Chapter Two

Chapter 2 –




          Mr. Landry’s long black car wound through the muddy streets of Woodleighville. The clouds seemed to grow ever darker and more ominous.

          “It looks like it will rain,” Catherine said, breaking the silence. Mr. Landry grunted some kind of response that made her feel like she had made the most singularly uninsightful comment he had ever heard.

          It took only a few minutes to reach the northernmost part of the village, and there, standing at the end of the street was a large rust coloured building with dark windows that held several broken panes, and trash strewn across the lawn. Mr. Landry had been right. The Lionshead was in terrible condition, and was probably not even safe to tread into.

          They exited the car and Catherine walked up to the long porch. As she touched the aging wooden pillars, for a moment she could see the Inn in all its glory, beautifully restored down to its brick foundations. The sound of laughter and the tinkling of silverware and glasses resonated in her head. She pulled her hand back, slightly startled.

          “What a shame,” she said slowly. “It must have been lovely once.”

          Mr. Landry was eyeing her curiously. “Yes,” he replied. “It was.”

          “Can we go in?”

          He seemed to not want to, hesitating briefly, but then, as though changing his mind, “Yes of course.” He reached up above the wooden doorframe and produced a ring of several long, black iron skeleton keys. He looked into the broken windowpanes of the door for a moment, hesitating again, and then put a key into the lock.

          The door creaked open loudly, and overhead, thunder rumbled. Catherine felt the air become cold and the wind swept into the inn, whirling up little clouds of dust and causing the cobwebs to shake.

          Catherine took a deep breath and stepped inside bravely. But once inside, she was overwhelmed with a peaceful feeling. The dining room was full of tables and chairs, some overturned and broken, but it looked like it had once been a wonderful place, full of happy times and people.

          Mr. Landry was still watching Catherine. “My mother brought me and my sister here every Tuesday,” he said softly. “We usually sat right over there, by the kitchen doors.” He pointed over to a set of wooden doors with small round windows in them. “Old Mother Freel, that was Mathilde’s mother, would make shepherd’s pie and potatoes that night and all the children would eat for nothing. Your great-grandmother would serve us heaping plates with such a lovely smile. She was beautiful. She had long red hair, not unlike yours, and she was always happy to see us.”

          He seemed so sad. Catherine walked toward the stairs and glanced up. For a moment, she thought she saw a shadow swaying to and fro at the landing point where the staircase turned and went to the second floor, but as she looked again, of course there was nothing to be seen. The window had been boarded up and not even cracks of light could be seen through it. The dust lay thickly over each and every step.

          Mr. Landry seemed very occupied with his thoughts and memories, but Catherine wanted to see more. “May we go upstairs?” she asked him.

          “You may,” he said. “But I would like to warn you again, that this building is not in good repair. It may be dangerous.”

           Catherine looked up the stairs again, and began to climb. They creaked just as loudly as the door had done when it was first opened. When she reached the landing, she looked back and realized that Mr. Landry was not following her. Looking around the corner, she saw nothing but rows of black doors in a long and filthy hallway.

           “Well, plenty of time to look later I suppose,” she said uneasily, backing away and returning to the dining room.

          “Would you like me to draw up the real estate papers, Mrs. Dodd?” Mr. Landry asked as they returned to the porch and he began to lock the inn again.

          Catherine was strangely drawn to the place and was a bit irritated with the little old man’s dismissal of her interest in her inheritance. She frowned momentarily. “You know Mr. Landry, I would like to wait a few days and make a good decision then.”

          His tired, creased old eyes widened. “Really Mrs. Dodd? You can’t be thinking of….”

          Catherine shook her head. “Mr. Landry, I have very little to return to America for at this time and my ex-husband has been trying to get his fingers into the few things I have left anyway. Perhaps this old place is my next step in life.”

          He looked surprised, and then somewhat relieved. Perhaps he had simply misjudged this Yankee socialite after all. “If you are quite certain about the matter, I will allow you the time to make your decision,” he replied, slowly raising his hand to offer her the ring of black iron skeleton keys.

           “Of course,” Catherine said with a nod. “Now, since I obviously cannot stay here, where do you suggest I spend the night?”

            Mr. Landry pointed down the road a bit. “There is a guest house called the Little Darby at the end of this road. Mrs. Davies owns the place. She will rent you a room and she’s not a bad cook. Nothing like Mother Freel though…” He added the last part to himself, but Catherine heard it anyway.

          Mr. Landry dropped Catherine and her suitcases off in front of the Little Darby and drove away without so much as a goodbye. The last thing he said was “I do urge you to read those letters.” As Catherine agreed for the second time, it began to rain steadily, and Mr. Landry’s car disappeared.

          Catherine hurried to get under the shelter of the porch. It was a snug little building with a polished brass sign bearing its name. The windows were slightly less cloudy than the other buildings nearby, and something about the whole place seemed a little more cheerful. Catherine reached for the door handle and opened it, hoping the inside was as cheerful as the outside felt.