Adria
She had known that Mrs. St. John had a daughter. Adria had not expected to be met in the front room by a portrait so large it hung a mere foot below the molded ceiling and almost touched the top of a side table that was only four feet above the floor. Adria stood in the doorway of the room, her intention to come and borrow a book from one of its shelves now thwarted as she met the silent stare of Theodora St. John.
The young woman could have been no older than Adria herself in the painting, only her dress aged her enough to make her in her early forties were she still alive. Blue eyes were painted to sparkle, yet Adria could see through the artist’s ploy to the dullness in Theodora’s expression. She sat prim in a chair, her dress falling in filmy folds around her slippered feet. Her hair was curled in ringlets, she wore a scooped neckline adorned with a pearl choker, and her skin was pale. There was no smile on her lips, and the only real oddity about the portrait was the fox that sat at her feet, nose tilted upward like nobility, its bushy tail wrapped around its body.
“My husband commissioned her portrait.” Mrs. St. John’s voice caused Adria to startle, and she jumped to the side as Mrs. St. John came up from behind her. She was staring at her dead daughter’s image while her right hand held the hollow of her neck as if she were contemplating strangling herself. “Theodora was eighteen. She had just become betrothed.”
“How lovely.” A paltry response, but Adria could think of no other.
Mrs. St. John leveled a censorious gaze on Adria. “Lovely? Hardly lovely, my dear. Theodora plummeted to her death the day after this portrait was finished. We found her at the bottom of the stairs, her neck broken and her fox at her feet as if he had pushed her himself.”
Adria listened to a clock ticking as silence lay heavy between them.
Mrs. St. John dropped her hand from her neck and cleared her throat. Her lips tightened. “I believe that Theodora stumbled over the wretched animal and he was the cause of her death. I had my staff put the creature down that very day. It never should have been allowed in the house.” She spread her arm and swept it in front of her, all while staying expressionless. “The irony that later I would live in a home titled Foxglove is more than I suppose most mothers could bear.” Mrs. St. John looked down her nose at Adria. “I am not most mothers,” she declared.
“Foxglove is a flower, isn’t it?” Adria attempted to steer away from the unsettling conversation. The way in which Mrs. St. John spoke of her deceased daughter was as detached as a doctor might speak of a corpse.
Mrs. St. John nodded. She moved into the room and proceeded to tie back a heavy lilac-colored drape with a gold cord. “Rose-pink or purple. Tubular little flowers with green foliage. It grows wild in various parts of the Peninsula. It isn’t as prevalent here in the Upper Peninsula, but in the lower . . .” Her voice trailed as if she were weary of the science lesson. She turned from the window and eyed Adria. “We must talk.”
Yes. Yes, they must. There was a purpose for Adria to have come to Foxglove. Not only because she was more than willing to find escape from her father when he himself offered it to her, but for other reasons as well. Ones that hung over her head and made sure she didn’t forget where she had come from. However, that would not be Mrs. St. John’s reasoning. Not at all.
“Be seated.” She waved at a chair whose velvet seat bragged of wealthier days, its golden fibers now looking frayed, tempting Adria to question how well off Mrs. St. John truly was. But her pondering was thwarted as Mrs. St. John declared, “We must first discuss the ghost girl of Foxglove Manor.”
Adria shuddered and drew her shawl tighter around her, but the flimsy silk sheath provided little warmth. Had there been a morning fire in the fireplace? Adria stared emptily into it, examining the coals for a glowing hue that would indicate there had been. But the room was cold—so cold now—that even embers would be of little help.
“Also,” Mrs. St. John seemed to add before moving on to the topic of ghosts, “if you should see a fox—any fox—you must inform me immediately. They are not allowed here.”
“No . . . foxes?” Adria couldn’t help the squeak of disbelief at the end of her inquiry, because she clearly remembered seeing a mangy one on her arrival.
“Does that surprise you?” Mrs. St. John’s fingernails drummed the arm of her chair. Her head was piled high with white hair in an ostentatious pompadour that only needed powdered and she might be reminiscent of a thin-nosed lady of nobility from the previous century. Though she was facing Adria, her neck was turned to allow her to peer out the broad, paned window at the lake beyond. “Nothing surprises me anymore. Not since Theodora. But yes.” Mrs. St. John turned back to Adria. “Yes. I have the caretaker rid us of any of the awful creatures. A bad omen. That is what they are. And you will come to recognize that as well. When you see a fox, more often than not, you’ll see her shortly thereafter.”
“The ghost girl,” Adria responded with understanding, knowing the answer but not bothering to ask its required question.
Eyes sparked. Admiration made Mrs. St. John’s narrow eyebrow raise. “You’re intelligent.”
Adria offered a small, appropriate smile.
Mrs. St. John cleared her throat quietly. “I didn’t mean that to be a compliment.”
Adria twisted her fingers in her hands.
“Regardless,” Mrs. St. John continued, waving a hand that boasted a sapphire ring, “we have a ghost here, at Foxglove. Inherited, of course; she didn’t follow me, and it’s not Theodora.”
“Of course not.” Adria entertained the idea that if she were Mrs. St. John’s deceased daughter, the thought of returning to haunt her mother might be the most delicious prank. Ruffling the stiff-backed mother with midnight moaning. “Who is she, then? The ghost?” Adria inquired so as to rein in her thoughts.
Mrs. St. John drew in a heavy breath and, to Adria’s surprise, rose from her chair, her deep blue dress rustling around her toes as she moved to the window. Her right arm rested around her waist, her left raised to cup her chin. “The waves are calm today.” Her voice was distant.
Adria remained seated but looked beyond Mrs. St. John. It was a strange thing to state, considering the waves were rolling to shore with a persistent roar. The cliff on which the manor sat hid the shoreline, but Adria knew if she were to make her way down to it, she would more likely than not be sprayed with the icy waters of Superior.
“The ghost?” Adria prodded, more curious than she should have been.
“All I will say, Alexandria, is that you must make it your priority to avoid her.” Mrs. St. John’s voice bounced off the glass of the window. “She is young and impetuous. Timid but very, very savvy. She will suck you in with her innocence, and then she will stab you deeply with her evil.”
Mrs. St. John faced her, drilling Adria to her chair with a stern eye. “You will report any sightings to me immediately.”
“And where is she—the ghost—seen most often?” Adria ventured.
Mrs. St. John coughed. “It doesn’t matter where; it just matters that she is. The house rules are quite simple. You are here to be my companion and nothing else. Which means you will do as I say. Report to me if you see the ghost girl, tell me if you spy a fox on the grounds, and keep to your rooms and the ones I frequent. There’s no need to be nosy and snoop in places you’re not welcome.”
“Such as the turret and its rooms?” Adria offered boldly, remembering the glimpse of a man in the window. A glimpse she questioned now had even been real.
Mrs. St. John’s lips tightened. She reached for a locket watch that hung from a chain around her neck. Opening it, she observed its innards, then snapped it shut. “It’s time for breakfast, Alexandria.” She started for the door and then paused and spoke over her shoulder. “The fact of the matter is, Foxglove Manor is a lonely place.” Mrs. St. John twisted at her waist so she could look at Adria full on. “If your father believes your mind and soul will find healing here, then he is sorely mistaken. There are many days I ponder throwing myself off the cliffs. And I—unlike you—have the morality to leave my days numbered by God and not myself. Beware, Alexandria Fontaine, or our manor’s ghost will toy with your senses. So, if you think my worry is that you will explore the turret, then you are greatly underestimating my warnings.”