I shoved my way into the center of what might once have been a large ring of shrubs and small trees of varying sizes. I took another few steps toward the center and stopped, realizing what Carroll had seen. A single stone stood upright in the tall grass, roughly cut except for a smooth rectangle in the center. Within the rectangle was a simple inscription: at the top, it said Barton in capital letters, and beneath it, in a smaller font, Mary—Henry. That was all. No dates. No places of birth and death. No flowery poems or Bible verses, winged skulls or religious symbols. This was their final resting place. But, after all, who had been left to bury Henry, the loner millionaire who died long after his wife, and with no heir? Had he appointed someone in his will? That piece of the story seemed to have dropped from Asheboro’s collective memory.
But that wasn’t all. When I stepped closer, I saw that there were three small rectangular stones embedded in the earth, flush with the dirt. Each appeared to be inscribed with a single name—but I couldn’t read them. I’d have to scrape away decades of moss to make out those names. But I thought I understood who they were.
“So they did have children,” I said softly. “And nobody knew. They must have died young, or even at birth. Poor Mary.” I realized I was near tears. Carroll nodded, and she too seemed moved by the sight of the stones. She took a crumpled tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
The copse was nestled in its own dip in the land, and I turned to look in the direction from which we’d come. “You can’t even see the house from here,” I said, “or maybe I mean, see this from the house. Too much of a reminder, I suppose.”
“I want to know more about Mary,” Carroll said, nodding as she gazed at the stones set into the grass. “I hope she loved Henry, and he loved her. I can’t imagine living here for years and seeing these stones every day.”
“That’s probably why this is so far from the house,” I said. “She kept them close, but not too close.” I took a deep breath. “Have we seen enough?”
“I think so. Let’s go back to the house and admire the furnishings.” She paused. “Do we need to tell anybody about what we found here?”
“I’d rather not. But let me know if you find out any more details when you’re doing research.”
“Of course. And I’ll look for anything I can find about Mary.”
We were silent as we walked back to the house, cutting across the lawn to walk through the old gardens, cresting the low hill and descending back into the mansion’s gentle valley. We sat for an extended period in the little gazebo, not saying much, each of us daydreaming about what this place might have been like, and what it could become. When at last we returned to the mansion, the sun had passed its apex in the sky and begun its slow descent over the west side of the house. I unlocked the back door, and we walked the central hallway to the grand front parlor, the only sounds made by our feet creaking on the long floorboards.
Once inside, I felt my spirits rise a bit. It was so lovely! Shabby, as one might expect after a century of sitting empty, even with occasional visits from a cleaning crew. It was unbelievably silent—odd how all that upholstery and velvet soaked up sound. Where the sun found its way through the windows, the light was golden and highlighted the dust motes drifting through the air in lazy constellations. Still, it was possible to imagine what life might have been like when Henry and Mary had created their home. I hoped they’d been content here, at least as much as circumstances had allowed.
“Want to take a look at the kitchen?” I asked Carroll. She nodded, and we shuffled down the quiet central hall to the room at the rear of the house. “It’ll take some serious work if we’re going to make it functional again. Do you have any idea what a nineteenth-century kitchen was like?”
“Only what I remember from my grandmother’s house, which had been her mother’s before her. And my grandmother died when I was about four, so … not much. I remember the stove being taller than I was.”
“That’s more than I know.”
We reached the end of the hall and stopped dumbstruck in the doorway. I had never been inside an authentic Victorian kitchen before this one, and I hadn’t paid much attention to it before this moment. I’d studied some photos of modern re-creations—most of which were polished and shiny, filled with pretty copper pans and matching china—but this was different.
The room measured about fifteen by twenty feet, by my rough guess. The stove dominated the space—it had to be at least five feet high, all black cast iron with nickel fittings that cried out for polishing. Three ovens, plus an open grill in the middle, which probably doubled as a burner for boiling things. The whole of the oven was nestled in a large nook that must once have been a fireplace—from the old farmhouse kitchen?—which itself was flanked by shelves and a couple of cupboards and another smaller, lower stove and oven. Could anyone have run out of space in the big one? I couldn’t imagine. And just below the ceiling, a deep shelf ran around most of the room, holding an assortment of pottery jugs, mixing bowls, and other items of cookware that were mysterious to me. At the center of the room was a broad wooden prep table that would easily seat eight, with a comfortable chair parked at one end, where no doubt a cook sat to peel vegetables for many long hours in the house’s life. I would have dropped into the chair simply to study the layout and the details of the room, but I wasn’t sure it would support me. It looked like it hadn’t been sat in for a century.
“Okay, I’ll say it first. Wow!” Carroll exclaimed, somehow bubbly and reverent at the same time.
“I know, right? I can’t imagine using it, though.”
“Servants worked hard back in the day. You know, we should think about this.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, we’ve both spent time in this house. We know Henry and his wife lived here. But who else? How many servants, and who were they?”
“You’re right. I touched on this at the board meeting, actually. There’s still a lot to discover. Where did the workers stay? I think I remember some rooms in the attic—let’s revisit that later. Would two people have been enough to manage all this? Just think of the number of tasks that had to be done! Hauling in coal for the fire, peeling and chopping food—not to mention cooking it—then pumping water for the dishes, unless somebody had put in running water early. And that’s just for this one room! And don’t forget laundry, and…” I felt tired just thinking about it. “Learning more about Mary and her family might give us some clues. Maybe she grew up as a farm girl and wouldn’t put up with people working for her as servants. Or maybe she was lonely way out here and enjoyed the company of another woman in the house.”
We fell silent, and I realized we were both gazing out the back window toward the graves, invisible from this distance but very present in spirit.
“I’ll admit it’s a puzzle,” I told Carroll. “There’s still a lot we don’t know about this house. Josh can help fill in the industrial and economic history, I hope. But the life of the place—that’s the real draw, I think. Who should we look for to get the … what would you call it? Social history?”
“Something like that. Maybe more than one person could contribute to that. Frances, from the paper? I can probably help too, since I know how to pull records. And then someone with knowledge of Civil War history. Ooh, and someone who knows about kitchen utensils circa 1880. I’ll keep my eyes open for anything like that too. Hey, I’m getting hungry—do we have any plans for lunch? Or are we closer to dinner by now? What time is it?”
I checked my phone. “It’s getting late, and I’m hungry too. I forget if there’s anything in the fridge—I was trying to wrap my head around the presentation to the board members yesterday, so I didn’t do any practical stuff. And we’ve kind of exhausted Cordelia’s wine supply. I’m not sure what’s open at the moment, but we can find something.”
“Sounds good to me,” Carroll said amiably.
“Anything else you want to look at while we’re here?”
“I should do some more research and figure out what I need to look for. There’s no rush, is there? I’ve got the whole summer.”
“I wish I thought this would move quickly, but have you ever known a renovation that did? I still don’t even know what needs doing. My first task is to find a renovator who knows Victorian buildings, and I don’t even know where to look.”
“You don’t know any burly do-it-yourselfers around here?” Carroll smirked. “A jack-of-all-trades with a wrench in one hand and a history book in the other?”
“I wish! I haven’t been here long enough—or had the time—to meet that many people. It’s the big stuff like wiring and plumbing that I’m most worried about.”
“I hear you,” Carroll agreed. “Don’t worry too much, Kate. I just know you’ll find someone good. So … food?”
“Yes, please. Let’s go back to the car and go hunting.”
It was a pleasant summer day, now late afternoon, so Carroll and I didn’t hurry as we stocked up at the local grocery store. We strolled the aisles at a leisurely pace, occasionally squinting up at the long fluorescent bulbs set high in the ceiling—such a contrast to the dim and dusty elegance of the mansion. We made sure to pick up more wine. We returned to the B&B, and before we got out of the car, Carroll said carefully, “We aren’t going to talk about Mary to anyone else, right? Or the … well, the babies?”
“Right. Not right away. I suppose people will have to know eventually, but right now, I feel like it would be invading their privacy. I’d rather wait until we know a little more about Mary. Are you okay with that?”
Carroll nodded. “I am. Mum’s the word.”
“Settled. Hey, look—Josh is here.” His battered gray station wagon rounded the bend into the B&B’s gravel parking area. “I wasn’t expecting him.”
“Isn’t he teaching this summer?” Carroll asked.
“He is, but it’s just part-time for the summer term. Maybe he wants to do some more local research. Well, I guess we’ll find out.”
“I’ll give you two some space—as long as we can eat first!”
“Deal.”
Carroll headed for the front door of the bed-and-breakfast, carrying our bags of groceries. I leaned against my car and waited for Josh to approach. I watched with mild amusement as he got out of his car, stretched his arms and legs, removed his glasses and wiped them on his shirt, then started walking my way.
“Hey there!” I said when he was in earshot. “I didn’t know you were coming today. Are you planning to stay here?”
“If I’m welcome. Now that things have changed at the mansion, I don’t get a free room in the stable anymore.”
Joshua Wainwright, my maybe-paramour, had signed on for a year as caretaker of the Barton estate, a position that had been created by Henry Barton in his will. When he took the job, Josh had recently split with his wife and had been looking for a short-term home from which he could commute to his teaching job in Baltimore. And while he wasn’t exactly handy with a hammer or a wrench, he had been a careful custodian of the place.
That was well before I’d agreed to come back to my former hometown and attempt to save it from its long slide into decline. But I’d jumped into the work on a leap of faith, having no other commitments in my life at that time—and Josh and I had somehow become involved along the way. He was an intelligent, attractive man—just past forty, bespectacled, bearded, pleasantly scruffy—and he knew a lot about local history and regional industrialization, which had dovetailed neatly with Henry Barton’s role as owner of the only factory in Asheboro. I hadn’t been looking for a relationship, but Josh was turning out to be a good foil as I fumbled my way back into the community I thought I’d left behind long ago. Josh was curious about details, gruffer than I was, less sentimental; I enjoyed the balance. Was whatever Josh and I had going to go anywhere? I had no idea, but we both had a lot to keep us busy, so our romance was simmering quietly on the back burner. Yet here he was again.
We walked up the front steps onto the B&B’s wraparound porch, and paused together in front of the door. “Did you come all this way just to see me, or do you have an ulterior motive?” I asked, not quite sure if I was joking.
“Some of each. My life in Baltimore isn’t as exciting as what’s going on here.”
“You found an apartment?”
“If you can call it that. It’s more like a closet with plumbing, but it’s a place to sleep. How are things on this end?”
“Moving right along. We had the first meeting of the board last night. Ryan’s submitted our application for nonprofit status. Carroll just arrived this morning, and we went out to refresh her memory of the mansion.” I briefly debated whether to tell Josh about the tombstones we’d found, but wasn’t yet sure how best to handle that discovery. I was feeling protective of the place, and now especially of Mary, about whom I knew so little. “I wanted to look at the kitchen there more critically—I think that should be the first phase of the renovation, because it’s going to be more complicated than the other rooms.”
We stepped into the B&B and wandered toward its kitchen, arriving there to find Carroll banging pans around, with a big pot of water set to boil on the stove top. “I was wondering if you’d gotten lost,” she said. “I voted unanimously for spaghetti. You staying, Josh?”
“I am. Are you just passing through, or are you here for the summer?”
“Looks like you’re stuck with me. I convinced my boss that this would be a good project, and she agreed. Kate wants me to find out more about Mary Barton and the rest of the household, as well as sort through the rest of the Barton documents in the library. Now that we’ve set aside the business papers, I can see if either Mary or Henry left anything personal behind.”
“Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” Josh said. “Is there wine?”
“Of course,” I told him, and retrieved a bottle and glasses.
Once Carroll had thrown together a sauce for the promised spaghetti, we sat around the dining room table as it simmered, each of us with a full wineglass.
“So, Josh,” I began, “do you know of any contractors around here who can handle restoring a Victorian home without mucking it up? I want it to look historically accurate but function by modern standards.”
“I didn’t do much in the way of repairs or construction while I was staying at the mansion,” Josh said, “but I can ask around. Didn’t Ryan have any ideas?”
“I haven’t asked him. And I’m afraid the people I worked with in Baltimore are more accustomed to working on large commercial buildings, and the Barton place just wouldn’t appeal to them.”
“You want to interview a couple of outfits, see which one you like best?”
“I suppose. I want to get this right, and I honestly don’t know much of anything about Victorian kitchens, high- or low-end. I’m open to suggestions. Carroll, let me know if you find a tattered invoice for a cast-iron stove for the kitchen. I could use some clues.”
“Will do. More wine?” she asked. We all nodded happily.
After we’d eaten, Josh washed the dishes, and Carroll graciously retreated to her room upstairs. Josh and I took our glasses and ambled out to the small patio in the back. It was a lovely evening—not too hot, not too cool, and not too many bugs. A string of white fairy lights bordered the little enclosure where we sat.
“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Josh commented after a while.
“You mean, being in Asheboro? Or being here with you?”
“I’m not fishing for compliments, though I hope that’s true. I meant being here in your old town, with a challenging project in front of you. It seems to suit you. Did you ever give yourself time to mourn losing your hotel job?”
“I guess not. Lisbeth had already asked me to help her, although I probably wouldn’t have considered coming here if I hadn’t been let go, like, five minutes later. It was definitely hard—I don’t like to lose. But in a way, it’s been good for me. I have a lot of the skills this town project needs, and I have history with the place. And I do like challenges.” I hadn’t said all that to myself before, and I realized it was true. I was enjoying the project, with all its uncertainties. I looked at Josh in the fading blue light of early evening. He did look awfully handsome. “Did you finish your book while you were on sabbatical here? You can’t complain about too many interruptions out at the mansion, at least before I showed up.”
“I actually didn’t get very far. The different aspects of this place are hard to reconcile. I was supposed to be writing about the growth of railroads and the spread of new and diverse factories and the influx of immigrant workers, all alone in the peace and quiet … but then I’d get distracted by the sunset, or a bird. I never saw myself as a nature lover, but the place grew on me.”
“I can understand that. So, what about the book?”
“It’s still in the works, but it may be going in a different direction.”
“I see,” I said, lost in my own thoughts about the work ahead of me. “Say, do you know any kitchen historians?”
“Is there such a thing?” Josh countered.
“Beats me. But we can find out, right?”
“I don’t know why not. Can you still use those old appliances?”
“I don’t have a clue, but I wouldn’t count on it. I’m not trying to blow up bystanders, especially once we open this place to the public. Mostly, I want things to look right, and to cook for parties.”
Josh smiled and put down his empty glass on the patio table, then gazed at me in my chair across from his. “You look chilly.”
“Josh, it must be seventy degrees out here. I’d hardly call this—”
“Kate, that was a hint. Let me rephrase: Would you like to come sit next to me?”
I blushed, which I was glad Josh couldn’t see in the gathering dark around us.
“Sure,” I replied. I got up and arranged myself on the love seat next to Josh. I busied myself tracing the veins on the back of his hand with my fingertips. “Do you have plans for tomorrow?” I asked.
“Trying to pull my notes together, I guess. Don’t worry about me—you can go on about your business, you and Carroll, and I’ll hang out here and get something done.”
“You don’t have a class?”
“Not until Tuesday.”
“I guess I’ll start hunting for a contractor. I think Carroll is going to dig into the Barton papers again, but with a different angle. We both want to know more about what Henry and Mary were actually like as people, even if it’s only by inference. I may enlist Frances from the paper to look through her archives, since she struck gold with that newspaper photo of Henry with Thomas Edison. I’m not sure what was covered in the society pages in the later 1800s, if anything. Especially in a small, fairly rural town. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.” I paused, wondering what I wanted to say next. Josh was looking down at my hand on his. “I think I’ll go up now, so I can get an early start in the morning.”
Josh regarded me levelly for a long moment. “Would you like company?”
I hesitated only a few seconds. “Yes, I would.”