Page 8 of Wildwood

We step down into the conservatory, our feet crunching on fallen leaves and gravel.

“This is the conservatory,” Mr. Warnick says unnecessarily. “Sorry, I had been coming by to care for the plants, but, well, the time kept passing.”

I look around. It’s a tall glass room made of countless long window panels. Many have jagged cracks, and all have a thin layer of dirt and grime marring the view to the outdoors. There are potted plants everywhere, smaller ones littering long wrought iron tables, larger pots containing trees and fronds. Many plants show signs of decay, leaves wilting or already brown and brittle looking. But I remember this room now, and what it could be. I remember the verdant green, the feel of the sun through the glass, the heady scent of flowers I never knew the names of but whose scents I can suddenly remember as though they were in full bloom right now.

There’s a round wrought iron table with two rickety chairs in the center of the room. Topher drags one of the chairs over the leaves and gravel and sits down. I hold my breath.

“This is pretty sweet,” my husband says, looking around and nodding.

My heart soars. “Isn’t it? Imagine how wonderful it could be when everything is taken care of?”

“When friends come to visit, we could do cocktail parties out here!”

We chatter excitedly about what we could do with the space, summer cocktail parties, Sunday brunches, until Mr. Warnick clears his throat. “The cemetery?” And he leads us out through a side door into the yard.

We cross the road to the abandoned church. The cemetery is partitioned off with a wrought iron fence. It’s a decent-size cemetery, for such a tiny village, and seems peaceful, with tall trees providing shade for its residents, and the fresh mowed grass suggests it is well cared for. We walk slowly through rows of headstones, many of which date back to the early 1800s, a couple even to the late 1700s. I notice one for a William Bishop, dated March 26, 1823. It’s among the oldest. There’s also a Levi Brook who died in 1815.

Mr. Warnick walks in a straight line toward his destination.

I struggle to keep up with him, while still taking in my surroundings. After we are a little way in, something jumps out at me.

“Mr. Warnick, sorry. The graves, it seems it’s entirely Bishops or Brooks . . .” I trail off, not sure what my question is.

“Yes. It’s not a private cemetery, it was affiliated with the church, of course. But both the Brooks and the Bishops have lived here for two hundred fifty years, so eventually those graves add up. Others are buried here as well, families who lived farther out but were still part of Newfield Village. Ah, here we are.”

Mr. Warnick gestures to a shining white headstone with the name “Ezra Bishop” inscribed at the top.

Awkwardly, I kneel and murmur a few words of respect. I look around, taking in the graves. It is strange being surrounded by dead ancestors I know nothing about, in a cemetery across the street from a house I may inherit. If we move here, is this where I will lie one day? Probably.

As we are walking back out of the cemetery, I turn to get a better view of the three grand homes upon the hill.

“Can you tell us anything else about the Brooks?” Topher echoes my own question.

Mr. Warnick nods, looking as though he’d been expecting the question.

“Well, as I said, they are town legends. State legends, really. In addition to running the wool mill, the family has also excelled in politics. A Brook was a governor once. Several have been US senators. I think it was typically the eldest son who stayed in Newfield, though, and took over the family business. They own a big chunk of the town. Their main property is close to two thousand acres and then of course they have the mill on the Connecticut. Anyway, the estate was passed down generation to generation to the eldest son until one decided to buck tradition and divide the property among his three children, and now descendants of theirs live in those enormous houses. Don’t even ask me how they figure out wills in cases like this. Must be a nightmare.” Mr. Warnick shakes his head.

We stand, staring up at the three houses. The first two residences are large, brick federal-style mansions. The second one is even more enormous than the first, with an addition off the back left-hand corner that is almost as large as the main house. With the addition, there are five chimneys in total.

The third house is altogether different in style. It looks almost like a massive, modern barn. The exterior is all clean lines, dark wood, and enormous windows. There is something like a turret in the middle of the house, with windows circling the entire upper half.

“Do you know them?” My curiosity is piqued, and I wonder if I ever met them as a child.

He hesitates again before answering. “Not well. But everyone in town knows them a bit. They are involved in all town matters in one way or another, and they have the annual Fall Harvest Festival.” He smiles. “Everyone is invited.”

“What happens there?”

“Oh, the usual, anything edible that can be made from a pumpkin or apple, music, drinking.”

“That sounds fun. Something to look forward to.” I can picture it. The party, in the full burst of autumn, leaves audacious in reds, oranges, and golds. People drinking cider, kids running around playing games well past their bedtimes.

“If we move here,” Topher interjects.

“Right. So, I’m sure you have a lot to talk about,” Mr. Warnick says. “It’s a big decision, to leave everything behind. While your uncle left you the house, you ultimately need to do what is right for you.”

“What happens if we don’t accept it?” The question only just pops into my head. “Would it go to Tom or Anna?”

“Ezra named them next in line after you, but they’ve already stated they do not want it. Maybe it feels like too much to manage from overseas.”