The Attic Read online
RACHEL XU
BEKAH FERGUSON
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of Rock of Ages Publishing House, a division of Prodigy Digital Solutions – prodigydigital.com
Copyright © 2008-2014 by Rachel Xu and Bekah Ferguson.
All rights reserved.
Cover artwork by Rachel Xu. Used with permission.
Designed and formatted by Robbie Ferguson.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyrights reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN: 978-0-9782047-9-2
First self-published printing October, 2014.
Please visit the author's web site at www.bekahferguson.com
ROCK OF AGES PUBLISHING HOUSE
A Division of Prodigy Digital Solutions
Barrie, Ontario Canada
Lily approached the portrait of her grandfather and stood studying it once more.
The bottom right-hand corner of the molded frame caught her eye this time. It was shinier than the rest of it, as though the dust had been rubbed off by a finger. Or was it just the way the sunlight was hitting it; a trick of the eye?
Heartbeat picking up a notch, she reached up and touched her fingertips to the shiny edge of the frame—pressing into it. A swish sounded and cold air moved over her right side. She pivoted toward the draft.
A tall opening had appeared in the wall, a twisted stairwell beyond it.
Heart beating wildly now, she stepped toward the unlit room.
Prologue
Auguste Kline struggled to turn the key in the lock, willing his gnarled fingers to cooperate.
The room was dark, save for a checkered stream of moonlight coming in from a lattice window.
He couldn't see the lock in the trunk before him—could only feel it—but a satisfying click assured him the deed was done. An exhale escaped his aching lungs and he wiped his damp brow with the back of his hand; shifting his weight off his bad leg as he straightened up from his knees to a standing position.
Noting only the vague outlines of what he knew to be stacked crates, boxes and long-forgotten furniture, Auguste tightened the grip on his cane and shuffled across the wooden floorboards—using his outstretched free hand to seek out the door. When he reached it, he paused. Listened for any sound.
Aside from his own rasping lungs, all was still and silent. Not even a mouse stirred within the walls.
But he was not alone.
With a low grunt, the old man shifted his bones into motion and reached for the doorknob. His gut churned.
There was a presence nearby.
Behind him.
The hairs on the back of his neck bristled like a startled porcupine and he spun around, nearly dropping his cane and falling. He pressed his full weight into the cane for balance and managed to still his knocking knees, straining to see through the darkness before him. “Who-who’s there?” he asked.
There was neither response nor shifting shadow.
Had he imagined the presence then? It must have been the fear clouding his senses. He turned around, the sole of his cane thumping on the floor beneath him, and turned the cold knob, pushing the door forward. He squinted as he entered the dark stairwell beyond. Another lattice window above the descending stairs lit an area of the floor with more checkered moonlight.
A footfall sounded from within the room behind him.
His heart slammed against his ribs, pounding out of control. For a moment he was too terrified to move and his cane slid from his icy fingers tips, hitting the floor with a thwack.
Silence screamed in his ears and chills tripped up and down his back, along with a frantic need to flee. He scrambled toward the staircase, nearly tripping over his abandoned cane in his haste, and latched onto the primitive wood railing, teetering on every step as his bad leg buckled with the movements.
He made it down a half-dozen steps, not daring to look behind him, when an upper stair creaked—suggesting a heavy weight. Lurching forward, he gasped for breath and wished he could dive down the rest of the stairwell.
Only a handful of stairs remained and with every ounce of remaining strength, he tore down them, doubling over when he reached the bottom as though he'd been punched in the gut. His heart constricted violently in his chest and a cry slipped from his lips.
Senses whirling, he stumbled toward the closed wall panel that lead to the hallway, expecting to be grabbed from behind with every step. But there came no more sound on the stairs—only his own shoes scuffing the floorboards. Smacking his fist against the wall, the door panel slid open with a swish and he dove through, falling to the floor in a wheezing heap.
Too weak and palsied to get back up on his feet, he dragged himself by his forearms down the long dark hallway, knowing his flight was futile but unwilling to surrender. His heart surged with another wave of pain and he knew his time was running out. Pausing to catch his breath, he fumbled through his jacket pocket and pulled out an elongated key. He cricked his neck and shot a glance over his shoulder at the shadowed opening in the wall.
All was still, unmoving.
He hid the key where he was sure no one would find it and collapsed on his stomach . . . arms and legs growing cold, then numb. Sucking in as much air as possible, he rolled onto his back with a grunt and tried to lean on one elbow, watching the opening in the wall. He was too weak to move any further.
A footfall sounded, ever-so-faintly, from within the black square that was the opening in the wall.
At the opposite end of the hallway, two floor-to-ceiling windows permitted twin beams of sallow moonlight, which flowed over the old man as he balanced on one elbow, clutching his heart.
A tall figure emerged from the opening but did not step into the beams of light.
“What do you want from me,” Auguste cried, his voice barely a whisper.
A roaring silence.
“Your life,” came the low, toneless response.
In a swift, calculated movement, the shadowed figure stepped into the moonlight and the old man's throat closed in horror. Paralyzing pain shot through his right arm and his heart gave its last beat.
With one final cry, his elbow gave out and he fell backward, head thudding against the hardwood beneath him.
Chapter 1
Lily Kline cut the ignition of her Ford sedan and pulled down the visor, tugging her fingers though her wind-tousled hair and squinting at her reflection in the mirror. Frowning, she dug through her purse and pulled out a comb, running it through her latte-brown hair. It settled about her shoulders. Satisfied with the result, she ran a mauve lipstick over her lips and flipped up the visor.
With her purse over her shoulder, she stepped out of the car and smoothed out the slight creases in her sage-green dress. It hugged her hips and tapered at the knees; sophisticated but casual all the same. It was also a warm outfit, thankfully, as the autumn air was cool.
Lily glanced at her green high-heels and flesh-toned pantyhose, checking for even the slightest run; and finding everything intact, felt presentable enough to meet her fellow joint heir for the first time.
Having been raised by a single mother, she knew of only a handful of relatives; some aunts and uncles on her birth father's side. Otherwise, she'd always been told that her mother was an orphan.
Until a week ago, that is.
A prestigious law firm had contacted Lily to inform her that her maternal grandfather had passed away and left her half his fortune and joint-ownership of his estate.
In the frenzied, hazy week of preparations that followed, Lily had wondered time and time again why her grandfather had never sought her out while he still lived. He obviously knew she existed or he wouldn't have bequeathed his wealth to her. And if her grandfather was so wealthy, why had her birth mother lived in borderline poverty? The only conclusion she could draw was that father and daughter had been estranged. Either her mother had been banished—or had run away.
Lily fluffed her hair a little with both hands, which failed to add bounce, and lifted her chin with feigned confidence. She marched up the walkway; high heels clicking on the slabbed-stone as she went. The path lead from the gated half-circle driveway to a deep-set and sequestered Gothic mansion. She inhaled the crisp fall air deeply, admiring the various chimneys and turrets protruding above the surrounding treetops.
Before ascending the front steps to the three-story mansion, she paused to gaze upward at an azure sky, giving a sweeping glance behind her as well. An acre-sized front lawn separated the estate from the tall wrought-iron gates and a row of mature willows that lined the road. Dense forestland surrounded the back and sides of the estate. The grass was neatly trimmed, leaf-blown and well-kept, and chrysanthemums of yellow and burgundy lined the foundation of the mansion and various stone walkways. The nearest neighbor was a good four miles away and as the lawyers had explained, the property was nearly 500 acres deep and mostly forest and wetland.
Her grandfather had clearly lived an extremely secluded life.
A hermit in a palace.
Vines covered in russet leaves crawled up and across the stone walls like a human nervous system; groups of symmetrical, leaded-glass lancet windows breaking their pathways at regular intervals.
Lily's breath caught with awe and admiration as she ascended the dozen or so stone steps leading up to the front entrance. When she reached the top, she stood warmed by the sunlight and examined a petal-shaped quatrefoil window encased in the archway above two heavy-duty oak doors.
On each side of the doors, a white marble creature sat on-guard atop a stone pedestal. They each had muscular bulldog bodies and fierce faces framed with the knotted curls of a lion's mane; razor-toothed mouths opened in gaping snarls. The marble was in sharp contrast to the prevalent stone work and she decided right away that they were out of place; as though added rather recently. Perhaps her grandfather had installed them. They didn't look as ancient or weathered as the rest of the medieval architecture.
Lily reached into her purse and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, re-reading the name she had written on it.
Ian Hawke.
He was to be her co-heir, and though she had met with her grandfather's lawyers several times over the past week, she hadn't yet met Mr. Hawke. It was unknown of what relation he was to her; perhaps he would turn out to be a long lost uncle or cousin.
She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and lifted one of a pair of cast iron, lion head door pullers—thumping the door thrice. She twisted the folded paper around in her hands, waiting for a response. She hoped Ian wouldn't mind her being here, whoever he was; especially considering she'd decided to move in right away. How many times had she pinched herself over the past week wondering when she going to wake up from this crazy dream?
Footsteps echoed in approach behind the door and Lily slipped the paper back into her purse, tucking her hair behind her ears and moistening her lips. She plastered a friendly smile on her face just as one of the giant doors swung open.
A buxom old woman stood in its frame, her face neutral and whitish hair plaited and hanging over one shoulder.
“Hi, I'm—” Lily pursed her lips, hesitating. “I'm here to see Mr. Hawke?”
A warm smile spread across the woman's features, lighting up her milky blue eyes. “Ah yes, of course—you must be Miss Kline!”
Lily smiled, nodding, relieved to be expected. “Yes. And are you Mrs. Hawke?”
“Oh, goodness, no—” She laughed. “I'm his housekeeper. Hannah Gray. You can call me Hannah.” She motioned for Lily to step inside. “Please come in.”
“It's nice to meet you, Hannah,” she said, reaching out to shake the housekeeper's hand. She was met with a firm grip.
“Now, Ian's around here somewhere,” Hannah said, breaking the hand clasp and leading Lily over the threshold like a small child, “but I can't say where for sure.” She squared her shoulders and adjusted the straps of her apron as she glanced down the ribbed-vault corridor beyond them. Lily stepped over the threshold and onto a Persian rug, pulling the door closed behind her.
“It's hard to keep tabs on that man.” She rubbed her hands together thoughtfully, chuckling.
“Perhaps we could search for him together?” Lily suggested, smoothing imaginary creases from her dress and glancing up at an ancient iron chandelier that was strung by a black chain. It suffused the entranceway with a yellow overture. Another matching chandelier hung some twenty feet farther down the vaulted corridor, then another, and another—each lighting the hallway in domed segments. The end of the corridor was far off and cavernous.
“Well, there's no rush, is there? I would think you'd like to unpack first and get yourself settled in, right?—before dealing with the dreary business end of things?” She pressed her lips together in a motherly smile, waiting for a response.
Lily nodded. “Yes, that might be a good idea. If you'd be so kind as to show me to my room, I'll carry my bags up myself. I haven't too much with me today.”
“Oh, please don't trouble yourself. I'll get Mike to carry them up for you. Where are your things anyway—in the trunk of your car, I suppose?”
Lily nodded again, distracted. “Mike? Does he work here too?” She blushed. “Oh, I'm sorry—I shouldn't make assumptions like that. Is Mike Mr. Hawke's son?”
“Oh, heavens no! How curious. No, he's the handyman 'round here.” An amused look. “And I'm sure he'll be more than happy to lend a hand to such a pretty young lady.”
Lily blushed again and let her gaze return to the vaulted corridor of ornate wood work; hungrily taking in the recessed niches in the walls, each hosting porcelain vases and extravagant oil paintings. Occasional arched doorways lead into unknown rooms, and the floor was black marble with white veins and capillaries. It would take weeks, if not months, of careful study to see this place inside and out.
Excitement bubbled within her like a kindled flame. Was this spectacular place really, truly hers? It seemed too incredible to be true. She blinked to clear her thoughts. It was all so extraordinary—like standing in a royal museum and being told it was yours.
Hannah moved past Lily toward a hardwood staircase to the right of the entrance doors. Four steps ascended to a square landing. From there the staircase ascended along the wall to the passages above. Lily fell into step behind the housekeeper, eager to examine the hand-carved intricacies of the balustrade and baluster posts. At the base of the staircase, two four-foot-tall carved knights stood guard as newel posts, each holding a warrior's battle axe. Though the balustrades were glossy and polished, the finish was wearing thin on the steps; likely from generations of tread.
“Does Mike live here?” she asked.
Hannah stopped on the landing and glanced over her shoulder as she reached for the railing and put her foot on the next step. “Yes, but there aren't too many of us, in case you're wondering.” She continued her climb up the creaky stairs. “There's Mike, myself, Angie the cook, Christopher the gardener, and of course, Ian. . . . Now Auguste, your grandfather—well, he enjoyed his privacy. Never had a lot of full-time staff. Pretty much hired contractors instead.” She disappeared above and Lily hurried to catch up.
“When he died,” Hannah's voice went on from above, “Ian took over the care of the estate.”
“Most of us have lived here our whole lives,” the housekeeper was saying, her footsteps echoing on hardwood flooring.
“Is Ian my relative?” Lily asked, breathless as she emerged onto the second floor. Hannah was standing a few feet away in a wide hallway flanked by oak doors. The walls were made of stone and draped with Gobelin tapestries. Lighted mica-bronze sconces were mounted on either side of each door, so archaic Lily figured they'd only been wired for electricity sometime in the past century; prior to which candlesticks would have sat in place of the light bulbs.
Hannah pulled a keychain from an apron pocket and unlocked the first door on the right. She removed the key from the chain and handed it to Lily. “No,” she said simply. “Ian is mostly certainly not your blood relative.”
“The lawyer's told me nothing about him—I don't even know why he's my co-heir.”
Hannah paused, setting her hand on the doorknob and meeting Lily's gaze with a thoughtful expression. “Well, he was adopted in a way, by Auguste, though never officially. He took him in as a young child—needed a home. So, no, you're not related.” She slipped out of sight into the room.
Lily hurried after her. “He took him in—like, a foster child?”
“Have a look around, Lily, get yourself comfortable.” Hannah spoke in a breezy tone, ignoring the question. Or hadn't she heard it? “I'll go fetch Michael for you.”
“Was Ian Hawke a foster child? I don't follow.”
She met Lily's eyes for a brief second and moved toward the open doorway. “We'll have to talk about it later, if that's all right. You wait here and Mike will join you shortly.”
With a nod, Hannah left the room, her footsteps fading away down the staircase.
Lily moved out into the hallway again. She still had no idea who Ian was or how old he was or what to expect. Was he a bachelor or did he have a family?