A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,94
of drawers held undergarments, and then she opened a box whose lid had been inlaid with nacre, to form a white rose. From this she carefully removed an infant's shift. It, too, had been beautifully embroidered. Magdalene held it up, allowing it to be admired. Her own eyes seemed to caress the garment—or perhaps she recalled the child who'd worn it. She then put it back into its special box, which she added to the small pile on the bed.
Meanwhile, sounds came from a larger room at the end of the hall, where Longfellow and Moses Reed had found work of their own.
“I have seen rats,” said Longfellow, “make tidier nests.”
“She could have noticed little,” Reed reminded him as he lifted a reeking shawl, thrown over the remains of a meal left on remarkably fine china. All about them were bits and pieces of a life declining—not neatly, as a mantel clock that slowed, but stumbling into darkness.
“She had a nose, after all,” Longfellow retorted, wondering at his harshness. What had gotten into him? He hadn't felt any great distaste for the old woman, to whom he'd never even spoken! But something now seemed to disgust him in the very air—
“Here!” cried the lawyer, pulling a miniature chest from beneath the bed. “This looks as if it might hold correspondence.” Disdaining the soiled quilt on top of a sagging mattress, Reed lifted the chest to a dressing table, shoving back odds and ends already there. He then began to open its many small compartments.
Meanwhile, Longfellow went to look out into the hall, wondering if he'd really heard distant footsteps, as he'd supposed.
When the attorney had gone through every drawer, he drew together a pile of papers which included copies of both wills. Other than that, they were mainly lists and receipts from chandlers and suppliers of food, wine, and cloth, sent from Salem and Kittery, Philadelphia—even London. A few were of great age; none had been marked paid.
“That would seem to be that,” said Reed.
“Then I propose we do a little more exploring below. Not for long, as Magdalene, at least, may wish to go.”
“You don't think Mrs. Willett—?”
“Her curiosity is something of a local legend,” Longfellow informed the lawyer. “She would stay, I think, to view the place from top to bottom, if we gave her the chance. Although today, I wonder—”
“Another day,” said Reed, “when there is time. For now, another twenty minutes or so?
“I, for one, will be waiting at the front door.”
With that, Longfellow went out of the room and down the gallery, leaving the lawyer to go wherever his own feet might take him.
MOSES REED WENT first to inform the ladies that they would all be leaving shortly. Charlotte then felt a heightened desire to explore. She left Magdalene with her attorney and walked back along the corridor, looking into each room.
There was little to see. Furnishings more useful than beautiful had been provided for visitors, although one or two chambers did have something more. In these, decorative hangings were flanked by tall stands that might take several candles. Carpets, too, had been provided; the others made do with bare wood floors.
When she had seen enough of the west wing, Charlotte hurried back through the picture gallery, avoiding the mysterious spot of cold. In another minute she stood below and frowned, unsure of where to go next. The second floor of the east wing could be reached only by another set of stone steps. Somehow it seemed wiser to remain where she was, or to descend. She chose the second option when she noticed another doorway, and a smaller flight of steps leading down. She'd wondered earlier about the kitchen, and decided to see it for herself.
The lower level was lit by high windows that faced the south. It contained a cavernous room with a gigantic hearth, complete with a spit large enough for roasting an entire boar, as well as several side ovens for baking. Rusting utensils hung about the walls, but seemed usual enough. She saw a set of pipes coming down from the ceiling; they probably supplied water from a rooftop cistern, so that at least some water need not have been carried up from the marsh. This reminded her that the house was no more than a half century old, though its appearance, especially above, suggested great age. It was almost as if she were behind the scenes of a theater, she thought, something she'd heard Longfellow describe on occasion, from