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By morning, the sun had cut through the evening fog and coloured the sky a vibrant blueberry. Trees whispered the day’s forecast, while birds filled their wings with the subtle breeze that blew in off the harbour. Ethel roused about nine, though despite her best efforts, was unable to sweep the dark circles from beneath her eyes. Dreams of Roland, of spectres in the night, lay packed in bags above her cheeks.
Beulah waved it off as a bad night in a foreign bed when she came in to take the laundry.
Ethel hoped Beulah was correct.
“My trip to Boston’s been postponed,” Ernest said at breakfast. He had fully dressed, but his collar was open and his coat slung over the chair. “Just for a few more days,” he said, “but I thought since the day’s nice, we’d all go out.”
The dining room was bright. The bay windows that looked out onto the garden let the sun in to warm those who sat within its walls. The tea felt hearty in Ethel’s stomach, combined with eggs and fried bacon.
Ernest was at the head of a small dining table, and a few delectable dishes had been laid out by the serving woman who had come in earlier in the day. Beulah was helping in the kitchens, while Dolly, still in her night robe, sat at Ernest’s left. A cracked boiled egg, barely touched, was placed in front of her.
“I’m afraid I’m not feeling well today, Ernie,” Dolly said, forcing a smile as she set the egg spoon down upon the table. “Perhaps you and Ethel could go on without me?”
Ernest looked sidelong, reaching across the table to place a concerned hand over his wife’s. “It’s not like you, Dolly. Are you all right? Should I call a doctor?”
Dolly shook her head. “I just didn’t get enough sleep, I think.”
Ethel frowned, wondering if the ghosts that had haunted her sleep had also haunted Dolly’s. Exhaustion reflected in Dolly’s eyes, though the woman seemed unaware as she rubbed at her cheeks and leant to press a palm atop her husband’s hand.
“You and Ethel should go and enjoy yourselves. There will be plenty of time for us all later.” She stood, and Ernest made to follow suit before the woman chuckled. “Really, Ernest. A day in bed is all I need. So much excitement over Ethel’s arrival has left me ill prepared. I do feel terrible about it, but really, it’s just a bit of fatigue.” She glanced at Ethel, before looking at her husband. “I’m sure you two will make the day yours. There must be much for you to discuss and catch up on without myself there to interrupt two siblings reminiscing.”
Ernest laughed and bowed his head, his concerns culled in the wake of his ardent wife. “Well, Ethel? What say you?”
Ethel paused and took her teacup. “Beulah can—”
“Go with you,” Dolly replied, standing straight and cinching her robe. “I swear, if the woman stays here, I’ll hear nothing but bickering from her and Aloysius all day, and then how shall I ever get to sleep? Besides, I have my own girl here for the day, and I’m sure Beulah would love to accompany you.” She stooped, kissing Ernest upon his brow before taking a teacup and saucer to leave the room. “I only ask that when you return, do so with taffy. From the shop along the docks.”
“Shirley’s saltwater taffy shop?” Ernest said with a grin, following the footsteps of Dolly’s departure with an affectionate eye.
“And make sure you get extra. You know how much I love it.”
It was nice to see her brother laugh, though he had been no stranger to mirth before. Dolly’s chipper demeanour was as catching as a cold, and even though the woman looked tired and poorly, Ethel couldn’t help but sense a happy calm from her brother when the couple were in proximity to each other.
‘Business often fouled a man’, Ethel’s mother had said once. It was the case of a good woman who kept the heads and hearts of their family and husbands secure at home. They were words Ethel vowed to live by if Roland hadn’t died. But perhaps they were words still in need of abiding if a ghost was oppressing Eden Hall.
Ethel hoped a foreign bed was the result of all her troubles. As herself and Beulah donned their coats and pinned their hats in place, Ethel couldn’t help but feel out of place in her blackened mourning clothes. She wanted to feel merry. The sun was bright and kissed her skin as they walked along the road, but adorned as such, her jolly feelings felt forced, as though contained within the barrier of her attire.
“You will have another dress by tomorrow, Miss Ethel.” Beulah said, sensing her thoughts. Ethel smiled, glad for the woman’s friendship.
“Thank you, Beulah. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Beulah laughed and fanned her fingers at her. “You’d do well enough, Miss Ethel. It just might take you a bit longer.”
“Ethel was always one who had to ruminate a tad too long for my taste,” Ernest chimed in, swinging a cane as they made their way to the boardwalk. “Always in her own head, you were, but I suppose patience is a virtue, even if it’s not one of mine.”
Beulah laughed. “Absolutely not, Mr. Arsenault. Remember when you stole that pie your mother made for church? Not only did you purloin it from the counter, but you tried to eat it before it cooled—dropped it—and burnt your mouth without managing a second bite.”
The two laughed, but not without a shade of red spotting Ernest’s cheeks.
“I’m not sure overthinking and patience are the same thing,” Ethel said as she chuckled into her palm and nodded at a passing wagon. “But it’s good fortune that someone like me keeps such boisterous company.”
“Roland was always a quiet one as well, however,” Ernest replied with a heartfelt sigh. “Together, you two were a library.” He paused in his stride, waiting until Ethel stepped up next to him before wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
She thought he must be expecting her to frown, to confide in him her secret sorrows, but despite her loss, Ethel wished to linger in the pool of mirth that Ernest emitted. She smiled, hoping her eyes appeared earnest in their wish to move on from her bygone trauma.
“Am I a book then, brother? Or a librarian?”
Ernest reflected. His considering gaze looked alien upon his features as Ethel regretted, once again, the hue of her attire.
“I think, perhaps,” he whispered, “that you are the library, and you’re lost and dark and empty. However, Etty, there will come a day when you’ll emerge from those shelves and open your doors to find many who love and wish to know you, and then you’ll be the librarian.”
“A poetic sentiment...” she mused, taken aback.
“I’d recommend letting family in first,” he said, straightening as they turned to cross the boardwalk. “If you can care for family, abide us as we smear the ink and crinkle the pages of long forgotten tombs, then you’ll be better equipped for callers and company.”
Ethel laughed, listening as seagulls overhead cawed in unison. Offshore, spinning in the circles above the docks, a silver fish sparkled in the maws of a large albatross. “I have been thinking of letting go of the dark,” she said, glancing towards her clothes.
Ernest regarded Beulah from over his shoulder. “Then let’s go shopping! You’ve Dolly’s gowns, but perhaps you can pick out a few of your own as well. Beulah has the better eye for clothes, but I’m more than happy to provide the pocketbook.”
“You hear that, Miss Ethel? No more flour bag dresses for you.”
“Nothing wrong with flour bags, Beulah. In fact, I’ve heard in Charlottetown, they’ve begun printing them with patterns for that very reason. But... I thought I’d like to spoil Ethel today. Yourself included, of course. Call it an apology for hard seats.”
Beulah chortled, her round cheeks bright with the thought of a new, store-bought dress. Ethel could recall many times that Beulah and her mother would be outside, bleaching away the name of the flour companies from their cloth bags.
Five Roses or Gold Medal... Sugar sacks worked just as well.
“Throw in a few bags of that fancy Charlottetown flour, and I’ll think about it, Mr. Arsenault.”
Ernest shook his head but stepped ahead to lead the way. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Murphy.”
“And your man, Al, drives a hard stagecoach...”
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The boardwalk had been a hub of activity. Shops and businesses along the roadside were buttressed with food vendors and performers. Steaming shellfish and fried potatoes perfumed the air, while the fragrance of the sea seasoned the dockyards spotted in the rusty sands brought forth from equine hooves. The Windmill restaurant spun in greeting, and the salt taffy shop with emerald shutters chimed hello to every visitor. They saw the Osbourne and St. Lawrence hotel’s before catching a cab to Market Square to spend several hours at Linda’s Fashion Frocks. Both women were tired after that, but excited for the boxes they were bringing home. Ernest had insisted on a slight detour to Hillsborough Square, though along the way they passed the Prince of Wales College.
“Does it have a library?” Ethel had asked, peering out the open carriage with wide eyes and fingers splayed along the edge of the stagecoach.
“No, but the honourable Thomas Dodd has promised us one.” Ernest laughed.
It was about suppertime when they started home. Having stopped for a late lunch, the three of them weren’t very hungry.
“I do hope Dolly has had something to eat,” Ethel said for conversation. Beulah was next to Ethel, but the woman was half dozing and the heat of the sun had coloured the tip of her nose.
“If not,” Beulah yawned, patting at Ethel’s hand, “I can cook her a meal in the kitchens.”
Ernest waved as the stagecoach stopped, and he hopped out to help the women disembark. “Her girl would have ensured she had eaten,” he said, directing the driver to unload the boxes as he kicked the step and held open the door. “I’ll have to work a tad late tonight,” he said, holding out an arm to his sister. “Since there was a delay in my departure, there are a few bits of paperwork that have to be redone.”
“Does that mean you’re not staying, then?” Ethel asked, looking up at Eden Hall and thinking how large it seemed.
Ernest grinned and held out an arm for Beulah to disembark before turning and walking with Ethel towards the house. “Not for long, I’m afraid. I wanted to check in on Dolly before I headed out. I’m sure she will be eager to hear about what we got up to today.”
Ethel tried to mirror his laugh, though in her heart she did not feel it. As darkness nestled among the briars surrounding Eden Hall, she wondered what night would bring, and if Dolly’s illness was borne from the unsettled supernatural that meandered the halls and corridors.
Ethel hadn’t been expecting Dolly awake, but as the doorknob was turned and the three of them wandered into the front foyer, the lady of the house was already descending the stairs. Her hair streamed around her shoulders, loosened like the white silk robe that hung about her frame like linens in a summer breeze. Though her face was flushed, it was but a subtle hue that danced along her nose and cheeks, while the pallor of her face and the bags beneath her eyes were gone.
“Ernest!” she greeted, a bouquet of silk gardenias in hand, “I had been waiting for you all to return. Did you have a lovely time?”
The two embraced, lost for moment in one another as Ethel struggled to control her expression. She was taken by surprise at the woman’s demeanour. Not only did Dolly look revitalised, she looked even more youthful than yesterday, despite her unkempt hair and house attire. The fullness of her cheeks were emphasised by her bright and welcoming smile, and yet despite the warmth, Ethel was off put.
“Dolly, should you really be out of bed? You seemed so ill this morning.”
Dolly smiled, the gesture reaching her eyes and causing a dimple to crease her left cheek. “I told you before it was just a restless sleep. I’m terribly sorry to have worried you.”
“Have you eaten, Mrs. Arsenault?” Beulah asked, removing her coat to stand aside.
Dolly shook her head. “I’ve not. Though I have been hoping one of you remembered the taffy?” The hopeful gleam in the young lady’s eye was not enough to quell the concern in her husband’s.
“Did Adella-Ray not serve you supper?” he asked. Ethel supposed Ernest must have been referring to Dolly’s housemaid, but as the younger woman shook her head, Ethel couldn’t help but feel awkward in the midst of what appeared to be a pending argument.
“N-no. I sent her home early,” Dolly replied, looking shamefaced as Ernest frowned. “I was just awful tired, and everything seemed to be a drum in my head. Really,” she said, glancing around the room to include everyone in the exchange, “I’m all right now, though, if it isn’t too much trouble, Miss Beulah, some toast and butter would be lovely.”
Beulah nodded. “I’ll send it up to your room,” she said, already on her way towards the kitchens.
Ethel watched her go, then peered up towards the stairs where she knew her own bedchambers to be. “I think I’ll change and make an early night of it. Your husband may be a marvellous tour guide, but he certainly wore me out.”
Her brother chuckled, though it was obvious by his fleeting glance that he was grateful to be afforded a few moments alone with his wife. It was just as well. Ethel was feeling nervous, like rocks were settling in the pit of her stomach.
As she made her way upstairs and into her bedroom, she noticed her Gladstone bag sitting at the foot of the bed where she had last placed it. Her journal was inside, wrapped in potato cloth. A few old flowers, long crushed between the pages, tumbled out as she flipped through it. Poems, letters, stories she had written as a girl, were all contained within, as well as several crude drawings she remembered sketching at some point.
Portraits of her mother, her father, of Beulah and a few friends she’d once entertained, sat between the withered stems of carnations and lilacs. Her brother as a boy, Roland, and of the tall ship that had set sail with him upon it...
Ethel recalled how excited she was on that day. Roland had family in New Brunswick, and he and her father had set sail to tell them of the engagement. She remembered waving them goodbye, wishing, despite propriety, that she could have sent Roland off with a kiss. Her father hadn’t been sick then, but he had developed tuberculosis shortly thereafter. The doctors thought it had been contracted on the boat, and he had to be kept in New Brunswick until they determined it was of the spine and not contagious. Roland had been on his way back with news of her father’s illness. Then, he went missing at sea.
Ethel turned the page, eyes settling on faded blood. Like the darkened petals of an old, crushed rose, it was splayed in four thick slashes along the left side of the book, slid across the paper, and stopped short of the right page margin. Two pictures had been scrawled over top, but Ethel closed the journal to escape them before they could take shape in her mind.
She wished she had photographs of them all, but most of her drawings had been made after her family had already passed. Even the portrait of Ernest was of him as a boy, before he’d moved away and married Dolly.
“People need to be alive to take a photograph,” Ethel mused, shoving her journal back inside her Gladstone bag. She had only seen a handful of them. Gray, still images upon a shiny stamp of paper. She wondered if Dolly had ever had one done. If Ernest had.
She sighed, laying back upon the bed to stare up into the darkness of its canopy. Today had been a fun day, not one she ought to come home from to wallow in residual melancholy. She decided to change, then go down in the den to read for awhile. Perhaps she could check in on Fritz and Mr. Carlow in the stables. Aloysius seemed of a jovial sport, full of stories and adventures.
It was after suppertime when Ethel came downstairs. Beulah was puttering around Ernest’s study, dusting and arranging several quills that had been left to dry on his desk.
“You’d think he was your father with how he keeps a mess,” she said. There was a teacup on the mantelpiece, alongside an open bottle of gin that Ethel recognized from the kitchens. The wastebasket over by his chair was full of old papers and documents, balled into bundles. “I mean, look at the fingerprints here! If Old Master Arsenault knew in what condition his guns were being stored...”
“I was thinking of heading outside to speak with Mr. Carlow and Mr. Humphry,” Ethel said, watching as Beulah scrubbed at the glass with a damp rag. Ethel figured Ernie must have left the house already, else he probably would have shooed them both away. If he kept a study like his father, Ernest probably didn’t like anyone tidying it up either.
“That scoundrel?” Beulah replied, standing and wiping at her brow. “Surely you must be speaking of Mr. Carlow, because we both know Fritz Humphrey is good for nary a sentence.”
“The way you tut about him makes me think you fancy him, Beulah.” Ethel hid her grin behind her hand, watching as the flush on Beulah’s cheeks spread like a bushfire to her eyebrows.
“You best get those thoughts well out of your head, Miss Arsenault.”
Ethel laughed at the nerve she’d ignited. She’d known Beulah since they were both children, and Beulah only ever addressed her as such when she was cross. “How can I, when you are blushing so?”
“I am not!” Beulah cried, tossing the rag on the desk and managing her way into the front hall.
Ethel followed her out, watching how the older woman made hammers of her fists in mock offence. “Does that mean you won’t accompany me, then?”
Beulah was already grabbing her shawl and passed another to Ethel as she donned it. “Well, I can’t have you alone with him. He’s bound to tell you some God-awful story that a lady has no mind to hear...”
“Absolutely.” Ethel nodded.
“And a man with a head full of rocks is bound to need a load of sand to fill the gaps.”
Ethel laughed, unsure of the metaphor Beulah was trying to conjure. “Well then, lead the way, Miss Murphy.”
“I shall!”
