Crab Tree Hall ( Part Four)

I woke with a gasp, my heart pounding. Beside me, Hilary was also awake, her eyes wide in the darkness.

‘Did you dream it too?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘Lieutenant Edward Morris. He never came home from the war.’

‘World War I,’ I said. ‘He must have died in France.’

‘And she waited for him. Her whole life.’

We lay in silence for a while, absorbing the tragedy of Annabella’s life.

‘The thirty years,’ I said finally. ‘She thought he needed time to find his way back to her. That’s why she stipulated the house should remain empty.’

‘She was waiting for his ghost,’ Hilary whispered. ‘Or perhaps she thought he might be reincarnated.’

‘Do you believe in that sort of thing?’

She turned to face me in the darkness. ‘I didn’t. But now… I don’t know. These dreams feel so real, John. It’s like we’re seeing her memories.’

I couldn’t argue with that. The dreams had a clarity, a depth of emotion that went beyond ordinary dreaming.

‘There’s something else,’ Hilary said hesitantly. ‘In my dream, I saw what she was writing before the will.’

‘What was it?’

‘A letter. To whoever bought the house after the thirty years. She hid it somewhere for us to find.’

‘The small door in the library,’ I said immediately. ‘That’s where it is.’

Hilary nodded. ‘We need to find the key.’

The next morning, we began our search. The house had few hiding places—no secret compartments in the furniture (which wasn’t hers anyway), no loose floorboards that we could find. We checked behind every picture, inside every book that had been left behind (mostly outdated encyclopedias and Victorian novels).

By midday, we were no closer to finding the key. Frustrated, I slumped into an armchair in the library, staring at the small door as if willing it to open.

‘We’re missing something,’ Hilary said, pacing the room. ‘She would have put it somewhere obvious, somewhere the new owners would naturally look.’

I ran my hand through my hair. ‘If I were hiding a key to a secret compartment, where would I put it?’

‘With something related,’ Hilary mused. ‘Something connected to what’s inside.’

We fell silent, both lost in thought. Outside, rain began to patter against the windows, a gentle rhythm that somehow made the house feel even more isolated.

‘The rocking horse,’ I said suddenly. ‘It’s the only thing she left behind.’

Hilary’s eyes widened. ‘Of course! It was their special place—hers and Edward’s.’

We hurried upstairs to the nursery. The rocking horse stood in its corner, its painted eyes seeming to follow us as we entered. I approached it cautiously, running my hands over the worn wood, feeling for any hidden compartments.

‘Here,’ Hilary said, kneeling beside it. ‘Look at the base.’

The wooden platform on which the horse was mounted had a small brass plate on one side. It looked like a maker’s mark, but when Hilary pressed it, it clicked and a tiny drawer popped out from beneath the platform.

Inside, nestled on a scrap of faded velvet, was a small brass key.

We looked at each other, hardly daring to breathe. Without a word, we returned to the library, the key clutched tightly in my hand.

The lock turned smoothly, as if it had been recently oiled. The small door swung open to reveal a space about two feet square. Inside was a wooden box, a bundle of letters tied with faded ribbon, and a sealed envelope with ‘To the New Owners of Crab Tree Hall’ written on it in spidery handwriting.

Hilary reached for the envelope with trembling hands. ‘Should we?’

I nodded. ‘It’s addressed to us. She meant for us to find it.’

She broke the seal carefully and unfolded the letter inside. The paper was yellowed but still crisp, the ink faded but legible. She began to read aloud:

‘To whoever finds this letter,

If you are reading these words, then thirty years have passed since I left this world, and Crab Tree Hall has new owners at last. I hope you will forgive an old woman’s fancies, but I could not bear the thought of strangers in my home while I might still be lingering here, waiting.

You see, I made a promise long ago to wait for my beloved Edward, who never returned from France in 1917. We had planned to marry upon his return. The nursery was to be filled with our children. When the telegram came, I refused to believe he was truly gone. Something in my heart told me he would find his way back to me, one way or another.

Perhaps you have felt my presence in the house, or his. Perhaps you have heard whispers, or seen the rocking horse move. Do not be afraid. We mean no harm.

In the box, you will find Edward’s letters to me, and the last photograph taken of him before he left. There is also a locket containing a lock of his hair, which I have worn close to my heart every day since he gave it to me.

I ask only one thing of you: please keep the nursery as it is. It was our special place, where we dreamed of our future together. If Edward’s spirit ever finds its way home, that is where he will look for me.

I wish you joy in your new home. Crab Tree Hall has been a place of both happiness and sorrow for me, but it has always been filled with love.

Yours sincerely,

Annabella Fitzwilliam

April 3, 1987’

Hilary’s voice broke on the last words. I put my arm around her, feeling a lump in my own throat.

‘She never gave up hope,’ I said softly.

‘Thirty years,’ Hilary whispered. ‘She thought that would be enough time for them to be reunited in death, if not in life.’

I opened the wooden box. Inside was a silver locket on a delicate chain, a stack of letters bound with ribbon, and a sepia photograph of a handsome young man in uniform, his expression serious but with a hint of a smile in his eyes.

‘Lieutenant Edward Morris,’ I said, studying the face of the man who had unwittingly shaped Annabella’s entire life.

‘He never knew she waited for him,’ Hilary said sadly. ‘All those years, alone.’

We spent the rest of the afternoon reading Edward’s letters. They were full of love and hope, plans for their future together, descriptions of the house they would build (though Annabella had insisted Crab Tree Hall was perfect just as it was). The last one was dated just three days before he was killed in action at Passchendaele.

‘My dearest Annabella,

The fighting grows more intense, but I hold your image in my heart as a talisman against fear. When I close my eyes, I see you in the nursery, sitting by the window, waiting for me. It won’t be long now, my love. This war cannot last forever, and when it ends, I will come back to you, just as I promised.

Keep the rocking horse safe for our children. I can already imagine them playing in that room, filling Crab Tree Hall with laughter and life.

All my love, now and forever,

Edward’

By the time we finished reading, dusk had fallen. The library was dark except for the single lamp on the desk, creating a pool of golden light around us.

‘We should put these back,’ I said, carefully retying the ribbon around the letters. ‘They’re private, meant for her alone.’

Hilary nodded, wiping away tears. ‘But we’ll keep our promise. The nursery stays as it is.’

As we returned the box to its hiding place, I felt a sudden chill in the room, a drop in temperature that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

‘Do you feel that?’ I whispered.

Hilary nodded, her eyes wide. ‘Someone’s here.’

We turned slowly. The room appeared empty, but there was a heaviness to the air, a sense of expectation.

‘Annabella?’ Hilary called softly. ‘We found your letter. We understand. The nursery will stay just as it is, I promise.’

The chill intensified, then just as suddenly dissipated. In its place came a feeling of profound relief, as if a great weight had been lifted.

‘I think she heard you,’ I said.

Hilary smiled through her tears. ‘I hope so. And I hope Edward finds his way back to her, wherever she is.’