Secret Whispers (Heavenstone 2)

“Maybe,” I said.

I thought Uncle Perry might stay over after we landed, but he said he had work to do in the morning and promised he would try to get up on the weekend. I expected Daddy would want to take Lucille home first, but nothing was said, and he didn’t give any other directions to our driver.

I really hadn’t given much thought at all to what I would do now. Once I had thought I might go into teaching, but the idea of facing so many different personalities and dealing with them all had turned terrifying. I didn’t want to be in front of any audience, no matter how small or how young.

I was tired from the day and the journey, but the sight of our historic family home silhouetted against the night sky bright with stars filled me with new energy. Daddy wasn’t exaggerating when he carried on about our heritage and our ties to our past through this grand house, our Heaven-stone. It was comforting and safe, a world unto itself. The voices, laughter, and even tears of sadness and tears of joy still echoed within, as did the footsteps of our grandparents, great-grandparents, and what Cassie used to call our triple great-grandparents.

Growing up there, I often felt as if the house were truly alive, beating with a heart of its own, its lifeblood flowing through the pipes and wires. Every light was another eye, every creak in the stairways or floors another moan. Both Cassie and I had always felt guilty and ashamed if we scratched a wall or a floorboard, broke a dish or a glass. Repairs were like medical treatments. It was never permissible to injure Heaven-stone in any way. Few, if any, of our peers had similar feelings about their homes. Most families in our school moved from place to place, house to house, periodically, their parents viewing their homes as investments and not gardens in which to grow families.

I always felt closer to Mother and even to Cassie in the house than I did at the cemetery. I vividly remembered where my mot

her had stood or sat when she had said something wonderful or when she had looked beautiful and happy. I loved to sit in her favorite chairs or look out the windows she had looked out to see the world through her eyes. Being there, touching things she had touched, holding things she had held, and using things she had used helped me to feel her presence even now. She was still in our mansion and still giving me a sense of security and a sense of great love. I could never, ever be alone in Heaven-stone. The memories would always surround me and comfort me. Lucille Bennet wouldn’t understand this, I thought. Cassie wasn’t all wrong. How could anyone but a Heaven-stone understand?

Of course, there were other, darker memories that were continually resurrected in our house. After Cassie had made sure that Mother overdosed on her sleeping pills, she had tried to erase any and all traces of her death by changing our parents’ bedroom. She could replace the furniture, the flooring, and the curtains, but nothing would ever erase the image of Mother asleep forever in her bed. Nothing would drown out my screams and tears. I could never look at the stairway to the attic and not see Cassie tumbling down. And it was certainly impossible for me to fall asleep in my own bed and not, as I had told Ethan, occasionally revisit my rape.

Once, when Daddy and I had one of our painful conversations after it was all over and done, he said, “As hard as it will be, Semantha, we must face our demons here. We cannot let them drive us from our home and our history. We’ll never be who we really are if we leave. Be strong. Face them down.”

I promised I would, and I was confident I could, but that was before Cassie had returned from her grave to haunt me. That had become more and more intense this last year of private high school, so I couldn’t help being a little more apprehensive than usual as we approached Heaven-stone.

“Home sweet home,” Daddy said as we drove up our long driveway.

Our Gothic Revival mansion had been built in the Bluegrass region of Kentucky because this was where Daddy’s ancestors had come to live when they left England. The house had ten rooms. Five were downstairs: the large living room with the original fieldstone fireplace with stone up to the ceiling; a large dining room with a grand teardrop chandelier that had been imported years ago from France; a kitchen that had been renovated five times to provide for more modern appliances, twice alone after Daddy and Mother married; a dark oakwood den that was our entertainment center; and Daddy’s home office with its library of leather-bound first editions.

Mrs. Dobson, anticipating our arrival, was at the door even before we got out of the car. Our limousine driver grabbed my suitcases, and we started up the steps. I imagined Daddy wanted to get me settled in first and then would take Lucille home.

“Welcome home, Miss Semantha,” Mrs. Dobson said. She reached for my carry-on bag.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Dobson,” I said, keeping it. Ever since she had come to work for us, she had pampered me. My father swore he hadn’t given her any special instructions regarding my needs. She was more like a sweet grandmother to me now.

“Oh, but you must be tired, Miss. All that traveling and excitement were surely enough to wear you down.”

“It’s nothing, Mrs. Dobson. Really, I’m fine.”

“She’s still young enough to handle this short a trip,” Lucille said almost curtly. “We didn’t exactly travel in what you would call steerage.”

Mrs. Dobson glanced at her without speaking.

Daddy took my suitcases from the driver. “I’ll take it from here, Jeff. Thanks.”

“Very good, Mr. Heaven-stone.”

He turned and headed back to the limousine. I looked at Lucille. Why were they sending the limousine away?

We entered the house.

“Should I prepare something to eat, Mr. Heaven-stone?” Mrs. Dobson asked.

“We ate on the plane. Thank you, Mrs. Dobson,” he said, and then turned to Lucille.

“I’ll just get her set and come down. Pour me a scotch and soda, will you?”

“Of course. Welcome home, Semantha,” she told me, and went into the den.

“Oh, I can do that, Mr. Heaven-stone,” Mrs. Dobson said, reaching for the suitcase.

“They’re not too heavy?”

“Hardly,” she said. “I’ve carried heavier up steeper hills than this beautiful stairway.”