*

*

Chapter 4: Margaret’s Room

Teresa and the others step through to the adjoining room cautiously, as if they might see a dead body on the bed.  The room is much like the master bedroom, though smaller.  It has a narrow four-poster bed with blue brocade curtains, a vanity and a wooden cradle.  Despite the summer sun shining through the window, the air in the room is cold and heavy.  The old woman from Manchester slides her arm through her husband’s.  Tom scrunches up close to his father.  For the first and only time since she left Baltimore, Teresa wishes that she weren’t traveling alone.

            Miss Micklewhite smiles and her eyes glitter with relish at the effect her tale is having on her audience.  “Here you see the room just as it was when it was discovered almost seventy-five years later.”  She smiles again, and adds, “Without the skeleton, of course.”

            The gentleman from Manchester makes a huffing noise through his nose.  Teresa stares at the bed as Miss Micklewhite continues.

            “The year was 1865.  The tenant at that time was making some repairs to the roof.  He noticed that there were four windows outside but only three on the inside.  He got his carpenters to break down the wall.  The room they found was untouched, with Margaret’s desiccated remains on the bed.  In the top drawer of this little bureau was a written confession signed by George Braithewaite.  The tenant gave Margaret’s bones a Christian burial at the parish church.”

            Miss Micklewhite turns to Tom.  “Young man, the infants of that time would have slept in a cradle like this one, usually in the parents’ bedroom, unless the family was wealthy enough to have a nanny.”  She cocks her head and asks, “Any questions?”

            The couple from Manchester walks to the window, murmuring to each other.  Tom stares at the bed as if Margaret’s bones were still on it.

            Teresa says, “And the ghost?”

            Everyone stops and all eyes are on Miss Micklewhite.  This must be the highlight of her day, Teresa thinks. 

            “Ah, yes, the ghost.  Although Margaret had a proper burial, people say her spirit still haunts the Manor House.”

            The Manchester woman speaks up.  “Has someone seen her?”

            “There are those who claim to have done.  I myself—” 

            Stefan interrupts her.  “You English are so superstitious,” he says.  “All this talk of ghosts!”  He waves his hand as if brushing the whole idea aside.  “We Dutch are practical.  I am a chemist.  There is no scientific proof that ghosts exist.”

            “Yes, well–” Miss Micklewhite begins.  Behind them, the door swings shut with a soft click.  Miss Micklewhite shakes her head and makes a tsking noise.  She takes a key from her skirt pocket and unlocks the door.  “Shall we go down?  There are lovely gardens for you to stroll in, and paths through the woods if you enjoy a longer walk.  Sandwiches and cream teas are available in the Tea Room across the courtyard.  I hope you enjoyed the tour.”

            She steps aside as the group leaves.  Stefan and Tom exit first.  The father’s shoulders are stiff, but Tom’s are hunched over.  He holds his father’s hand.  Teresa is the last to go.  She looks around the room once more, at the bed, the bureau, and the cradle. 

            Miss Micklewhite gestures to the cradle.  “We like to keep the cradle here by the hearth, so our visitors have room to stand,” she says.  “But always after a big storm during the night, we find the cradle has moved close to the bed.”  The guide purses her lips.  “Of course, our Dutch gentleman wouldn’t believe that.” 

            Teresa nods, then points to the door.  “Miss Micklewhite,” she says, stopping at the top of the steps.  “This door–“

            “”Oh, yes,” Miss Micklewhite nods.  “Margaret likes to lock us in.  I always carry a key in my pocket.”  She pats her skirt where the wrought-iron key makes a slight bulge.  “After you, dear.”

            Teresa is thoughtful as she returns to her rooms.  In the daylight, she sees the sign by her door: Garden View Suite.  She stops in the living room for a long look.  The couch, coffee table, and end tables are vintage 1950s.  The kitchen appliances, except for a new combination washer-dryer, are about thirty years older.  Teresa fills the electric kettle with water and clicks it on.

            “Time to get to work,” she says aloud.  While the water is heating, she goes upstairs.  It is brighter in the bedroom, thanks to the large bay window.  I’ll work up here, she decides.  She takes her laptop from its case.  A few minutes later she has rearranged the bedroom.  The little desk is now under the window where she has a glorious view of the gardens and the woods beyond.  The bed is against the wall opposite the door.  With her laptop turned on, Teresa settles herself on the chair.  She opens a blank document and begins to type.