The House on the Hill: A Ghost Story Page 12

  “Yes,” Lauren admitted. “I’ve seen her twice. Based on the style of her clothing, I believe she was the first mistress of the house. I think her name was Sophie.”

  “So, you have been able to find something,” Ryan said, nodding in approval, his food forgotten.

  “I have a friend who dabbles in genealogy. She was able to trace the Hollands as far back as the end of the seventeenth century, but since the house wasn’t built until the 1700s, it stands to reason that the woman I saw was the wife of George Holland, son of Lionel Holland, who started the Holland bookstore chain.”

  “What would she be doing here in Orleans? And why does she linger?”

  “That’s what I hope to find out.”

  “I’d like to help, if you’ll let me.”

  “I’ll take all the help I can get,” Lauren said. “The history of these people is proving difficult to unearth. This is delicious, by the way,” she said as she tasted the chicken. “Do you cook often?”

  “I used to, but these days it’s all grilled cheese and chicken fingers. I don’t like to cook for just myself.”

  “I know what you mean. Since Zack died, I haven’t been doing much cooking either. It’s either takeout or a quick omelet or salad.”

  “Sometimes my mom takes pity on me and brings over a casserole,” Ryan said. “I stick it in the freezer and forget about it until she brings the next one.”

  Lauren nodded in understanding. She hadn’t had much of an appetite since losing Zack. Seemed Ryan felt much the same. Regardless of their agreement not to talk about their loved ones, there were four people at that table, not just two.

  “So, how do you plan to go about finding the Hollands?” Lauren asked, eager to change the subject.

  Ryan took a sip of wine, his expression thoughtful as he considered her question. “In recent years, the government has been the keeper of information, but in the past, it was the church. It was the heart and soul of a community, but also a testament to the lives of its parishioners. The parish registers used to be the only legal form of recordkeeping. So, I did a little poking around this afternoon. There were two churches in this area at the beginning of the eighteenth century, a Protestant church and a Puritan church.”

  “I don’t think the Hollands were Puritan,” Lauren said, recalling that the woman she’d seen wore a gown that was not exactly—for lack of a better word—puritanical.

  “No, I don’t think they were either. However, Josiah Martins, the spiritual leader of the Puritan community, was quite the writer, unlike William Middleworth, the vicar of the Protestant church. Martins not only wrote down all his sermons, but also kept up an ongoing correspondence with other local Puritan ministers and kept a journal.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t see how that helps us.”

  “Any mention of the Hollands can be useful. One clue usually leads to another.”

  “That’s a longshot,” Lauren replied, disappointed.

  “Yes, it is,” Ryan agreed. “We can also try to track down the parish records from the Protestant church, which they must have attended.”

  “I guess.”

  “Come on, it’s a good idea,” Ryan said, clearly discouraged by her lack of enthusiasm.

  “It is,” Lauren conceded, “but I was hoping for something more concrete.”

  “Like what? Like a journal written by your ghost?” Ryan joked.

  “You must admit, that would be ideal, but I doubt such a document exists,” Lauren said.

  “Why?”

  “Journal-keeping was very popular with the ladies of the Victorian era, but a woman living on Cape Cod in the early eighteenth century wasn’t likely to have the resources or the time for such an undertaking.”

  “The Hollands were a wealthy family. Sophie Holland would have had both the resources and the time, since she’d probably have a houseful of servants.”

  Lauren shook her head. She couldn’t explain the reason for her conviction, but she got the impression that Sophie felt quite isolated in her house on the hill. “Nowadays, having a house that’s set apart is usually a sign of prosperity, but at the time the house was built, it was more desirable to be in a town or a village. People needed each other to survive, and they had a better chance of prospering when settling in groups. That house wasn’t a refuge, it was a bolt-hole,” Lauren said, verbalizing something she hadn’t realized she’d been thinking.

  Ryan nodded. “That’s a very valid point. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Let me ask you a practical question,” Lauren said, pushing away her empty plate. “How would someone go about sending a letter from here in the eighteenth century?”

  “Either with someone traveling in the direction of the recipient or possibly by boat. There was no postal service, as such,” Ryan replied, his head tilted to the side as he considered the question. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. When I saw Sophie, if that’s who she is, she appeared to be writing a letter, possibly to her husband, who must have been in Cambridge.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can find out,” Ryan said, pushing his chair away from the table.

  Lauren followed him back into the living room and took a seat on the couch. Ryan sat down next to her and opened his laptop, which had been left on the coffee table. Ryan Googled the Reverend Josiah Martins and added Holland into the search. Several entries popped up.

  “Take a look,” Ryan said, turning the screen toward her.

  November 1728

  A grand house is being built on a hill overlooking the bay. The ostentatious structure requires much labor and materials. I have made it a point to visit the site, intent on meeting the owner, but found only several laborers who were hard at work. I asked them who is building this affront to modesty, and they said they cannot reveal the name of their patron. I do, however, recall a couple by the name of Holland passing through our settlement. I think they might be behind this.

  Lauren looked up, her lips curling into a smug smile. “Sounds like the Reverend Martins had some strong opinions about the business of others,” she said, scrolling down and skimming over several paragraphs until she found the next reference.

  February 1729

  Mistress Holland and her child have been installed in the newly built house along with a young male servant. The woman keeps to herself and only leaves her home to attend the Protestant church, and even that she does not do regularly. I have yet to determine if she’s a widow, but my sister, who has an eye for such things, tells me the woman is with child. There’s no master in residence, but there’s no reason to suspect her husband is dead. Simply gone.

  “Why would George Holland build a house so far away from either Cambridge or Boston and leave his pregnant wife there alone with a child and a servant?” Lauren asked.

  “Perhaps he wanted to be rid of her,” Ryan suggested. “Maybe he had a mistress whom he preferred and had moved her into his house in Cambridge.”

  “Would this not tarnish his reputation among his customers, given that many of them would have been students of theology at the College of Cambridge?”

  Ryan shrugged. “It’s hard to say. This website is devoted to the writings of well-known Puritan ministers of the time. Let’s see if we can find any other references to the Hollands.”

  He continued scrolling until he came upon another entry, the last to mention the Hollands.

  April 1729

  I have instructed all parishioners to shun Mistress Holland and her servant should they come into our settlement for any reason. Riches tainted by the blood of innocents were used to build the witch’s house, which is what I now believe her to be, and the man who wore the guise of an honest citizen is in actuality a criminal and a privateer known to colonial authorities. The Devil has installed this sinful family in our midst to test our faith, but we will not succumb to his wiles, which are disguised as easily made coin.

  “So, George Holland was a privateer?” Lauren asked, surprised by the implication.


  “It’s possible, I suppose, but I’ve never heard any mention of it,” Ryan replied.

  “Nothing to support Martins’ claim came up in my earlier search of the family,” Lauren said. “Sounds like he was the type who saw sin behind every bush anyway.”

  “Preaching about the sinners in their midst might have been a way to isolate the Puritan community and retain his grip on power. In any case, there don’t seem to be any further entries pertaining to the Hollands.”

  Lauren glanced at her watch. It was getting late, and she was tired. “I think I’d better go. Thank you for dinner and for helping me with my research.”

  “I’ll forward you a link if I find anything else,” Ryan said as he shut the laptop.

  “There’s no Wi-Fi at the house, so I can only access the site on my phone, but the signal is spotty.”

  “You can always do your research here,” Ryan suggested, coloring slightly. “I’d welcome the company.”

  “Thank you. I just might take you up on that. I really am curious about this family.”

  “I’m not sure I understand why you need this information to write a book. You’re a fiction author. You can tell any story you want.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but I find that a story based on real events usually makes for more compelling reading. I can create a plot to fit the few facts I’ve been able to find, but I’d like to know if I’m on the right track.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll never know the real story.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Would you like some coffee before you go?” Ryan asked. Lauren was about to refuse, but the expression in his eyes quickly changed her mind. He didn’t want her to leave; that was obvious, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to go.

  “Yes, please,” she said and watched his eyes light up. She didn’t really want any coffee, and the caffeine would probably keep her up half the night, but she had no desire to return to her silent house when she could spend some more time with Ryan, whose company, she was surprised to admit, she was enjoying.

  Chapter 20

  Moonlight streamed through the window, casting a silvery path on the floor beneath. Oblivious to Lauren’s incredulous gaze and bated breath, the woman paced the room, an infant in a trailing white gown on her shoulder. The baby whimpered and fussed, its breathing rapid and shallow. It was obviously ill, its mother fretful and tired. Lauren watched as the woman sat on a low stool by the glowing hearth, pulled down her nightdress, and put the baby to her breast. The child rested its head against her smooth breast but didn’t begin to nurse. Squeezing the nipple with her fingers, she dribbled milk into the baby’s mouth, urging it to drink.

  “Please, sweetheart,” she whispered to the cranky child. “You’re in need of nourishment.” She sounded desperate and terrified of losing her baby.

  Lauren’s heart went out to her. The woman had been dead for centuries, but her anguish resonated through the years and her isolation was palpable, its echo filling the room and making Lauren inexplicably anxious. How frightening it must have been to have no doctor or hospital nearby, the only resources hope and prayer. Infant mortality had been shockingly high, and every family had occupied their own section of a graveyard, many of the stones sad and tiny, like the babies who slumbered beneath them.

  The woman rocked the baby, singing quietly until it calmed and went to sleep, leaving her with her own thoughts. She leaned her head back against the tall back of the chair and closed her eyes, but Lauren could tell she wasn’t sleeping. Her lips moved in silent prayer and her hand never moved from the baby’s chest, as if she were making sure its heart continued to beat as it slept. Translucent tears fell, sliding down her pale cheeks and dripping into her mouth.

  “Why aren’t you here?” she asked scornfully. “I need you. Why aren’t you here?”

  Lauren watched the scene, mesmerized, until the shimmering light of dawn left the corner empty and the hearth stone cold. As before, when she’d seen Sophie, Billy hadn’t barked, unable to sense her presence. Was she going mad, her mind conjuring up images that weren’t there?

  Getting out of bed, Lauren strode to the desk and yanked open the drawer where Sophie had hidden her letters. She had no idea what she’d expected to find, but the drawer held some blank envelopes and several outdated stamps someone had left behind. There was nothing there that might have belonged to Sophie Holland—not anymore.

  Chapter 21

  Boston

  May 1727

  Sophie lowered herself into a chair and folded her hands in her lap, unsure what to do. The wedding had been a splendid affair, paid for almost entirely by Lionel Holland. As he’d pointed out repeatedly, it wasn’t every day one’s son got married. Sophie wished Amelia had been there, but she was indisposed due to her advanced pregnancy and couldn’t attend the nuptials. The whole day—in fact, the past two months—had felt like a dream, or more accurately a nightmare Sophie hadn’t been able to wake up from. She could barely recall George’s initial visit or their conversation, having channeled all her energy into keeping a pleasant smile on her face and not bursting into tears. He’d been kind, considerate, and very nervous, his fingers plucking at a loose thread on his waistcoat and his cheeks stained pink despite the chill of the room.

  Perhaps it was his distress that had endeared him to Sophie; she could understand just how he felt. For some unfathomable reason, he’d fallen in love with her, and his yearning shone from his eyes like a beacon, signaling to her battered soul and guiding it to shore. She no longer held out any hope for Teddy’s return, nor had she been able to find out anything about the whereabouts of her baby. It didn’t matter what happened to her now. All that was left was to put one foot in front of the other and hope that, in time, she’d have put enough distance between herself and the tragedy that had shattered her world. And here she was, married to George Holland, about to embark on a future she’d never imagined for herself.

  Sophie took in the room. It was one of the guest rooms at Mr. Holland’s house, a pretty chamber decorated in shades of pink and cream. Her nightdress had been laid out on the bed by one of the maids, and George’s dressing gown lay folded on a chair, his slippers carefully placed beneath the chair. For some reason, it was the sight of the dressing gown that really distressed her. There was something terribly intimate about its velveteen folds that suggested a physical closeness with her new husband she wasn’t ready to embrace.

  “Shall I help you, miss?” a maid who’d come into the room without knocking inquired of Sophie.

  “Yes, please,” Sophie replied, unsure her own trembling hands were up to the task.

  The maid unlaced the bodice, helped Sophie out of her skirt, petticoats, and stays, and carefully rolled down her stockings before pulling the nightdress over her head. Sophie should have been embarrassed to have a stranger see her in a state of undress, but she felt numb with apprehension and too tired after putting on a show of bridal happiness for the dozens of guests Mr. Holland had invited. All the prominent citizens of Boston had gathered at the church and then returned to the house for the feast that followed. Sophie’s father had beamed at his acquaintances and accepted their congratulations, but his show of paternal pride had been nothing more than relief at having Sophie finally wed after the disgrace she’d brought on his head.

  Sophie turned toward the door, forcing a smile to her face as George entered their bridal chamber.

  “Goodnight, sir,” the maid said, and scurried from the room.

  “Goodnight,” George mumbled.

  He shut the door behind her and turned the key in the lock, sending a flurry of nervous tingles down Sophie’s back. She was sure the gesture didn’t mean anything sinister, but she didn’t like the idea of being locked in.

  “You made a beautiful bride,” George said as he came toward her, holding out his hands. Sophie had no choice but to place her hands in his and rise to stand before him. “I couldn’t wait for the party to end.”

  “Yes, it we
nt on for rather a long time,” Sophie agreed.

  George smiled, presumably at her naivete at misinterpreting his comment. “Shall we go to bed?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

  “If you wish it.”

  “I wish it,” George replied, and having let go of her hands, he unbuttoned his coat. His movements were hurried, as if he couldn’t bear to waste any more time.

  George tossed his coat atop his dressing gown, then kicked off his shoes, pulled his shirt over his head, and quickly removed his britches, garters, and stockings. His body was doughy and white, the physique of a man who rarely did more than take a stroll down the street. His chest and stomach were sprinkled with coarse brown hair, and his surprisingly large member rose proudly from a thicket of darker curls. Sophie lowered her gaze, worried George would notice the revulsion in her eyes.

  “Take off your nightdress,” he instructed gruffly. “You won’t be needing it.” All his nervousness was gone, replaced by impatience and desire.

  Sophie did as she was told, pulling the garment over her head to reveal her nakedness. She hoped George wouldn’t notice the faint red lines on her belly caused by the stretching of the skin when she was in the final stages of pregnancy. Would he be able to tell she wasn’t a virgin? she asked herself for the umpteenth time since accepting his proposal.

  George lifted her up and laid her on the bed, immediately covering her body with his own. His lips found hers and he kissed her hard, pushing his tongue into her mouth in his mounting excitement. She could feel the pressure of his shaft against her thigh and felt a growing sense of panic. She didn’t want this, didn’t want him. He was a virtual stranger to her, this man who was now her lord and master.

  George broke the kiss, his face looming above her, his gaze hazy with drink and his pupils dilated with lust. “You mustn’t fear me, Sophie. I only want to make you happy,” he said. His breath was warm on her face, his body hot against her cold skin. She wanted to press her legs together, to lock him out of her body, but he was her husband now, and she had to perform her wifely duty whether she wished to or not.