In a Gilded Cage - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,60

they?”

I smiled to myself as I walked on. At first there were college buildings on either side of me, then shops and businesses until Main Street became Petersburg Road and meandered out of town. At last I came to a high brick wall. I continued along it until it was broken by a wrought-iron gate. Ivy grew up the wall and spilled over the top of the gate. I pushed the rusty latch and the gate swung open with much creaking and groaning. Cautiously I stepped inside. A gravel driveway led to a tall mansion in the neo-Gothic style. Tall Scotch pine trees surrounded it and creepers covered much of the walls. It looked like the house from one of those dreadful Gothic novels and I half expected to see the heroine, clad only in her nightgown, run screaming from the front door, pursued by a man with an axe. I could see why Lydia Lynch had been keen to leave Williamstown for the elegance and bright lights of New York City.

I tiptoed up to the house itself and peered in the windows. The rooms were almost empty, apart from an occasional piece of furniture, hidden under a dust sheet.

As I walked around I was overtaken by the stillness and the melancholy. Sounds from the lively world outside did not penetrate this forgotten estate. I could tell that there had been lovely gardens here once, but the flower beds were an overgrown tangle of brambles, the lawns were full of weeds, and shrubs had grown rampant to form an impenetrable barrier across the back part of the yard. Why had Mr. Lynch let the place go to rack and ruin, I wondered. If he no longer wanted it, then why not sell it? And surely he must come here occasionally to check on his mill, so why not keep a suite of rooms open in readiness? I knew he had a reputation for being a skinflint, so perhaps he would regard the latter as an extravagance, but letting a valuable asset go to waste did not ring true to his character as described to me.

As I peeped through an arbor that was now a tangle of wild roses, I glimpsed a pretty little lawn area beyond, with a swing hanging from the branch of an old oak tree. And I imagined young Lydia Johnson sitting on that swing, dreaming about the world that she longed to see.

I let myself out of the gate and closed it behind me again with a final sort of clang. The melancholy of the place was overpowering and I walked quickly to get away. Was it the tragedy of Lydia’s parents’ untimely death that still lingered here? I crossed the street to distance myself from it and came upon an old man, digging in his yard. On impulse I went up to him.

“That house over there,” I said. “I take it that nobody lives there anymore.”

He looked up, squinted at me, then grunted. “That’s right. Don’t take a genius to see that.”

“But it used to be owned by the Johnson family? Have you lived here long enough to remember them?”

“I was born in this very house, miss,” he said. “And I remember that house when it was newly built. William and Mary Johnson—foreigners they were, from Scotland. He spoke with such a thick accent you could hardly understand him. But it seemed he’d made a killing in timber up in Vermont and he bought the mill over in North Adams, and had himself this fine house built.”

“And they had a daughter?”

His grim face softened. “Pretty little thing, and the sweetest, gentlest nature you could imagine. I did some gardening and heavy work for them over there and she used to come out and talk to me. She’d swing on her swing and chatter away.” A smile crossed his face. “I don’t suppose there was much lively conversation with those parents. Dour, that’s what would describe them. They belonged to one of these religions that thought that dancing, singing, merrymaking were a sin. I don’t believe they even celebrated birthdays. And Miss Lydia—well, she was a friendly little soul. She just loved to dance and sing. I don’t understand why she married that Lynch fella. He was a good deal older than her and about as unpleasant and dour as her father was. Well, maybe I do understand it—her pa had just died and she was looking for another father figure, I suppose. There’s no accounting