Windwood Farm (Taryn's Camera) (21 page)

The dining room was empty and bare. Fearing that she might be losing whatever power the house had, she quickened her pace and headed up the stairs, careful not to run, but aware that the energy around her was changing again, becoming crushing.
Please let it last, please let it last
, she chanted to herself. On some level, she knew that this might just be her last shot.

Propitiously
, with the first shot, she saw that the past was once again alive. Although no signs of Clara were apparent this time, the wardrobe door was open, revealing a small array of cotton dresses inside. They were shorter, but not girlish. Clara was not quite a little girl then, but not as old as she was when she died. A teddy bear was placed in the middle of the bed, something Taryn found sweet and sentimental considering Clara’s age, which had to be at least early teens. The mirror, now gone, was still there. Clara’s own reflection didn’t appear, although she was standing in front of it.
Interesting,
she thought,
so I don’t show up in this time period. That means they can’t see me and aren’t aware of my presence then.
The keys, which were on the dresser in real life, were not on there in the past.

In disappointment, Taryn sat down on the floor and stared at the
LCD screen. She had so been hoping the ritual last night would help her. Maybe those things really were just bogus P.R. Maybe she didn’t take it seriously enough. But she had
tried
.

Closing her eyes, she tried in vain to think of something else she could do. What was she missing? Missing. Missing…

Missing!

The mirror was missing.

Opening her eyes, she looked back at the picture of the mirror again. From its vantage point, it had a perfect view of the dresser. Although it didn’t catch her reflection in it, she herself wasn’t there in the past, and it didn’t show the keys, it
did
show something else—something that wasn’t there in the present: a small leather-bound book.

“I know a diary when I see one,” she laughed
almost hysterically. “Now where the hell are you?”

She might have been afraid to open things before, but sheer adrenalin and intrigue motivated her now. She’d been a teenage girl once and while her mother hadn’t been a big snoop
(she hadn’t cared enough), Taryn kind of hoped that she might be and had come up with some glorious hiding places. On her hands and knees, Taryn searched under the dresser, inside the wardrobe, in the trunk, and under the mattress (disturbing a family of mice). She made a bad scrape on her knee from a really big cut in the floor while searching under the bed and a trail of blood dribbled down her leg. She barely noticed it, such was her excitement.

“I know you didn’t take it out of the room…”

Walking to the low window, she squatted down to peer outside and her foot slipped on a loose board that nearly came up and hit her in the head. “Shit!”

Looking down, a small bundle of cloth peeked out at her inside a hole under the floorboards. “Oh, well, there you are. The classics never really die, do they?”

It was so fragile she was almost afraid to touch it but she handled it gingerly and reverently. A quick look through it showed her that the pages were shockingly dry, considering it had been hidden under an open window for more than seventy-five years. Unfortunately, only around twenty-five of the pages were written on. The rest were empty.

“Oh, honey. I was hoping you’d given me more to work with than this,” Taryn complained. “But I’ll work with what
I’ve got.”

Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, she took her precious cargo and camera and went back downstairs, the forgotten blood drying on her leg.

May 21, 1921

Sometimes I can’t even remember what my mother looked like. I slip down to the parlor and look at her portrait, but it’s as though I’m seeing someone from a fairy tale or a book. I can’t envision her face or bring her features to my mind anymore. I can’t even remember her scent. Papa won’t speak her name. He says she’s with the angels now, when he speaks of her at all.
He has stopped attending church, too. I go alone, when he lets me go. I barely remember the way he was when she was alive. There are days when I miss Papa even more than I miss her.

May 28, 1921

Jonathan Fitzgerald came over today and we went riding in the back field. I was surprised Papa allowed me to go alone but he encouraged me and said Jonathan is a “fine young man.” He is a very nice man but he seems old—not because he is several years older than myself but because he rarely laughs and his humor is deprecating. He felt old to me even when he was the age I am now. I don’t think he has ever been young. He is quiet and polite and always asks me what I am thinking and what I want to talk about, however, and that is nice. I get flustered because sometimes I just want to be quiet, and not always speak so much. He and Papa talk business, mostly about the railroad. I prefer my books and have little to add to these conversations, but they do appear to be very happy together, and I enjoy seeing Papa happy. It happens so rarely these days. Papa spends much of his time angry and hostile. Nothing I do seems to please him much.

June 3, 1921

I was so lonely today. I went for a walk along the ridge alone and I watched the sunset after dinner. Papa was in town and didn’t come home until quite late. I don’t mind being alone, I do prefer it to his heated temper and periods of agitation, but I do wish I had someone to laugh with and talk to. On the ridge I saw the Sally Ann Farm with its smoke and running children and horses. I heard laughter and I wanted to run down the hillside and join them. If only I could! Papa said Mr. Adkins is terrible with money and is selling their farm, piece by piece, and I think perhaps we should as well. Papa refuses, although I know we are in debt. He says unkind things about Mr. Adkins, but I’ve always thought him to be polite and Donald is a terribly sweet and sensitive young man. We were in school together before I had to stop going to tend to the farm full time. When we were children, we played together as well, back when Mama was alive.

June 25, 1921

Donald Adkins came to visit Windwood Farm today. Papa was in town and Donald came to see him about a business matter. I don’t know its nature, but he said he would return. We spent an hour together on the front porch, and I was surprised to learn that he had read many of the same books that I have. We used to attend the same school, but I haven’t been in school for going on three years now, not since Mama died and Papa needed me here at home. Donald is going to college next year and is excited about it. To hear him speak of getting a degree is exhilarating. He is so lively, with his rosy cheeks and thick hair and sparkling eyes. Almost everything he says, he says with a laugh. On his way off the porch, he tripped and fell over the steps and instead of getting mad, he laughed and laughed and then did a little bow. If I were to attend college, I like to think I might become a teacher. Of course, we don’t have the money for me to go, but I do think I would do very well at it if I could.

June 30, 1921

Papa was angry when he discovered Donald had come by. He wouldn’t tell me why, but he immediately went to Sally Ann Farm and came back an hour later, even more hot-tempered and said that we wouldn’t be “bothered” again. I am sorely disappointed because I very much enjoyed my brief visit from Donald and I wasn’t bothered at all. Papa did say Jonathan Fitzgerald would be coming back in a few days to speak to me about something important. I am unsure as to what this could be. I have never seen much of the Fitzgeralds before. Their house and farm are grand and they keep to social circles that do not concern us. Mama always said they thought they were better than we were, despite the fact Mama also grew up in a fine house. I don’t know much about these things, although Jonathan has always been nice enough. I only met my grandparents when I was small and don’t remember their house.

August 5, 1921

Jonathan Fitzgerald has asked me for my hand in marriage. This is such a shock to me because although I have known him my whole life, I really barely know him at all. He isn’t old enough to be my father, but I’ve never thought of him in that manner, not in the kind of manner to marry him. He is handsome, as most of my friends in school thought, but as a husband! I just don’t know. I told him I would have to ask Papa, but then he told me that he had already asked him himself and Papa said he’d given him his blessing. I spoke to Papa about the matter, and Papa said I should accept it. I’m confused. Papa thundered through the house, asking why I would even consider refusing such a “fine offer” from someone of “such character and wealth.”

Naturally, I don’t know him
well enough to love him. Papa told me I could learn to love him and would get to know him. That doesn’t feel the same to me, however. I always thought that when I married someone, it would be because I had fallen in love with him. I am scared to refuse him now, however, because Papa told me that it was “necessary” for me. I don’t know what that means, but it frightened me. I told him I accepted. He seemed elated and said his parents would be as well. I don’t know how, since they don’t even know me. He said we could set a date of sometime in the autumn. He has family who live in the north and they will want to travel here.

This all feels somewhat surreal to me. I love Windwood Farm. It just feels like I am destined for something else, not living with the Fitzgeralds. I thought he was going with Maizie Casteel. I saw them together in town all the time. I’m not sure what is happening to me.

When he asked me to marry him, I couldn’t help but think of the nice conversation I had with Donald Adkins about books. It made me sad.

August 10, 1921

There’s a special spot in the woods I enjoy visiting. It isn’t much, just a little clearing, but there’s a tree that fell over years ago and the log has made a nice bench of sorts. I go there with my books after I’ve done my chores and I relax when Papa is out in the fields. I went there this afternoon and had barely been there for half an hour when who should show up but Donald Adkins. He was surprised as I was!

“I just discovered this a week ago,” he exclaimed.

I told him it has been mine for years, but that I was happy to share it with him.

He brought his own books so we sat, side by side, for at least an hour and read in companionable silence. I brought my lunch with me, egg salad sandwich and an apple, and I shared this with him. He brought a thermos of buttermilk
and some biscuits his mother made and he shared this with me. We barely spoke a word to one another but it was one of the nicest afternoons I’ve had in years. We agreed to meet there every other day at the same time. He said he always has chores, but his parents allow him to have time to read since he is preparing for college. They truly value education. I asked him not to tell anyone that we were meeting because I don’t think Papa would understand. He agreed.

August 15, 1921

Jonathan took me dancing tonight in town at the ballroom. There was a band playing and it was the first time I had ever been to anything like that, except for the fair, of course. The music was fast and I didn’t know any of his friends, but I had a nice time. Maizie was there and that was extremely uncomfortable. She was polite to me, but sneered at me throughout the evening whenever she thought Jonathan wasn’t looking and I kept getting the feeling she was making fun of me and my flowered dress and brown shoes. They were my mother’s and the fanciest shoes I own. I don’t have a lot of dress-up clothes, only clothes I wear to church. The ballroom was full of women in red dresses, short dresses, and lots of makeup. I don’t own any makeup because Papa says painted women are the devil’s work and he won’t allow me to wear any. I wouldn’t know how to wear it even if I did have any, but seeing the other women with it on tonight made me wish I could have at least had some color on my lips. I felt very young. Jonathan promised once we were married, he would find me clothing and a hairstyle that was more suitable to me. He said he didn’t want to change me, but that he didn’t want me to feel uncomfortable. I am not opposed to this and think it might even be fun. Still, I was awfully glad to come back home at the end of the evening. I thought Papa would be angry we were out so late, but he said that as long as I was with Jonathan, everything was “fine.”

August 21, 1921

I am so enjoying my afternoons with Donald. Most days, we don’t talk to each other at all, at least not much. I read a book he encouraged me to read by Willa Cather called
My Antonia
and it made me cry for days. I just cannot stop thinking about it. He read one of my recommendations,
The Turn of the Screw
, and it kept him up for days, so we’re even, I guess.

When we talk
, we end up laughing a lot. He makes up silly songs and we take turns finishing each other’s lyrics. Sometimes they’re about the same people we know. A few days ago, we made up one about Maizie Casteel and her long, pointy nose. I know that sounds mean, but she really had no reason to make me feel so uncomfortable. Jonathan told me she called off the relationship with him. I told Donald about feeling underdressed at the dance and he said he understood. He talked about how he often felt bad at school because his family doesn’t have a lot of money, despite the fact they live on a large farm. He has won a scholarship for college and is saving his money by working for other farmers when he can. He is a hard worker and also very intelligent. I know his parents must be proud of him.