“So, just here for tourist season?”
She shook herself. “Yes.” It was sort of true. “I thought I’d do a little sightseeing while I was on the East Coast.” Again, sort of true.
“It’s definitely the time of year for it.” She turned into a long driveway with a large sign declaring this the Vinke Estate, Established 1758. “Here we are. The tour is really good here. Way better than the haunted walking tour they do down by the old covered bridge. There are actual facts here.”
Esmie grinned. “You may be a local, but you’re also a history buff.”
Tatiana smirked. “Guilty. Get outta here.”
“I’m out, I’m out.”
She crawled out of the little car and waved goodbye as it sped back down the drive, then turned and looked up at the tall, straight house with its tall, straight pillars. It was definitely colonial style, and very well preserved. She looked around the expansive yard, toward what surely must be a decorative barn, and off into the crops that marched into the distance. Was this still a working farm, or were the crops for show?
She started toward the front of the house where a few customers were milling about, then saw the little farmer’smarket off to the left of the house. Working farm, then. Nice. Aaron would have put his MBA to good use on a place like this.
Nodding, she headed for the little knot of customers. A sign on the red front door indicated the tours ran every hour starting at 10:00 AM with the last one starting at 7:00 PM. An hour long tour? What on earth could they talk about for an hour? Surely they didn’t drag people out into the fields, did they?
She pulled out her phone. It was almost two o’clock already. Jesus, the day was getting away from her. She’d have to get a move on, but she couldn’t until after the tour. If the tour even told her anything. What could it possibly tell her about the Hessian’s horse?
Maybe she was wasting her time. But something, some niggle in the back of her mind, told her this was where she was supposed to be. So, she stood with the rest of the people, paid for her ticket, and then got in line when the lady in period-appropriate clothing gestured for their attention.
“Good day, ladies and gentlemen.” The costumed woman smiled and clasped her hands before her beautiful dress. “I am Merel Vinke, daughter of Gerrit Vinke, who owns all the land from the van Tassel estate to the south to the river in the hills up north, from the battlefield east of town to the old mill to the west. My father was the proud provider of most of the corn, wheat, and fresh vegetables to this town for over fifty years, my brother after him, and my nephews and grand nephews after them.” She gestured broadly around the porch. “This land is still owned by my ancestors to this day.”
That was interesting. Esmie wondered if they still carried the name Vinke, or if it had, at some point, passed along a matriarchal line and was thus changed to some other male line’s name.
“Today, we will take a tour of the house, the barn, and the family cemetery plot, after which you’ll have free rein ofthe farmer’s market and the gift shop. I hope you’ll have fun and learn a lot about the history of my family and this town. Now, if you’ll please remember, this is a museum. Most of the furnishings are antiques, some of which have been in the home for hundreds of years. Please don’t touch anything or lean against anything. Alright?”
A murmur of okays and alrights agreed with this entreaty.
“Wonderful. Now, if you’ll all follow me….”
Esmie followed and listened as they went through the entryway, the kitchens, the dining room, the cellar, even the pantry. She enjoyed the lovely refurbished wallpaper and the original harpsichord in the drawing room, the gorgeous velvet settee in the salon, and the antique writing desk in the study. She held on through all the rooms upstairs, through talk of morning ablutions in chamber pots, giving birth in the same beds being slept in, and the various odd things mattresses could be stuffed with. She even found interest in the attic levels where the servants’ rooms hid, though it was stuffy and overwarm up there, and she longed for the lower floors again, fanning herself with the brochure she still held from the library.
She even paid close attention in the barn, despite being completely bored with talk of farm implements and horse tack and hay and vermin. She wished Jerome was here. His sense of humor would be just the thing to liven up the boringly agrarian part of the tour. It wasn’t until they were up in the loft that she heard something which made her ears perk up.
“This is, of course, where I spent all of my time journaling about my favorite horse, Blackie. It was obviously a soldier’s horse that was injured in the big battle,” the faux Merel Vinke said mournfully, “but no one ever came for him, so I patched him up, tamed him, as he was quite wild, and kept him for the rest of his days. I was the only one who could ever ride him. Even my father couldn’t.”
It couldn’t be. Like awakening from a dream, she raised her hand.
“I’m sorry—could you repeat that?”
“Of course, my dear. Even my father couldn’t ride my favorite horse. He was quite feisty.”
“Not that part.” She tried not to sound too eager, but her heartbeat sounded like a bass drum in her ears and her heart felt like it was clogging her throat. “Sorry, but the bit about the battle.”
“Ah,” the guide said, nodding. “Well, the horse limped in from the east, riddled with holes. I knew at once he was one of the soldier’s horses, so I took the reins and began treating the wounds, assuming the soldier would come for him in time. But no one ever came. His poor soldier must have fallen in battle.” She shrugged. “Since I was the only one who could ride him, my father let me keep him. He was my loyal steed all his days.”
Esmie nodded, shifting from foot to foot. “Right, right. That’s fascinating stuff. Where… uh… where did you get that information? Not to break character or anything,” she hurried to say.
“Not at all,” Merel said, waving a negligent hand. “It came from my diary, of course, which is for sale in the gift shop. Most of the history of the house comes directly from the horse’s mouth, as it were.” She chuckled, as did a few of the tourists. “Now, if you’re ready, we’ll go visit the old family cemetery, and then we’ll finish up in the gift shop, and you can go to the farmer’s market on the way out. If you’ll just walk this way? Mind the steps.”
Esmie couldn’t care less about the little cemetery. She wanted to get to the gift shop and buy that diary. She hoped the handwriting wasn’t too elaborate. She didn’t want to have to wait for Chad to read it. She wanted to have the head in hand, if at all possible. But where on earth was it? Had it fallen offsomewhere between here and the battlefield? That was all too possible, and the likelihood of finding it, if so, was miniscule. Dammit.
“As you can see, the family plot isn’t very big. Once the township was fully recognized and the church established in the wood, the town cemetery became the place to bury everyone, including the Vinke’s. But my first ancestors were buried here—my mother, my baby sister who died at age one, my aunt, my grandfather, and the nanny, who was like family. She came with us from the old country. And the fountain, of course. An underground spring feeds it, though it sometimes runs dry in hot weather. Isn’t it beautiful?”
As impatient as she was to get to the gift shop, Esmie had to admit the little stone fountain, with its bent-headed Mary figure, hands together in prayer, was quite charming, in a religious sort of way. The carving was softened with age, but it had clearly been done with care, and the mellow trickling of the water was soothing.
After a quiet moment, the guide stirred herself with a deeply drawn breath. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, that concludes our tour for today. If you’ll just follow me back to the house, I’ll take you to the gift shop and let you go about your day. I hope you enjoyed this little walk through the beautiful history of our lovely little town.”
