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She wandered more, and to her delight found a panel of bells. Maybe she didn’t have her uncle’s full passion for movies and TV, but she’d seen this sort of thing in period pieces.
Each bell connected to a room, and signaled the staff to respond. No connection now, of course, but they’d kept that old communication in place down here.
She rang one.
“Mr. Poole must want his elevenses in the morning room.”
She shook her head and thought, What a life.
Up and down the stairs, she thought as she started back up. Inand out of the passageways so the family or their guests didn’t have to see you.
Did it make a good life or a bad one? she wondered.
Had there been a warm bed at night, a full belly, decent pay?
Would someone have been pleased to work here, or had it been sheer drudgery?
As she started to the third floor, the bell, far below, marked the Gold Room rang.
But she’d walked into another storage area, and didn’t hear.
She found furniture—tables, desks, chairs, what she thought might be a cabinet for sheet music. She discovered an old Victrola—and a stash of the thick old records that played on it.
For the fun of it, she cranked the Victrola, chose a record at random. Billie Holiday—she’d heard the name, didn’t know the music.
After carefully placing the needle, she heard a few seconds of scratchy, jazzy piano and a horn.
Then magic.
“Okay,” she mumbled as the music, that voice filled the air. “I get why I’ve heard the name when you recorded this about sixty years before I was born.”
Ms. Holiday, the Victrola, and all of it, she determined, needed to find a home in the music room. Once she figured out how to get it down there.
When she opened the first of a treasure trove of trunks, she actually squealed, then sighed in pleasure as she ran a hand over the lace and silk of the top dress.
Careful packing layers of tissue and the cedar lining had helped preserve the deep green material. She didn’t have a clue what era it represented, only that it was gorgeous.
Afraid to disturb it, she lifted an edge, saw more dresses beneath, just as meticulously packed.
They should go to a museum, she thought. She needed to have someone who knew fashion and eras come in, go through them.
“Maybe keep a few,” she considered. “This wouldkillat a costume party. And if the manor isn’t the spot for a killer costume party, where is?”
Sitting back on her heels, she realized it hadn’t taken three months. It hadn’t taken three weeks.
She’d already decided to stay.
One by one she opened trunks. More clothes—for the lady and the gentleman. Shoes and hats, all lovingly wrapped.
A museum, she thought again. Or if they weren’t worthy, at least a vintage shop.
“My great-great-whatevers wore all this stuff. They need to be seen, admired, worn again.”
She stood up, looked around.
On impulse, she chose another record. “In the Mood,” because she sort of knew it, and, well, she was in the mood.
Was it odd, she wondered, for her to stand here with the old music playing on the old machine while surrounded with so much from the past?
