat
before whipping around and storming away, stomping considerably
more than necessary to demonstrate her level of frustration
with her sisters.
If you study these three young ladies closely, you’ll
find similarities among the more obvious dissimilarities.
All their eyes are blue, although Felicity’s eyes are
a darker, smokier gray-blue, and all their hair is fair, although
Feli’s is honey-colored in contrast to Grace and Amelia’s
lighter, almost silver-white moonbeam shade.
Felicity is petite and yet shapely, with fine facial features,
including a small, slightly turned up nose. Grace and Amelia
are tall for their age, already nearly as tall as Felicity,
slender and straight as arrows. Their features are pleasing
but regular, or so Felicity is fond of remarking. As for myself,
I don’t think any two creatures ever came any sweeter
looking -- but then maybe it should be stated that I love
these two ferocious creatures just about better than anything
else on this blessed earth.
The resemblance between the three girls lies principally in
the shape of their mouths, which they got from their Papa.
They all smile in the same infectious way when they are amused
and purse their lips identically when they are annoyed. Their
eyes, too, bear a resemblance in shape and it, too, is most
noticeable in the delivery of some strong emotion.
“That arrogant little toad was our sister, Felicity,”
Grace says to her own image in the looking glass. “She
has a very high opinion of herself. We loathe her.”
Amelia frowns; bored with the exercise. What makes you think
you can wish your image into the looking glass?
“Our image,” Grace corrects. “Or images,
I should say. I don’t. Not really. I’m planning
what I’ll say when I can. Anything that is that good
of an idea . . . well, there just has to be a way to do it.”
Amelia frowns, feeling too restless for her bones. I want
to go outside.
Grace looks away, obviously in a cantankerous mood. “It’s
going to rain.”
It is not. Besides, I don’t care. I want to work on
the fort.
The thought of working of the fort obviously appeals to Grace
because the two of them suddenly dash out of the room, a whirl
of excitement and energy. You mustn’t let their height
and their pretty faces fool you – they’re still
children.
Our Amelia, bless her little heart, is deaf and dumb; her
condition caused by the same fever that took her mother’s,
the second and most beloved Mrs. Barrett’s, life. Amelia
was three years old at the time. But before you go and get
too melancholy at the news, you should know that the twins
share a mental connection of such proportion that Amelia misses
out on very little of what goes on around her. She can play
both the piano and the harpsichord, can’t she? Some
people say she just copies what Grace does and I suppose that’s
possible. But one thing is for sure and certain; like the
other two, our Amelia is well cared for and greatly loved.
There is no call to feel sad on her behalf.
Truth is, the twins are like near the happiest people I’ve
ever seen. They not only march to their own drumbeat but they
dance to it too, and don’t care what you or I have to
say about it. I think there’s a great kind of freedom
in that that most folks never get to experience.
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