Merryhearth Manor & Me Read online

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Two

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part Three

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Part Four

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Merryhearth Manor & Me

  A Dægbrecan Publishing Book / March 2022

  Published by Dægbrecan Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2022 by Abigail Darby

  Book design by Nicholas Edward

  Cover design by Will Garrett

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  First Edition ᛞ

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2022933519

  Darby, Abigail.

  ISBN 978-1-955810-15-9 (Electronic)

  Dedication

  Dedicated to all those who love and save old houses.

  

  Part One

  Finding

  “I’ve got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen.”

  — Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

  Chapter 1

  From the other end of my cell phone came Bob Norseman’s deep voice, with a hint of an old Virginia drawl, “Hmm, so you wanna see the old house. Well, I can tell you the ole girl’s seen better days, but she has potential for the right buyer. I can be there in about twenny minutes if that’ll work for you?”

  “That’s perfect! I’ll be here . . . in the driveway.”

  I stood, mesmerized by the structure looming in front of me. I let my cell phone drop onto the driver’s seat of my little two-door coupe and carefully picked my path through the waist-high weeds toward the front of the house. Discovering the bottom step of the crumbling brick stairs, I stood motionless, looking up at the tall, burgundy brick structure with its once grand, two-story pedimented portico, and multiple sets of Tuscan columns. It was a big house and I liked the symmetry of it—the left side was a perfect reflection of the right side. There were at least two full stories, a half story attic, and what appeared to be a full basement.

  But what a state she was in, white paint was peeling from the decaying wood trimwork, vines had snaked through the windows, breaking the windowpanes in many of the old sashes, and the portico was sagging at a dangerous angle. I knew upon approaching the house that it was a mid-nineteenth-century Greek Revival, the only one of the historic houses that day that was this architectural style. I liked it immediately and was glad it was last on my list. My house-hunting treasure trip had started with high hopes, but little expectation that I’d actually find anything suitable. This house appealed to me, but whether or not it was suitable remained to be seen.

  I’d started my day early that morning, leaving my Leesburg apartment with a travel mug of coffee, and a handful of real-estate listings that I’d grabbed from my printer. I was exploring houses over a span of about 150 miles, and the first house I’d mapped out was in Berryville, so I’d headed west on Route 7. My plan was a simple one, I was doing drive-bys of five houses that I found for sale on the internet, and if I liked any of them I would call the listing agent and ask to see the inside. I was doing this each weekend until the house presented itself, I’d know it when I saw it.

  Deciding where to live had been a question consuming my thoughts since the day of the explosion—more on that later. This, however, was the first house-hunting treasure trip I was taking in the opposite direction of my horrific daily commute. Like any of us know, who live and work in crowded metropolitan areas, distance is measured in time, not miles, and Washington, D.C., is a prime example of this. So, as I headed in a direction that would make my commute to work worse—much worse—I looked at the budding spring landscape and threw logic to the wind.

  Out on the open road, I opened my sunroof to enjoy the unusually warm weather for mid-March in Northern Virginia. I inhaled the fresh scent of springtime and took in the scenery unfolding around me. The blooming bright-yellow daffodils that filled the space between the east- and westbound lanes gave a visual performance that could only be outdone by the lush early green rolling fields. Rows of suburban townhouses were replaced with pastures dotted with grazing, jet-black cows. Miles of painted, black farm fencing led to long tree-lined driveways. Stone-foundation barns popped up, mostly in classic oxblood red, but there were also beautifully painted white ones with green trim, set back into the fields.

  As I topped the Blue Ridge Mountains at Snickers Gap and headed down the other side toward the Shenandoah River, I felt like I was soaring above the ground. It was such a strong feeling that nonsensically I looked up through my open sunroof to see if a tether was pulling me upward, off the road. When I got to the bridge crossing the Shenandoah at the bottom of the mountain, I nearly floated, midair, over the gentle springtime whitecaps as they gurgled northward to meet the Potomac River at Harpers Ferry. It struck me as both ironic and sad that I hadn’t felt this happy and hopeful in a long time.

  Upon reaching Berryville, I navigated my way through the little historic downtown and onto a side country lane that led to the first house on my trek. As I approached the house, I slowed to get a closer look and realized at once that it wasn’t for me. The house was a plain white farmhouse with little architectural detail. My best friend Danielle’s questions from the night before flooded my thoughts as I looked at it from the road.

  “I thought you were going to buy a historic row house in D.C., so that you could be closer to work. Didn’t you like any of the ones you’ve been looking at?”

  “I loved them, and yes, that was my original plan. But they’re too expensive. I can’t afford any of the nice ones, and the ones that need total restoration would cost even more in the end.”

  “So now you’re looking at houses in the opposite direction, but still historic?”

  “Yes, houses that are one hundred years or older, away from the high-priced neighborhoods, not to mention the congestion and traffic.”

  “Why would you want an old house in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Not any old house. I’m looking for an elegant historic house with a lot of character. Something refined, peaceful, away from the chaos, with pretty vistas and lots of space.”

  “So you’re not going for a rustic house look?”

  “No, I want a house
that’s genteel . . . even feminine looking . . . if that makes any sense.”

  “And you think you can find this by heading west?”

  “I don’t know. For my first day, I’ve picked five houses to drive past. This will give me an idea of the possibilities.”

  “I get it, after the explosion you need to . . . well, I get it, and I’m all in favor of whatever makes you happy. But maybe a new-construction house would be more practical?”

  I smiled at this suggestion. Danielle could not have understood my desire—my actual need—to buy a historic house. She didn’t know about the car rides I used to take with my grandmother when I was five years old. My grandmother loved to drive past her favorite old houses and tell me who lived in them and their stories. My favorite house, by far, was the princess’s house, a beautiful Queen Anne Victorian with turrets, stained-glass windows, and an elegant wraparound porch filled with big wicker chairs loaded with plump pink pillows. It was quintessential fairy-tale, and so feminine. My grandmother didn’t know why the princess lived there, in her house in Uniontown, Pennsylvania, instead of with the Prince of Thurn and Taxis in his castle in Bavaria. But I was pretty sure it was because she had such a beautiful house of her own.

  As I left Berryville I set my GPS directions for the next house and headed north on Route 340 for Charles Town. The route provided more stunning vistas and horse farms that matched the cattle farms in charm and oil-on-canvas landscape scene potential. The drive was proving to be delightful, even if the house search came up empty. The nightmare of the past eighteen months was the furthest thing from my mind as I focused on my mission and the possibilities for the future.

  Entering Charles Town, I was delighted to see an abundance of beautifully restored, mostly Victorian-era homes. I easily found the second house, which was absolutely lovely and fit my criteria. As I sat in my parked car looking at the house and the pretty street it sat on, I tried to imagine living in the house, but I couldn’t. It was flawless and in perfect order, without the need for so much as a polishing cloth taken to the brass knob on the front door, and this disappointed me.

  There was also the unfortunate circumstance of a historical event that had taken place near the house. The event and its location were immortalized with a big historic civil-war marker. I don’t believe much in ghosts, but I could well imagine feeling creepy at nighttime, knowing such an event had taken place near where my house was now standing. Another deterrent was the possibility of tourist traffic, and that might be a lot worse than the potential ghosts. So, I mapped my route to the third house and left the tranquility of charming downtown Charles Town.

  As I entered the outskirts of Shepherdstown from the south on Route 230, the third house came up on my left. I knew immediately it wasn’t a fit. The house had dark-brown wood siding and dark-red trim that made it appear, well, dark and unfriendly. Of course, it could be painted bright colors and the overgrown bushes cut back—but I couldn’t see myself there.

  At this point, I was hungry and ready for a break, so I headed into downtown Shepherdstown. This little historic college town, known for its charming mix of shops and restaurants, well-preserved and restored historic architecture, and a congenial mix of interesting people, was the perfect spot for reenergizing. I lost no time finding a parking spot on German Street and headed to the bakery café for a sandwich, coffee, and a little people watching. I settled into a window table after ordering the daily special from the counter, and opened my cell phone to check for email and text messages. I had a text from Danielle and another from Alex, they both wanted to know how my day was going. Danielle asked about the house hunting and Alex wondered if I was working. I responded to Danielle first: I’m having a marvelous day! Haven’t found “my” house yet—three down and two to go.

  Danielle: Where are you now? Have you found any good locations for us to do a day trip and some shopping?

  Me: I have! We’ll plan a day soon. I’ll surprise you!

  Danielle: Emoji heart bubble.

  I thought to myself how including Danielle in my plans for the future was only natural. She had been my sanity savior during the last eighteen months—listening when I needed to vent, asking the right questions at the right times, being a distraction when I needed one, and even providing court testimony when I asked. She didn’t always agree with me, but her loyalty was unwavering.

  Next, a text response to Alex: No, I’m not working. I’m out having fun today!

  Alex: About time you actually enjoyed your Saturday. What are you doing?

  Me: Check this out. It’s the chalkboard where I’m having lunch today.

  Coffeeology

  Stay Grounded

  Espresso Yourself

  Better Latte than Never

  Take Life One Cup at a Time

  Take Time to Smell the Coffee

  Alex: Where are you? I love that coffee quote!

  Me: I thought of you as soon as I saw it. I’ll fill you in on Monday about my adventures today. Should be a good story.

  Alex: I can’t wait to hear it!

  Me: See you at the departure gate at Dulles on Monday morning.

  Alex: Don’t freak if I’m late.

  Alex is Alex Jenkins, a member of my work team. I thought of him as soon as I saw the coffee quote chalkboard on the café wall. He and I have this thing where, no matter where we are or what’s going on, we have to have morning coffee—and that includes making a coffee stop, if need be, on the way to a meeting or training workshop. This has led to some embarrassing moments, like arriving late, or finding no seats were left in the meeting room. On Monday, my little team of three—Alex, Jill, and me—was traveling to attend a weeklong training bootcamp. I fully expected Alex to arrive at the boarding gate at the last minute, he was notorious for stepping onto the plane just as the flight attendants were closing the hatch door. Somehow, this added to his charm.

  I finished my sandwich and checked my printouts for directions to the last two houses. One was on the way out of town and the other was about thirty miles away in Winchester. I packed up my papers and walked to the car. As I headed southwest on Route 480, I found the fourth house easily—and it did not disappoint. It was a white-clapboard Georgian with deep-green shutters and front door. The house was large and well-balanced, with two additions added sequentially to the left side that gave the vague impression of the house being a telescoping spyglass. The polished-brass pineapple knocker on the front door made a welcoming first impression, and the thick, antique glass in the windowpanes reflected wavy, midday sunlight. Note to self, must have wavy glass and a pineapple door knocker! The house was beautifully situated, with a curving driveway that looped into a half circle in front. The landscaping was gorgeous, complete with mature trees, boxwoods and hollies, and several flower beds that promised to be exquisite once the weather warmed and summer was in full swing. I had no trouble imagining myself living in this house. I did, however, have a lot of trouble imagining being able to make the mortgage payment!

  I had added this one to the list because I was going to pass it anyway on my way to house number five, and I thought, why not? And now I was reminded that on my federal government salary, even my manager’s salary, this one was way out of my price range. This was probably the weekend getaway for one of those government contractor executives who make the big money. I could imagine him sending an email to his Capitol Hill friends saying, “I’m opening the country house this weekend. Come on out. I’m picking up a couple of cases of Virginia wine, a great Viognier, and an excellent Cab Franc. Kat is getting steaks from Washington Farm, all organic and grass-fed, you know. We’ll get some townies to be waitstaff, so we can relax. See you Saturday!” Umm . . . definitely not my house.

  The drive to the fifth and last house took me over to Interstate 81 and south to Winchester. When I exited the interstate onto a country lane, my first sight was an extremely well-kept apple orchard. Hundreds of apple trees were standing in straight rows at exactly the same height and stage
of maturity. They looked a little like line dancers on Broadway. I expected at any moment their hazy pink-hued apple blossom headdresses would bob as they began high kicking in unison—it was quite impressive, actually.

  I no sooner drove past the apple tree Rockettes when a pasture of the prettiest Jersey dairy cows came into full view. Now, I’m not a cow expert, but Jerseys are very distinctive, and they’re the cow image of choice for most of the children’s books of my youth. There were clusters of these lovely creamy-beige, doe-eyed ladies standing with their heads together as if catching up on the latest dairy-farm gossip while soaking up the warm midday sun. I imagined their conversation . . . , “Have you heard? The farm is going to start piping classical music into the barn at milking time.”

  “No, really?”

  “Yes, they say it’s what all the best dairies are doing, and we want to remain world-class don’t we?”

  “We certainly do!”

  “We’ll have to brush up on our knowledge of the great classical composers. We don’t want to appear ignorant when the music starts!”

  I didn’t know what the fifth house would have to offer, but the drive into Winchester was proving to be pleasantly unexpected. Just as I was refocusing on the road, I came upon a historic stone building with a sign announcing, “Hopewell Centre Meeting, Religious Society of Friends (Quakers), Established 1734, Built 1759.” I swerved the car into the crushed-stone driveway and skidded to a stop. It was quite a setting with the old stone building set back off the road, an ancient cemetery to one side, and venerable, timeworn trees hovering above it all as quiet observers. As I got out of the car and slowly walked toward the nearly three-hundred-year-old structure, I took in the details of its simple architecture.

  With each step toward the meetinghouse, I felt closer to the past. My little coupe disappeared, and I was surrounded by humble buggies pulled by handsomely groomed horses. There were ladies in long skirts and modest bonnets, and men in black coats with white cravats and black, broad-brimmed hats. They were chatting amiably as they prepared to enter for their Sunday meeting of the Friends. The setting was welcoming, and the images felt familiar and friendly. As they entered through separate, sturdy wood doors to start the meeting, I slipped through the white gate in the stone wall surrounding the cemetery. The ground was soft and lumpy under my feet. Bright white-petaled snowdrops pushed their way up through the soft ground in random patterns between the tombstones. I stopped to read the names and dates on some of them, many of which were very old and reflected the same surnames. One tombstone effigy in particular caught my attention, and struck me as very touching.