Here is an excerpt from one of my manuscripts:
Veronica Howard
One
Cornwall, England
May 2022
I have returned to Journey’s End. Though uncertainty overshadows my joy at being back, my heart smiles when the rusting gates squeal a familiar greeting as I shove them to the edges of the driveway. Back in the taxi, I lower the window, and a spring bouquet of floral fragrances, with hints of damp earth, new grass, and cow manure, slips through the gaps in my face mask to arouse my recently revived olfactory nerves. Rolling down the long drive between the tall, purple-blossomed rhododendron hedges, the past tugs gently at my heart, seeming to sense a tenderness there. The passing of fifteen years and a hiatus of two summers due to a global pandemic has had little impact upon my emotional response to memories of Journey’s End, and I protectively squirrel away the sentiments for when I am alone.
As we pass by the old stables, I wonder if the ancient Land Rover is still alive and kicking. The thought brings Margaret and her aggressive driving to mind, and a soft chuckle bubbles up into my throat. The amusing reflection slips away as the manor house comes into view and draws my head out the window. I take note of several slate tiles that have slid from their positions on the gently pitched roof, as well as a copper downspout that has pulled away from a crenelated conductor. I am not surprised to see a bit of exterior wear and tear after neglecting the early-Georgian great lady for two years and no one having been to check on things all winter. I jot down the few items on my mental ‘to do’ list buoyed by a sense of optimism with respect to the condition of her interior.
Crushed seashells crunch beneath the car tires as we slow to a stop in front of the privet hedge bordering the garden. I am disappointed to see that it has gone wild again, after years of fastidious care and pruning. We lost old Tom Potter, our gardener, to the coronavirus at the beginning of the pandemic, and I did not have the heart to replace him nor the patience to canvas the Cornish countryside for a handyman from three thousand miles away.
“Add it to the list,” I mumble to the surgical mask trapping my words and exhales.
“Sorry, Sir?” the driver, Bernard, says.
I pull my head back inside the cab and meet his eyes in the rearview mirror.
Bernard’s ebony-framed spectacles fog up as the breath escapes the FFP2 mask propped on the tip of his long nose, which he informed me he is wearing religiously in anticipation of getting his knee replacement surgery. He does not dare risk testing positive for Covid and losing his slot with the NHS after two years of delays. Though I am fully vaccinated and teeming with antibodies from a relatively mild bought of the virus, I donned a mask during the ride from the train station out of respect for his concerns.
“What do I owe you?” I ask, pulling a handful of pound notes from the pocket of my tweed jacket.
Bernard quotes a reasonable sum, and I hand over the notes.
“Are you the Lord of the manor, Mr. Roberts?” he says, tilting his head toward the house.
“The jury is out on that at the moment,” I say with a rueful smile he cannot see.
Above his pale blue eyes, bushy grey brows meet in the middle of his broad forehead.
“Thanks for the ride, Bernard. I’ll grab my bags from the boot.”
“My pleasure, sir,” he says sincerely, and I am awash with remorse at not having carried on a conversation with the congenial fellow rather than retreating into my head and staring out the window for the better portion of the ride.
“Be safe,” he adds as if he were my dear uncle.
“You, too. And good luck with the knee surgery, Bernard.”
“Thanks very much, Mr. Roberts. I hope you will remain Lord of the manor if that is what you truly desire.”
His wish reverberates deep in my soul as I regard him thoughtfully. My future relationship to this beloved estate hangs in the balance, and I am not sure what I truly desire. “I appreciate your support,” I say with a sharp nod, beating back a wave of rage at the thought that there may be someone ready to step into my shoes.
I open the door, crawl out of the car, and unfold my long legs. After collecting my bags and closing the trunk, I step back and wave as Bernard turns his taxi around. As I watch him trundle down the drive, echoes of a dream come back to me, and my heart suddenly aches for her in a way it has not done for some time.
Drawn back into the mist, panic, and longing, the questions follow in a petulant thread…What happened to us? How did something so warm and beautiful grow wretchedly cold and bleak? If this dreadful pandemic had not placed an ocean between us, would things be different? The thick fog in my jet-lagged brain cloaks any answers that attempt to surface, and I stare like a zombie at the house for several minutes.
Rubbing a hand over my aching breastbone, I drift back to the beginning…
TWO
May 2007
I arrived at a secluded property cradled in a valley and wondered if I had reached my destination. After navigating the hedgerow-lined single carriage ways of the English countryside with the aid of a landmark-laden set of directions void of road names, I could not be certain. On that day in early May, a slight chill and whiff of damp earth crept into the car as I idled beneath an oak branch tunnel in front of an open gate. An engraving on the stone gatepost read “Journey’s End,” but the appellation was not noted in the directions. Hanging from one of the iron gates that had slipped from its upper hinge was a wooden placard that warned, “NO TRESPASSING.” As I was already late for my appointment, there was no time to ponder the significance of the estate name or heed the warning. The only way to discover if I had indeed arrived at my destination was to pass through the gates and see what lay beyond.
The driveway was lined with towering rhododendron hedges awash in purple blooms, and there was a ribbon of bright green grass running between the tracks of crushed seashells crunching beneath the car tires, leading me forward in a straight line. I rolled down the window, and a pleasant organic perfume wafted into the car. As I passed by an old stable, the weathered blue, split barndoor seemed to eye me with suspicion, and I began to question my assumption.
I touched my foot to the brake when the stone manor house came into view and grasped the steering wheel at twelve o’clock with both hands. Resting my chin on top of a hill of knuckles, I let my eyes roam lazily over the imposing structure. The perfect proportionality of two large chimneys, spaced evenly on the slightly pitched roof of a solid rectangle, was muddled by the inharmonious shapes of a tower and an addition with a sloped roof at the near end of the building. The collection of geometrical shapes made the house feel less regal and more inviting. I imagined its inhabitants to be of a similar disposition, and curiosity propelled me forward to a parking area in front of a wild and unkempt hedge.
The smell of a chimney fire greeted me as I unfolded my lanky, stiff frame from the confines of the miniature rental car. As I stretched the kinks out of my spine, the trickle of running water tickled my eardrums. To the west, a muddy creek meandered south and spilled into an inky river, which had long ago carved out the valley in which the estate nestled. A sprinkle of light glinting off the surface of the water in the distance blinded me momentarily, and on the tail of the bright burst Veronica Howard’s glamorous image filled my mind’s eye. The once-famous actress stared back at me as she had been doing for several weeks from a black and white headshot taken in the 1930’s. Beneath her perfectly straight, pencil-thin nose, amusement tugged at one corner of her sensual lips. There was a look of mischief in her large, almond-shaped eyes, which had been taunting me for weeks, daring me to make the journey to Cornwall to discover if she had a story worth telling.
I blinked the image away and pivoted on the heel of my suede lace-up to face the house. In the pastel light of dusk, the Grand Lady’s stone sported a pink blush as if she were embarrassed to greet me in such a derelict state. Despite the white paint peeling from her window frames, two cracked panes, a cockeyed downspout, and several missing tiles on the slate roof, I thought she was holding up well for her age.
The tower, capped with a pitched roof, stood like a sentry guarding the house, its shallow stoop in need of attention. Three stone steps led up to a massive arched doorway that looked as if it had been salvaged from a castle ruin, and the oak door, adorned with decorative hinges, a clamshell doorknocker, and an ornate black iron handle, stood firm against the elements. Thick ivy climbed the tower and spread its leafy, green limbs across a second story window, which reflected the pale peach and lavender light lingering in the west. The façade of the house faced down valley and away from my view, and I had the sense that Journey’s End was not quite ready to welcome me.
The clink of an iron door latch and the excited bark of more than one dog tested my reflexes and gave my heart a jolt. A dark figure passed through the carved, stone frame of the arched doorway, and my eyes skimmed over the face of an elderly woman. Two loud, seemingly ferocious, Pembroke Welsh Corgis dashed across the gravel in my direction, and I braced myself for the assault.
The woman yelled, “George! Gemma! Stop yer caterwauling!” and the barking ceased immediately.
The dogs circled around my ankles and jumped up for a pat, then abandoned me to nose around the car tires.
When I glanced back at the woman, she was glaring at me through round, wire-rimmed spectacles. “Mr. Trevor Roberts, I presume,” she said with a discernable Irish accent.
The woman was tall and rail thin, her frame clothed in a drab gray skirt, a black cardigan, opaque stockings, and sturdy black shoes, and her countenance bore no resemblance to the young Veronica Howard. Her silver hair was pulled tightly back into a bun at the nape of her neck, which made her look quite severe.
“Yes, I am Trevor Roberts,” I said with caution. “And you are…?
“Margaret Fitzgerald.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head at my ignorance.
“We were expectin’ ye at half-past seven, Mr. Roberts,” she said. “It is now a quarter-past eight.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, but I had to make several stops to stretch my legs,” I explained, waving a hand at the car in my defense.
My excuse elicited nothing more than a blank stare.
I opened my mouth to explain further and thought better of it.
“Miss Howard is waitin’ for ye in the library.” Her tone was colder than a January morning in New York City. “Collect yer things and come indoors.”
Margaret Fitzgerald’s blistering gaze scorched my back as I reached into the backseat of the car for my things. I was relieved to have reached my destination, but her presence confounded and unnerved me. I wondered if she was a servant or a nursemaid. I even entertained the idea that she was Veronica Howard’s lesbian partner and that she was the reason Veronica had disappeared from the public eye so long ago. Not wishing to annoy her further, I quickly pulled on my tweed blazer, tucked the tail of my white dress shirt into my blue jeans and collected my bags. My thoughts were racing as I hurried across the driveway with the dogs nipping at my ankles.
The latch clicked softly as Margaret closed the substantial wooden door behind us, and it took several seconds for my vision to adapt in the dimly lit foyer. My eyes skimmed over the dingy, white walls of the sparsely furnished entry hall and hopped along the checkerboard pattern of a black and white marble floor toward an unremarkable staircase with a wrought iron bannister. As I waited for my next instruction, Margaret paused a moment to look me over in the dull light, and I thought I caught a glimpse of recognition. I tried to think of something clever to say to distract us both, but nothing came to mind.
“This will be yer quarters,” she said, pointing a long, bony finger at a door to my right. She opened the door, switched on an overhead light, and stepped down a stone riser into a chamber that had the look and feel of an old scullery. I quickly deduced that the room lay below the pitched roof addition I had seen from the outside.
The dogs and I followed.
Margaret pointed to another door at the back of the room and said, “That is yer lavatory. It is the only one in the house that y’are allowed to use. And ye can clean it yerself.”
My head bobbed up and down like a sewing machine needle.
She stretched a hand toward the ceiling, and my eyes climbed a spiral staircase to a loft.
“Yer bed is up there. If ye should need more blankets, ye’ll find them in here.” She bent over and placed her hand on top of an enormous wooden chest that looked suspiciously like a crypt.
I shivered as a cool draft slipped beneath my tweed jacket and through the cotton fibers of my button-down shirt.
“Leave yer bags,” she said abruptly.
They fell at my feet like apples dropping from a tree, and her glacial stare froze me to the spot where I stood. Without moving anything but the muscles controlling my eyeballs, I watched her leave the room and switch off the light. The jangle of dog collars rang in my ears as George and Gemma sniffed around in the darkened room.
“Go find, Mistress!” a stern voice commanded.
The dogs shot out of the room and yipped in excitement.
I caught up with Margaret’s ghoulish form in the entry hall. She stood in a shaft of light spilling through an archway across from the staircase, her arms crossed over her chest and her steely grey eyes seeming to question my very existence. I felt as if I had been transported into the pages of Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca and that I was staring into the “hollow eyes” of Mrs. Danvers.
The hair on my forearms prickled.
She motioned toward the light and said, “This way.”
I followed her direction and stepped with caution into a bright salon where the last light of day was filtering in through the cloudy windows. The spacious, pale-yellow room was crowded with faded chintz slip-covered sofas and chairs. Fine porcelain objects, silver and enameled picture frames, and stacks of books rested atop a handful of wooden and cloth-draped tables, which bookended the sofas and lined the perimeter. A collection of oils and watercolors adorned the painted paneling, and a stunning landscape took pride of place above the mantel. There was a round table and set of chairs in front of one of the tall windows, and a pair of wicker dog beds flanking the fireplace. The room was neat as a pin.
Directly ahead of me was a door to a small conservatory leading out to the garden and to my left was an archway, the French doors standing open in welcome. I approached the opening to the adjoining room and paused when my eyes fell upon a diminutive figure seated in an upholstered chair next to a crackling fire.
An elderly woman gazed back at me through wire-rimmed spectacles that looked very similar to the pair perched on Margaret Fitzgerald’s long, narrow nose. Snow white tendrils tumbled from the loose knot on top of her head to frame her oval-shaped face, and darkened brows arched above a pair of glistening eyes. Although her features had been blurred by time and gravity, I saw traces of the woman in the black and white photo I had carried with me to England. Her irises were the color of pale emeralds, and I stood still as a telephone pole while they roamed over my towering form.
A genuine smiled parted her thin pink lips, and she said, “Trevor Roberts.” The soft words slipped from her like a prayer.
I walked across the room and took her outstretched hand. It was smooth and thin as tissue paper, and her fingers were gnarled like the branches of a southern live oak. I held her hand loosely for fear of crushing her brittle bones.
“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Howard,” I said, smiling down at her.
“Please, call me Veronica.” She held onto my hand tightly as she examined my face.
“If you will call me, Trevor,” I replied.
She nodded once and continued holding my gaze.
“Please, sit down Trevor Roberts,” she said, motioning toward the chair behind me, “and Margaret will pour a drink for us. Is whisky all right?”
“Yes, please,” I said, taking a seat in the chair across the hearth from her.
The springs in the chair had lost their tension, and I sank through the flattened seat cushion toward the floor, my knees propped at chin level in front of me. The Corgis, who were seated near Veronica’s feet, kept their brown eyes trained on me for a minute, and then the smaller dog trotted over to sniff at my shoes.
“You are quite tall, Trevor Roberts. Exactly how tall are you?”
“I am six-foot-three,” I said, clearing my throat nervously.
“Gosh, that is quite tall.” Her eyes grew wide behind the spectacles.
Margaret approached with two crystal glasses on a silver tray. She placed one glass in Veronica’s crippled hand then held out the tray to me so that I could help myself.
“You have met Margaret,” Veronica stated. “She has been with me for over sixty years. Can you imagine? Such a long time…”
The lesbian lover theory unraveled in my mind as Margaret appeared to be more of an employee than an equal in the house.
“Thank you, Margaret. We will have dinner in a short while.”
Margaret set the tray on a nearby table and left the room.
I raised my glass to Veronica and said, “Here’s to finally meeting face-to-face.”
She raised her glass, smiled at me, and then took a small sip. After setting the glass on the wooden table beside her, she began kneading the knuckles of her left hand. And her eyes continued to roam over me with unnerving interest.
I took an enormous gulp of whisky and sighed as the liquid burned down my throat and trickled into my veins.
“You needed that drink.”
Veronica’s expression was warm and sympathetic. There were deep lines radiating from the corners of her eyes which curved down toward hollow cheeks dusted with powder and a rose-colored blush. Underneath the burgundy shawl draped over her shoulders, her frame was slight and frail. Purple veins bulged beneath her pale skin and there were several bruises on her forearms that were visible through the sheer sleeves of her ivory blouse. The black wool trousers she wore hung loosely on her legs, and an antique, silver watch dangled from a wrist that was impossibly thin. A string of pearls and pearl-drop earrings made her look dressed for a special occasion, and I wondered if the adornment was in my honor.
“Was it a difficult journey from London? The traffic can be beastly at times,” Veronica said pulling a face.
“The journey was not bad,” I assured her. “Aside from the Hobbit-sized automobile the rental company loaned me, the drive was quite pleasant.”
She giggled.
“That could not have been very comfortable for you.”
“No. But on the plus side, it forced me to stop to stretch my legs at a farm in Devon, which had a teahouse. I brought you some jars of homemade jam.” I set my glass on the table next to my chair and moved to get up.
Veronica held out a hand. “Please, don’t fetch them now. You may bring them out in the morning, and we shall spread some on our toast. Margaret bakes the most wonderful breads.” She did not speak with an English accent but with more of an American accent tinged with an Irish/Scottish brogue and marked with perfect diction, which stood-to-reason if she was indeed born in Scotland, had lived in America during a fifteen-year acting career, and had spent most of her life with Margaret.
“Have you met George and Gemma?” she said, indicating the dogs with a nod.
“Yes, they greeted me in the driveway.” I reached down to pet the little one at my feet. “This must be Gemma?”
“Yes. She is just eleven months old, and unlike lazy old George, she would love it if you would take her on walks with you. Wouldn’t you, darling?” Veronica looked to the dog for an answer and the puppy ‘woofed’ in response. “Yes, you see, she is quite excited!”
My concern over Veronica’s state of mind and her ability to recall the events of her life with any degree of clarity caused a mixture of doubt and whisky to sour in my belly.
“Do you like taking exercise, Trevor Roberts? Yes, of course you do,” she said without allowing me to answer. “You look terribly fit.”
Veronica caught me eyeing her askance, and I redirected my focus toward the wall of painted, overstuffed shelves surrounding the fireplace. “You have quite an impressive library” I said, waving a hand at the collection of leather and paper spines. “I assume you are an avid reader.”
“What else have I to do with my days now that my body has failed me?” she said sadly. “I am now a mental traveler and adventurer.”
“Were you once an active adventurer?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, drifting off with a memory that twisted the lines on her forehead into a melancholic sketch.
“What was your greatest adventure?” I prodded, hoping for some insight into her mysterious disappearance in 1944.
She regarded me for a moment. Then her eyes twinkled with mischief, and she replied, “All in good time, Trevor Roberts. I mustn’t reveal all my secrets before I am certain I can trust you.”
A blush of embarrassment warmed my cheeks a second before I bristled in response to her remark. I dropped my gaze to the dancing flames in the fireplace and gnawed on the fact that I was the one putting my career on the line and the one who needed to be certain I could trust her.
“Rest assured that all will be revealed in time,” she said softly.
A wry smile touched my lips.
“Tell me, where do you live in New York City, Trevor Roberts?” Her cheerful tone lightened the air between us.
“I have an apartment in Greenwich Village, but I travel a great deal,” I said, drawing away from the mesmerizing flames to look into her eyes.
“I think you are an adventurer like your Mr. Hemingway,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “In your biography of him, I sensed that you not only admired his writing style but his lifestyle as well.”
“You read the biography I wrote?” I stuttered, wondering what other snooping she had done into my past.
“Of course,” she replied, straightening her posture. “Where do you think I came up with the notion of you penning my life story?”
My lips stretched into a grin.
“In my defense, you did not answer that question when you called out of the blue to make the offer.”
“Didn’t I?” Veronica waved a hand to dismiss the subject.
“So, are you like Hemingway?” Her pale green eyes looked with purpose into mine.
I shifted in the uncomfortable chair.
“I don’t know if I am an adventurer of the caliber of Hemingway, but I love to experience new cultures, see exotic lands, and walk in the footsteps of those who have gone before us.
“And are you like him with regard to women?”
I answered the impolite question with a defiant posture and corresponding expression.
“You are what? Thirty-six?” She took a sip of whisky and peered at me over the rim of the crystal tumbler. “Have you ever married, Trevor Roberts?”
I sensed she already knew the answer to her own question, and I searched her eyes for the truth.
“Are you a homosexual?” she demanded.
“No, I am not a homosexual,” I replied, returning her unwavering gaze.
“I did not think so,” she said, smiling. “You are dripping with masculinity.”
I had never heard the expression before and was not entirely certain what she meant. The thought crossed my mind that my deodorant had failed me, and I turned toward my left shoulder and discreetly inhaled to check for armpit odor.
“I have made you uncomfortable. Forgive me,” she said, her voice inflected with sincerity. “You see, I am ninety-six years old, so I do not have time to beat around the bush, as they say. I have many questions for you, and I would like you to answer them truthfully.”
Leaning forward and resting my forearms on top of my knees, I said, “I appreciate that, Veronica, and I echo your last statement. But I do not see how my marital status is relevant to our working relationship. And to be honest, I’m not prepared to discuss that aspect of my life with you at this time. I’m here to listen to your story. That’s why you asked me to come all this way, correct?”
She turned away as if my words had slapped her. But remorse could not overpower the panic that arouse within me as she nudged her way toward my humiliating secret.
“Veronica…”
“May I ask about your family?” Veronica said gently. She took a drink from the tumbler and set it down. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
I decided that a few revelations about my life were a fair exchange for her life story and its potential to further my career, and I silenced the little devil of cynicism who perpetually sat upon my shoulder.
“I have a younger brother, Alistair,” I said. “He is happily married and has two beautiful children. They live near my parents in Massachusetts, and I visit them as often as I can.” I leaned back in the chair, took a gulp of whisky, and smiled at the thought of my family.
“You love your family,” she stated.
“Very much,” I replied openly.
A sadness encircled her eyes. She lowered them to the hearth, and I studied her profile as she drifted away with her thought.
Her eyelids drooped, and I cleared my throat to get her attention.
“I would like to learn more about you, Veronica. You believe you have a story worth telling, and I am anxious to hear it. Can you tell me why you suddenly walked away from a successful acting career during the war?”
Her attention shifted to the dramatic seascape above the mantel, and I followed her gaze into the painting. As the brass ship’s clock sitting below the painting ticked away the seconds, she seemed to mentally float away on the roiling seas tormenting a majestic schooner sailing toward home or a distant land.
After a while, I turned to her and softly said, “Where did you go, Veronica?”
She looked back at me with watery eyes and whispered, “To find him.”
“Who?”
“Dinner is served,” Margaret snapped as she materialized beside us.
Her sudden and startling appearance made me suspicious. I had the feeling she had been eavesdropping from the other room and had interrupted our conversation intentionally.
Margaret scowled at me and held out a hand for my whisky glass.
I passed it to her without hesitation.
Veronica pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. “Thank you, Margaret,” she said hoarsely.
“Ye’ll want to wash for supper,” Margaret said, jerking her head toward the archway.
I uncorked my body from the chair and excused myself.
Veronica did not look up as I made my way out of the library, and a sinking feeling accompanied me through the living room, down the dim hallway and into my quarters. In my designated lavatory, I turned on the tap and splashed my face with the first gush of icy cold water. With the tap still running, I propped my hands on the sides of the chipped, porcelain sink and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My indigo eyes glared back at me under thick, dark brows twisted in anger.
“You idiot,” I hissed, “what were you thinking? Why did you press her like that right out of the starting gate?”