Sarah, Serendipitous

By Teresa Hubley

As an historian, Sarah finds writing the life of a great American house goes smoothly until the present is the topic. Aside from the house's forceful head, Simon, she faces his needy daughter and mysterious business partners. She is tested most by possible love with Simon's moody nephew and balancing her own family's wishes. When painful stories emerge, she must decide her duty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Teresa Hubley
• Release date: Dec 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465973634

Teresa Hubley

Teresa Hubley was born in Minneapolis and moved every couple of years after that, winding up in a handful of small Midwestern towns, suburban California and even west Africa. As an adult, she acquired a doctoral degree in anthropology and has lived most of her life in Maine, where she works in the health field. She usually has too many books to keep track of going at any time on her reading list. Favorite authors include Charles Dickens, E.M. Forster, Agatha Christie, Elizabeth Peters, and Dave Barry. Lunch out with Teresa and her family usually includes the reading of a few pages while the meal is delivered. When she's not reading or writing, she might be drawing, going for a long walk, or sneaking a guilty pleasure moment playing games on her tablet.

Book preview

Prologue: Independent Study

Like most advertisements that turn out to be too good to be true, the internship announcement promised more than it had any business to offer. As such, it had become yellower with age than all the others, though subtly so, having been in place for a year. The author purported to be in a position to provide an intern with a modest stipend, as well luxury housing and excellent food, along with access to stables, fields, and trails. The intern's work would consist of reasonable hours spent producing a detailed history of a classic old American home and the family to which it belongs. The applicant was directed to inquire at High Heathlea House, to a Mr. Alistair Braddock.

Seeing someone approach the ad, the placement assistant ventured out of her cubicle and sauntered over, her hands clasped behind her back as she studied the potential victim. The young woman squinting at the ad was all angles, long-limbed and bony, with a prominent nose. She wore her dark brown hair in a tight roll. Her manner of dress echoed many of the students around her, being composed of jeans, a light sweater, and a plain jersey, but she stood out on her prim neatness. Her toes, sheathed in ballet flats, even lined up precisely.

Any questions? the assistant asked.

Just one. Is this listing valid?

The assistant crossed her arms. We make every effort to avoid sending our students out into sketchy situations.

Have you met this Mr. Braddock?

Not I myself. Our student employee, Achmed…the one that we had until last semester or so…was on duty when the gentleman arrived with the posting. I’m told he’s a British gentleman, very tall and nicely groomed. He made such a strong impression on Achmed, in fact, that he forgot to write down a phone number. I think he terrified the poor kid.

Hmph. Sounds like a practical joke. High Heathlea House. The young woman turned to her and searched her face with intense, dark eyes. Have you looked into the place?

Not directly.

The young woman let a frustrated growl out and muttered, Figures. I’ll do it myself, then. There must be some information available.

As she made a precise turn and began to march away the assistant called to her, causing her to turn back. You should give me your name and some contact information, just in case….and let me know what other sorts of internships you might like.

My name is Sarah Irving and anyone can reach me through the History department. I am a doctoral student in History with all my coursework complete and therefore I would like a placement that has the potential to support me while I work on my dissertation. But don’t bother writing that down because I plan to take care of finding out all the information myself, since I’ll obviously have to do it anyway.

The assistant shrugged and said, Well, if my office can be of any help, doesn’t hesitate to come by again or check us out on the web. We’ve got..um, much of what you see here on our site. Browse it and let me know if you want to pursue anything.

Sarah tossed her head and resumed her march down the hall, stirring up a slight breeze, which lifted some of the announcements up from the board. The assistant straightened her clothes and then set right the announcements that had come askew. She stopped by the inbox on the student intern’s desk and noted the thick pile of un-entered announcements marked for posting on the web. A quick peek yielded nothing that sounded historically interesting. The assistant yawned and stretched a crick out of her back before settling back in her seat in the cubicle. A juicy novel awaited her attention there and further interruptions, based on her past experience, were growing more unlikely with the hour.

Sarah kept her pace up as she crossed the center of campus and honed in on the library. No waves or shouts from fellow students distracted her. She muttered the peculiar name of the old house to herself until she dropped into one of the computer stations.

First she scanned the placement office’s website. As she had suspected, no further data than what the assistant had provided was available there. In fact the most recent posting on the website dated to several weeks back, though some of the postings on the wall had appeared newer. The posting of interest did indeed lack a phone number.

Next came the search for evidence that High Heathlea House existed anywhere besides the yellowed slip of paper at the placement office and the overwhelmed memory (or imagination) of a student intern. The only notation on the web referenced a tourist attraction upstate. The house had been built in the late 18th century by a Paddington Belcourt, a sea captain, atop a bluff overlooking the river as it flowed out to sea. The notation boasted that stories abounded of hauntings and dark deeds at High Heathlea but offered no further detail. The contact listed for admission to a private tour was Alistair Braddock.

The photo that accompanied the story showed a long, spacious two-story rectangular building of white-trimmed brick, its front door framed by white columns supporting a triangle. The shrubbery in the foreground was trimmed into perfectly conforming shapes alongside a wide drive. The drapery that showed at the windows appeared to be heavy brocade covering a layer of laced-edged sheers. The photo had an airless, lifeless feel, as if the building were sealed in plastic and no human had set foot within for decades.

Sarah leaned back and imagined herself in the halls of such a place. There would be velvet ropes and hushed lady attendants in long skirts. A grandfather clock would mark the time. Mr. Braddock would consult his pocket watch at a precise hour and then signal one of the ladies to shoo the visitors back onto their bus. One of the ladies would pick up a feather duster and attend to the fine furniture. Then Sarah would…what? Surely she would not be living in the house itself. She would probably be ensconced in a cottage at the back of the garden, alone (but not lonely), as the staff closed the house up for the night. She imagined crickets singing. To her orderly mind, the situation appeared ideal. To her experience, appearances, especially in photographs, usually glossed over many imperfections yet there might be room there (unlike at her family’s house) for the sort of scholarly solitude that would be needed to complete her graduate work. The temptation to see just how much of the ideal image stood up to close inspection was too strong to resist.

When she came before the house three months later, every detail appeared exactly as in the photo. She blinked in surprise and scanned the property repeatedly as the cab driver hauled her luggage from the trunk. Not a chip of paint lay out of place. Not a leaf strayed on the lawn. No ghost story was necessary to cause Sarah unease. The pristine condition of the house struck her as more foreboding than a flock of bats. Now she wondered if her accommodations might be in the basement and her work might include a lot of potato peeling.

She stood locked in the house’s spell until the front door flew open and discharged a tall, skinny man with longish white hair dressed in a black turtleneck and gray slacks. He exchanged a friendly wave with the cab driver and then dismissed him with the command, You can bill it to the account and tip yourself a bit. The man’s accent told her he was not Mr. Braddock, with whom she had briefly spoken before receiving several papers in the mail confirming her appointment. She placed it more American Northeast, upper class.

The gentleman’s eyes shifted to Sarah and he bowed. With a majestic tone, he said, Welcome to High Healthlea House, Miss Irving.

Thank you.

He shook her hand and said, My name is Simon Belcourt.

Of the family that built the house.

Yes. This is my home.

You…live here?

Of course. Where else should I live?

Sarah gathered her luggage and approached the house with as stoic and steady a bearing as she could manage under the demands of her burden. Simon swooped ahead of her and opened the door. She settled her affects in the entryway and considered the sweep of the house’s interior. A grand staircase, gleaming with polish, rose ahead of her. A parlor dominated by an ornate fireplace stood to her right and a dining room filled by a long table to her left. At the end of the hall before her, she could glimpse the warm sea of colors that was the ornamental garden through a window in the billiard room.

Impressed? Simon asked.

Intrigued.

You’re a cool one, Miss Irving. I see we shall have to work very hard to gain your respect at High Heathlea. Would you like to see your room?

Sarah blundered up the stairs in Simon’s wake, her imagination shifting from the basement to a tiny, windowless attic cell with a plain iron bedstead. The room turned out to be twice the size she imagined and had windows, which looked to the end of the garden that served the kitchen. The four-poster bed, graced by pineapple finials on each post, was topped with a quilt patterned around a flowering tree with a geometric border.

Not original, of course, Simon commented, indicating the quilt. But a nice reproduction. You’ll enjoy the Underground Railroad quilts from our collection, I’m sure.

Sarah turned her attention to the garden, where a portly woman in braids and apron-covered overalls poked at hills of squash.

Olga Braddock, Simon told her. The cook and gardener. You’ll sample her work later. I promise you, it is a splendid treat.

And the mysterious ‘Mr. Braddock?’ Where does he fit in?

Where doesn’t he fit in? Between the three of us, we keep this place afloat.

You mean…you three are the staff?

The executive staff, you might say. Which does not exempt any one of us from getting our hands a bit dirty from time to time. We’re light on other staff just now, as I generally give them weekends off and they are quite part-time at best. We all do our daily part here, Miss Irving, but fear not. I consider your own part to be very focused. I will only ask your assistance with my most pressing project, The History.

Simon clapped his hands together with a forceful slap and said, Well, then, I’ll leave you to yourself. We’ll have a fine meal in two hours and then I’ll take you into the library and we will start. You’ll see my notes, the house records, and all my reference books. We will commence in earnest tomorrow. He tipped his head to her and removed himself from the room.

Sarah dropped onto the bed and stared out into the golden light of the late afternoon garden. High Heathlea House was everything it claimed so far and thus nothing she expected. She shed her shoes and drew her feet up into her knees in a half-lotus position, her eyes trained on the haze about the fruit trees that ringed the forested buffer that separated the house from the fields. She watched the light fade and thought of her warm, overstuffed home in the suburbs, parents hollering across the house, the blare of a television somewhere. Right now, they’d be chasing her sister down and demanding a look at her homework while they argued about which side dish would go best with the chicken.

Sarah took in a deep breath and let the silence sink in.

The Curriculum

The History, As Simon called it, or sometimes more humbly, ‘’My Book," awaited Sarah her first day in a tidy pile held fast by a ribbon. The manuscript occupied the precise middle of the library study table, flanked by a selection of ballpoint pens filled with various colors of ink. Beside the stack of papers stood a clear plastic box filled with papers. Beside the box, a tidy stack of photo albums of varying ages occupied nearly a third of the table. A massive family tree lay across the nether end of the table.

Our materials, Simon said.

Sarah laid her fingertips on the manuscript. Simon responded by untying the ribbon.

Really, sir, Sarah said. I don’t know how I can help you now. You seem to have a great deal of this completed already.

Do you realize that this pile of paper represents over twenty years of part-time puttering and weekend warring? A person like you could have done this in half a semester. That is why I have hired you. I am…in case you hadn’t noticed… getting old. It’s time I sped this process up and also injected a bit of quality control. The goal is to have this completed and ready for publication within a year. You don’t seem like the sort to be frightened by such a challenge. Am I wrong?

Of course not.

Good girl.

Sarah opened the plastic box and inspected the ragged pile of documents within. Dozens of copies of official documents filled the box nearly to the brim, all in chronological order with colored sheets of paper marking the years.

All the paper is archival quality, Simon informed her. I can’t say as much for the photographs so we will have to be brief in our use of them.

A book plopped down beside the box as Sarah poked through the contents. The familiar cover surprised Sarah as she took note of the new arrival.

I don’t understand, Mr. Belcourt, she said. This is a children’s book. Do you intend it as a source?

Not a source but an artifact. This is recent history but belongs as much as everything else. Are you familiar with it?

Sarah nodded as she pulled the book into her hands and took in the once-beloved images. Simon’s copy was smooth and smelled new, unlike the book that had spent so many nights winding down a giddy younger sister back in the family house. Sarah could almost hear Jessie’s laugh. As she had done so many times, Sarah read aloud.

Emily eats ‘erring

Only over oats

Asking after apples

Forgetting fancy floats

My nephew, Henry Belcourt Makepeace, wrote that book, Simon explained. And all the other ‘Emily’ books too, of course.

And no children have read it here?

Little children are long gone in this place. As you will see, there are only precious, self-absorbed adults occupying their dear little places.

No autograph, I notice.

I've not had the opportunity to bring it up. Harry is an infrequent visitor here and I see little of my sister Olivia, his mother.

Sarah laid the book aside and rifled through the rest of the pile. Simon took the book up and commented, Well, I imagine you think of such things as too frivolous for our project but, then, as you already are doubtless aware, history is made up of such mundane flotsam. The quilt on your bed...or at least that sort of quilt...was once too ordinary to be worthy of a second thought.

I do appreciate your smaller matters, Mr. Belcourt, but I'm having some trouble at the moment imagining how all these things fit together and what you envision as the outcome of this project.

Simon winced in his most dramatic fashion and said, Someday we will have to come to the point where you refer to me by my given name. I hate being called 'mister.' It makes me feel old and I need no reminder of my advancing age beside what I see in the mirror.

I call you that out of respect to you as my employer, sir.

Now, 'sir' must really be banished from your vocabulary---

His pronouncement was suspended by the sound of the front door crashing open with some force and a woman's throaty voice bellowing, I'm home, Daddy!

Simon straightened up in response and muttered, Hmph...now you'll see what happens when the smaller matters become greatly embellished.

I'm home, The voice announced on the stairwell. It continued down the hall, sounding now and then a little farther away as its owner looked into rooms as she approached. Do you hear? I've come for a visit. I brought you some of that tea you're always fawning on. It's darn expensive, you know. You should really start drinking normal tea like everyone else. Plain old black tea is full of anti--- The door to the library blew open and the voice finished the thought. ---oxidants.

The speaker was a curvy red-head dressed in tight jeans and a lacy tank top covered with a translucent blouse. Her fingers bore several rings. Her eyes went wide with surprise.

Wow, the red-head gasped. What have we here?

Simon answered her. This is Sarah Irving, my new writing partner and historical consultant. May I present that most distinguished of lawyers-in-training, Ms. Fiona Belcourt?

Hey, Fiona said, by way of greeting. So, is she living here?

That’s the arrangement. I gave her the pineapple room.

O-kay. Long as I still have my own room to crash in when I want, I guess I shouldn’t care.

Just to underline this again, this is a business relationship. Ms. Irving is an employee.

Sure. Just like the Braddocks.

Not…just like the Braddocks…Quite a different matter.

If you say. Well, it was a trip meeting you, Ms. Irving. I’m headed out for a ride with Jezebel. See you later. I’ll unpack when I get back, Daddy, and you can have your gold-plated tea then.

Fiona breezed back out of the door, pulling it closed behind her with a slam.

That horse, Simon said. She always came before me. You’re welcome to ride her yourself if you like, by the way.

I’ve never been on a horse, Mr. Belcourt.

Fiona will see to that.

Sarah selected a red pen and brandished it. Mr. Belcourt, do you want me to make note of my suggested changes on a separate piece of paper or should they be placed in the margins?

Please feel free to dig right in and scribble. I have it all on the computer in my den. We can mark this copy up as you please and correct it as we go along. I like to print the whole thing out occasionally so I can get a good look at what I’m doing. I’ve plenty in my paper and laserjet budget, so no fears.

Sarah looked down into the pile. The first page began with a sentence about Paddington Belcourt’s decision to build the house. Sarah added a sentence ahead of this describing the scope and purpose of the book. Simon smiled and leaned in to watch her work.

The First Lesson

A gnawing sensation in Sarah's stomach dragged her from a deep but unrestful sleep around midnight. She supposed it could have been on account of the soup, an ordinary-looking tomato bisque that had turned out to be spicy. There was also the sauce on the baked chicken, a heavy cream-laden affair that would have made her mother proud. For that matter, she was no longer the sort that went in for pie but didn't want to disappoint Mrs. Braddock, who seemed so anxious for approval. Not that the pie was unpalatable but simply pushed Sarah’s stomach over the line. Whichever was to blame, she hoped a cup of milk would tame the low growl in her gut.

Sarah, clad in a flannel gown and plush robe, crept down the narrow flight of stairs at the back of the house that led directly to the kitchen, the so-called 'servants' stairs,' milk on her mind. As she neared the kitchen, she heard the muddled rumble of voices speaking low. At last, there came the distinct, high-toned English accent she'd known from the phone.

Mr. Braddock was saying something about someone proposing to confide deeply in her. Sarah had missed the reference to her, so could only suppose that person’s identity, if she were the supposing type.

Mrs. Braddock, her words drenched in Northern European inflections, replied, I hope that does not mean he shall tell all. There are matters not for those outside this house. They do not belong in a book so they are in no way the business of a young girl like her, a stranger to this house.

I do believe we should give Mr. Belcourt some credit for understanding---

How could you, Allie? How could you consent to bring this girl into this house to be a part of this foolish design? There will be revelations, you understand.

Have you met this young lady?

Of course. She was here at dinner tonight. She has big, intelligent eyes that watch you so, in such ways that she seems to know already everything.

Well, when the time comes, I shall ensure her discretion.

Sarah shivered at that promise.

Mr. Braddock continued as they travelled away, drifting towards the far end of the kitchen, where they would be able to ascend another narrow stairway to their own living quarters. "I myself have seen this book, Olga. It is a