05 ~ June 1921, Summer day

Two months passed, changing the ruined manor into a lively construction site.

Walls were built. Floors were reappearing. Windows were piled up in a shed of the site, waiting to find their rightful place.

The garden was completely gone. The sisters had replanted everything further back in the small field. Only the fountain remained in the rear backyard, and had been reactivated. It was used to supply everyone’s clear water for drinking, making mortars and clean everything. It was even dirtier now than in the days following the drama, but the owners did not mind.

Rose had set her office in the front garden, just before the path leading to the gate, under large trees and a stretch cloth making it look like a field tent. She had two large wooden desks of elegant fabric now repaired and varnished. They had found these in the now accessible basement, along with some other furniture still in storage.

Rose continued to manage the outside organisation of everything with as much efficiency as she could. Mostly she handled the daily payroll and the sharing of information regarding the maps and architectural plans gradually made. Her next work after was handling the correspondence that would allow them to inherit their familial bank accounts provisioned and their family business to eventually reopen, before the end of the year hopefully. That part was a growing time consuming task she wanted to focus on while she could delegate some of the former jobs to Blue.

The communications with authorities of the counties and financial institutions handling some parts of their inheritance was draining work for Rosemary.

Rose being a motivating manager and paying them quite well, the workers did a good job too overall.

Most things worked fine and when she was not busy with them or any logistic from the construction site requiring her input, she was then spending her entire days writing and reading hundreds of letters. It was puzzling work to decipher some of them, and Rose had sometimes to write letters to other people to ask their help with how to reply properly. She exchanged more than a few letters with their mother’s lawyer friend back in London to understand some of these aspects Rose was not versed with.

For convenience, she had the post arriving to the shop brought directly there by a street boy, and it was much to Rose’s sigh an impressive unending flow of posts arriving daily. The amount was surreal to her. It seemed almost absurd to work through it, but Rose was not giving up.

~

Among the countless letters she had to go through and sort, most of them were of little business or familial importance, apparently being of distant friends or old customers inquiring about their mother whereabouts, or even her father’s for some of them, unaware of how long ago he had passed away.

Rose to her surprise was discovering or rather uncovering some odd relationships her foster parents had.

It was obvious they were not merely stuffed dolls makers with a small street corner bookshop for generations. They lived in a manor worthy of nobility, and now that she could see some of their bank statement, she could see they had a fortune scattered around numerous institutions and friendly relationships...

Her mother was born of some nobility it seemed, but had not been allowed to keep that legacy. She was an outcast who lost her name, her hand and her properties while in young age. Everything except a caring fortune in some accounts... That wasn’t an uncommon story in itself, but the amounts were higher than Rose would consider normal, and they even had some foreign accounts in these records.

Rose found sealed in a hidden compartment of a chest what looked like bank accounts records, but written in languages she couldn’t read that looked like Greek to her. For some of them, she couldn’t even tell in which way it was supposed to be read... She knew her father had travelled during his youth, but that seemed odd.

She received many posts from a relative living in Siam. He seemed well and fortunate as well. His last posts were full of worries, because they had not been answering back. Rose needed so much time to sort all this out, she received a few others before even realising the importance of the first ones. Apparently, her mother over the last few years had gradually ceased answering many of these people.

After her husband’s passing, she probably had grown more lenient to this epistolary duty.

Some letters were in Japanese, a few others in Arabic, with magnificent pictures with it. The family probably had a friend who was painting, somewhere overseas. Many a letter came from Russia before the war and had been kept there. Rose couldn’t even read them and put these mementos away, unable to say whether these had been answered before or left hanging. She had enough to focus on the recent mails.

She would need time to make sure everyone got a proper answer... And her first focus were on the recent and more urgent post she received, not the decades old inquiries over her parents wellbeing and enterprises.

Rose was even surprised to find some letters to and from her father in the stash recovered in the desk, and some others returned for a reason or another. It was as if some floodgate had broken in a post office, delivering all at once lately everything that had been held back over decades.

Her father passed a decade ago... And she now was reading some letters written by his hand as if he was still closeby and writing on this day. This pinched her heart dearly, and she read these unexpected mementos with stronger curiosity.

As for the letters written to his attention unknowing of his passing, she put in the lower priority pile of post to check and reply to. One of them was from a lawyer in London asking if he could formally state who his parents were... What on odd demand... And a late one. Puzzling, but it got Rose thinking about who her grandparents might have been, since she had no clue herself.

~

The more she thought about it and read it between the lines, the more she realised her father’s life was queerly stained with mysteries.

The man had been from unknown origins, and unlikely to be of good birth.

His parents were not mentioned anywhere she could find.

Although she could recall him telling her in the past a thing or two about his parents, it wasn’t much.

The main thing she recalled was that Georges met his real father briefly in London, before starting his journey on the continent and into Asia, which would last for years.

He had been raised by a foster family in the British countryside. He had met his father once, and left the country for years. There were no explanations. She could only imagine his thoughts and wishes back then.

He had wanted to travel and see the world.

He had concluded his journey in the Ottoman empire, then sailing back from the great city and back to England.

Soon after his return, he met his soon to be wife and bought or acquired with her the manor.

Soon after, they adopted the baby Rosemary... And their family story began.

There were holes in this family story Rose had never cared much for, prior to this moment. Now unfortunately no one else directly involved was left to tell their account of it.

Her father had left an impression on people, and then disappeared.

All she could tell was that he had been happy with his family here, until the end...

~

These letters Rose was reading and reassembling like a puzzle were giving her peculiar and slightly uneasy feelings.

As if it had been an impossible occurrence in itself beyond chance for this couple to even meet... Something so unlikely to be, their family... They both had so many bonds across the world, the entire world, it was a little weird to realise they both decide to live isolated near that small town of England, all year long.

Some of the more recent letters Rose was reading reflected the same sentiment.

Not once her family took vacations or travelled in another land. Not once... And rarely they had guests visiting them in the manor. It happened, but it had been ever so rare...

They were not widows but wealthy orphans now, Rose could grasp the extent of it. They received proofs of inheritance of various goods, passed from their mother now. They had some steady resources in various accounts, in diverse currencies and countries all over the world.

Rose was guessing that also was the nature of some of the documents she could find but not decipher the language of. When it aligned lines of numbers on it, even if it wasn’t Latin characters she could fairly guess their meaning.

The more Rose was digging into the past, the more she realised how much their mother had left behind after her mourning. Their parents had wealth, numerous friends and relations all over the world... And yet, they chose to live almost in seclusion away from the rest of the world.

Here. In this house she now couldn’t recognize.

Why? Because of love? No. They truly loved each other, Rose had no doubt about it. But they had enough resource to travel for the remaining time of their life. Why did they closed to live here, in that large manor? She felt at times as if she was almost asking herself, who truly were these two persons?

She thought she knew them... She also used to think the world was only ten miles long, with her parents standing in the middle. How wrong she was.

A letter from Russia, albeit written in English, from a distant relative of Georges inquiring about his window and children after his disappearance. Another one from India. Another one from San-Francisco... She couldn’t even guess where most of the exotic origins could be on a world map. All across the empire, and beyond.

Why did they stand and remained isolated in that manor for over twenty years? Why did they closed to settle here?

They had done so, soon before or soon after adopting her.

Rose was answering to the official, financial and business related mails first of all, explaining their situation and asking for various delays. But while doing so, she felt haunted by that question and the lonely silhouette of her mother before the end...

Her aging but kind mother kept these things to herself until that unfortunate end.

Why did they choose that house to live in?

Only now that it was harder to figure it out, that she was inheriting that ownership, did Rose felt that need to understand the past.

The answer would come with another letter draft found in the older bundle. A scribbling with the handwriting of her father she could still recognize.

~

It had been in the corner of chest filled with quite old sorted letters.

Blue found it in the shop on some other day and had help getting it brought to the new tent office but didn’t sort its entire content.

Blue’s face was always dirty and her hair was cut a lot shorter. She was showing both her frail side and a childish inclination to become more of a tomboy. That was altogether odd for her and quite like her Rose could recognise, smiling at the apparent paradox. That was Blue alright. And if she was a little wild or uncouth sometimes, she now was building herself up better than ever.

Her work was of menial help, like carrying tools or transmitting orders. Still, as she was one of the employers, it built an odd relationship with the main force of manly workers.

At first some of them were not willing to share anything, asking that child to stay away from them as they worked. Some others told her that if she wanted to help she could cook or do the laundry.

But Blue continued to go as she pleased at her own pace, sometimes listening, sometimes forgetting the comments. Then, when she was still going around and helping as much as she could, like another errand boy or apprentice, they eventually warmed up to her and started relying on her even. Sometimes they were thanking her with embarrassment, or being too polite in their way of asking her assistance.

Afterward, things went smoother, and she was in the end accepted as the kind of younger apprentice or daughter working along her family. Her adjusted attire and untidiness made things easier, when Rose remained properly primed and dressed. Her shorter, uncombed hair helped her pass as a mere child.

They were more friendly with her, getting accustomed to her presence and small helps.

Rose observed these shows with a mixture of bewilderment, fascination and affection.

Blue was glad to be of some help and never did as much exercise in her whole life. She liked it.

Even if she was a dirty tomboy for the days, she was still herself more than ever and Rose knew it too. Blue would clean herself and dress properly back as a normal lady as soon as the work would be over.

She was simply enjoying what was somehow the first holidays of her life, abandoning all previous serious care in the world.

Blue could sometimes be heard laughing.

Rose would raise her head and feel a shiver hearing her from where she couldn’t see.

The summer warmth was haunting her, but Blue was laughing.

Rose felt that all she could do was continue to grow her way forward.

She was already surrounded by a hundred of labelled boxes and suitcases of letters. Her hand and fingers had blisters because of how much she was writing. She still had an amused sigh when seeing the content of another chest brought her from a remote corner of their shop. Even more papers...

Blue helped her for a time, and from there a little more often. Some of the old exchanges were going straight in some sorted boxes or bin.

It was only old personal mail there, not even business related.

And amongst it was a letter with odd handwriting that explained a little more why they were here now indirectly, as it spoke of why their parents eventually chose to live in this strange house.

~

The letter Rosemary picked out was addressed to her father.

Dear Sir Georges Matthew Herson...

That was an odd way to address him, catching her attention.

It had come to their attention that he recently acquired a large property, and also that he recently was married with Lady Arlweyn Naïrin Gleinspï.

They gave him their sincere congratulations for both of these events, from which they cared to wish him the longest happiness and bounty.

Whilst they wished him the best life has to offer and prayed for his long bliss, they hereby came for a different matter.

They were an old acquaintance of now Madam Herson when she had been a young child, and they visited their recently acquired estate back when it was still a private borough orphanage.

The institution had been a generous gift to the community from the lady’s late father the count, many decades ago.

Whilst they had been deeply saddened by the tragic end of the place’s mission, they were forced to assume that the acquisition of this property by him had been legally impossible.

Rose learnt through these lines that following a tragedy, the investigation which followed had been hasty and shady. They came to write to Georges to learn more about these odd string of events.

The property had apparently simply been abandoned until the couple purchased it. They understood it had been with the help of his wife that this abandoned property suddenly found a legitimate owner.

Following the count’s fall from grace, there had been some clever plays.

The letter’s author was both inquisitive and complimenting her father in her words, making Rose feel a little uneasy. It was nonetheless interesting for her to discover how they came to live here, even if some parts of the reasoning were still missing. Her parents never told her about these aspects of the past.

The couple had found shelter in the haunted mansion casted aside by the country itself apparently.

Whilst they couldn’t find the registered costs for the transaction, they were forced to assume that passing money from husband to spouse had been quite the shrewd trade of a lifetime for an estate of this size.

And doing so, the new property title had been cleansed from its sad history.

There apparently was not a record left anywhere in the borough that this place had been once a tragic failure of an orphanage.

And since dead orphans cannot talk; no one but him, and the author apparently, could remember what happened there, that night...

Rose felt another uneasy grasp around her reading these old accusations aimed at her late father.

Her tragedy had maybe not been the first.

Rosemary couldn’t remember where nor when she had been found as an infant and adopted by the Herson family, but now she could guess parts of it.

The letter continued, the author returning to more passive aggressive praises of her father. The truth was they were not incriminating him they said. They respect his smart moves.

They both had made clever use of a series of opportunities to get hold of a commensurable property and heritage, whilst managing not to bring attention on their whereabouts.

It seemed that almost no one knew about them anymore, not only in this countryside, but in London too. Rose knew partially how much they had treasured that isolation. If she had started to wilt over the last few years, her mother had rarely left the manor to head into town, but still seemed satisfied with her life, watching her growing daughters beginning to set their feet into the outside world.

The writer admired how apparently Rose’s father managed with legal and commercial trickery to bring back a haunted house to life, and then managed to vanish there with his spouse for good.

Lovers often flee together, but them two managed to disappear completely, whilst staying in their home country. That was impressive doing, and they received their sincere admiration for their success.

Whilst one could wonder about what they could both be hiding from, they had a fair idea about it and it was not of their concerns.

Rose had had the same wonder, but had no educated guess to consider. Like in archaeology, the theories and elements of proof would remain partial and frail, now that Blue and her were the only ones left.

She sighed, and turned to the last page of the unpleasant letter.

As they wrote earlier, they claimed knowing both the lady and the mansion from an older time.

They claimed bluntly losing a child there.

I don’t know if you can imagine the pain of losing a child, they said, clearly bitter.

They politely said hoping he would never live to suffer that way.

Their child died in that domain, on the same night as every other; and these memories are something that they will keep like a wound until the grave.

However, their child had no tombstone, because they died in the wrong time and place.

For them, the entire mansion should have been a monument, but no names are recorded there on its walls.

This local lordship’s failure had been swept under the rug much to their regret, and the ones who died there in the past had now been forgotten entirely.

Rose could begin to see where this was going at last.

Learning that the mansion came back to life had been a sign for them.

Whilst they didn’t expect ever setting foot in England again before the end of times, there was something they wished to see come forth. For their peace of mind, and grieving.

There had been a sight they would like to see at least once more: the garden roses.

The gardens back in their days had thriving rosebushes.

Roses would always remind them of their dear Lukje. They hoped these flowers would carry sweeter meaning for them two over their age.

If Georges would be so kind as to agree to their request, they would appreciate to receive a modern picture of the roses from their garden when spring comes. To Rose’s surprise, it had not been grimmer.

They wouldn’t be able to repay him but by offering their friendship.

They claimed it might not appear as much in these changing times, but that it could remain invaluable. Their trust and gratitude might remain one of the most valuable things the world could hold for a variety of unexplained reasons. Rose shrugged at it, imagining her father likely to cough at the hubris as well.

They concluded this unique letter thanking him for reading them through, and truly wishing both of them a long lasting happiness.

It was signed yours faithfully, Amuna Ankhe in August 1908.

~

Rose unfolded the draft of a reply that had been attached to this letter unlike any other. At least this one talked about the past and not money.

She could now read written with a graphite pencil the rough draft of a reply from Georges himself.

His handwriting was quick and on an unsteady pace.

Rose’s father knew the child referred to by this person.

Her name was Herson. Lukje had been his niece. That was the first things he said.

His spouse had told him what this person called Amuna had done for her in the past and he was grateful.

They had tried to save the child apparently.

Then he claimed they were not running away from anyone anymore. If they had found who his father was, they should know that he had passed away as well. And then to Rose’s surprise, Georges referred to his own mother as someone who would remain as a nameless prostitute. She used to be a model for Rose’s grandfather apparently, according to what she could decipher through scribbles.

In these lines, Rose could read how all her foster grandparents had passed away at the time.

At the time of these scribbles, there was no one left to tell her parents about their own past, or after their names and legacy. With the name Herson instead of Gleinspï, they had become anonymous and invisible.

That is how they wanted to live onward.

They had their family, they had a house.

They both had suffered from having neither since they were born. For themselves and their daughters, Georges said, they only longed to live happily together and forever after.

Rose was feeling blue reading these words, finally reaching the end of this exchange.

What her father wrote next about the deceased Lukje were kinder words about memory.

About how a loved one might be gone, but never completely gone. How after passing, all that is left are memories, and so long they shared this light of her past, a part of her would remain.

In every child and in every flower...

The words made Rose twitch.

Georges said he would send a picture, expressing his sympathy.

Rose’s fingers folded back these decade old papers her parents had never wished to mention.

Twenty years or so before them, her parents returned to this house bereaving someone loved and lost...

Looking at the construction site, and Blue passing by here or there, Rose felt altogether estranged and nostalgic.

A generation had passed, and some of their story had naturally repeated a peculiar pattern of loss and rebirth.

What mattered was rebirth...

~

The reply Georges sent had probably been more polite and elaborate, but Rose thought there might have been another reason for him to keep that draft along with the letter, and preserved it in that chest.

He had probably meant for her to read it someday.

For a few different reasons, Rose came to believe this letter had been kept for her.

For the one day when she would have asked where she came from.

He had the gift of silver tongue, and would have been able to tell her they came to live in this house, because it had been hers before... Something like that, reconnecting parts of her past she never dared to ask.

Rose didn’t try to think too much about what could have been, as this caused her a natural headache.

However she could recognise her father in that simple ambition to live his days peaceful along his family. He had his share of travels for a lifetime he used to say. He had finished his shortened life more focused in looking after his wife and children than anything else anyway. He had been happy.

The husband and spouse lost their parents around the same time probably, but soon after started their family there.

Along with Rose as a very young child.

And they lived happily until death set them apart...

In the end, Rose understood her parents... She was feeling the same way they probably had; even if her travel, her only real travel, had been but a desperate one.

On nights were Blue & Rose could start to camp in the construction site, now with a rebuilt roof over their head, they shared their thoughts about it.

After a lot of wonders, they felt some relief to have found some answers and an enclosure.

Relief, nothing else. As if now that they knew about the past, their parents could rest in peace.

Actually, they were the ones able to rest more peacefully on these nights.

Their parents didn’t hold onto much mysteries after all...

~