What Remains

It was sunrise. Rose Harwood Manor stood tall and noble in the bare countryside, lonely against grassy plains and far from the nearest road. Thickets scrambled over crumbling brick walls. Overgrown trees reached their limbs wide and heavy, defending the home like tired, aged guards.  

Inside, just past the main hall to the left – in the library – Cordelia lay crumbled up on the divan, her arm for a pillow, her knit shawl for a blanket. At seventy one years old and just five-foot-three, her small frame hung over the antique furniture. She opened her eyes, blinking into the rays of sun filtering through the library's tall, diamond-paned windows. As she set her feet to the creaking floorboards. Pllllrppt chirped a shadow under the sofa. The shadow manifested black limbs, outstretched, extended claws, and two striking green eyes.  

Cordelia reached down absently to pet Alma the cat before she stood up and shuffled out the wide, library doors. Down the hallway toward the kitchen wing, Cordelia glanced at every set of eyes in the row of portraits lining the walls as she passed. For a few of the English nobles in the portraits she gave a nod. But for just one portrait, she stopped a moment to gaze up at it admiringly.

"Good morning, Rose." Cordelia's voice was hoarse and dry, and Alma continued down the hallway ahead of her. 

Rose Harwood – the manor's lady and original namesake. In her portrait, she was young and pale, with round cheeks blushing pink. Her gray eyes sparkled, still reflecting painted light. She was the young wife of Andrew Harwood, wealthy tradesman from England and local Justice of the Peace for Charles City County, Virginia. In 1663 Andrew built, or ordered to be built, this manor to make her feel at home in the New World. Now, it was one of the only examples of Jacobean architecture in the United States.  

Hundreds of years ago, young Rose had lived in the manor for just seven years. In those years she miscarried, gave birth to, and buried three of her children. Rose was known to have painted to pass the time in the lonely house. In her studio, upstairs, Cordelia could still smell the paint seeping through the walls. Cordelia even found Rose's paintings hidden behind a false wall one day as she was repairing the peeling wallpaper. Behind the boards were fifty-six canvases, huddled together and loosely covered in rotting cloth. Cordelia suspected there were even more of Rose's paintings somewhere hidden in the manor, or so she had hoped. Unable to bear the thought of traumatizing the walls in vain during her search, she accepted that if Rose's artwork was meant to be found, they would inevitably appear to her during her restoration work. 

Cordelia had carefully uncovered each of Rose's canvases. The paint was faded and muddied, but she could still see the beauty of the subjects as seen through Rose's eyes. They were not of people, nor of monuments or myths, but of ordinary things found in the gardens back at her home in England. They were romantic, whimsical oil paintings of birds and flowers, and many, many cats known to inhabit the grounds even those years ago. 

Cordelia dedicated herself to restoring each painting carefully to reveal its original vibrance. After completing the tedious process over months, she hung each piece in its own new place of prominence in the manor, like a proud mother displaying her child's artwork.  

In 1670 the manor had had been seized by rebels and fortified before Andrew and Rose were killed. Much of the Harwood's original valuable artwork and collections were plundered or destroyed when the land was taken over. They renamed the fortress “Fort Blackstone” after the leader of the rebellion against the colony. The manor absorbed gunfire—bullet holes remained like scars on the floral wallpaper. Outside, the brick face bore craters from cannon fire. Two men had dueled in the gardens and one of them died under the Magnolias. Hundreds of slaves worked the land, many died and were buried in unmarked graves. 

Despite the manor’s valuable treasures going missing, Rose's paintings survived time. And now hundreds of years later Rose’s hobby had inevitably produced valuable antiquities. To Cordelia, Rose's paintings were priceless.  

In 1970 Cordelia had bought Rose Harwood Manor as a personal project. She planned to restore it herself while living on the grounds. She invested every cent of her savings in the project. It was a labor of love and had become the capstone of her life's work. Knowing its traumatic history, one of her first acts of restoration was to rename Fort Blackstone back to Rose Harwood Manor. She declined offers from The Association of Historic Landmarks among many others to take the project off her hands. Despite facing financial ruin over the years, Cordelia insisted on keeping ownership of the renovations.  

Cordelia feared that without her personal keeping of the manor’s original history, the more recent events—the rebellion and warfare, slavery and death would forever overshadow the delicate beauty of Andrew's original vision for Rose's home. Cordelia only learned more of Rose’s story over the years while pouring over manuscripts and scraping away layers of old finish. The manor was always meant to be a home in a foreign land. It was to be Rose's sanctuary, not a battle fortress. It was meant to nurture new life, Rose's children, not to be the graveyard for suffering, misplaced souls.  

Before Cordelia bought the house, she knew the rumors of the ghosts – of The Lady in White, presumably Rose, had been seen at the top of the stairs. Cordelia had seen The Lady herself, a few times and for a split second, as well as many others. Most of the ghosts eluded her, disappearing around corners before she could fully accept what she had seen. A few she could only sense as they watched her around corners while she leaned over canvases, tirelessly restoring the art pieces. After years, Cordelia began to learn to avoid the ghosts as much as they seemed to have learned to avoid her. They crossed paths less often perhaps as Cordelia's patterns became more predictable to them.  

The manor was crowded indeed; Cordelia could feel it. But it was lonely to the living, setting a longing in Cordelia's heart. She remembered the early days as an art history professor. Her classrooms were a sea of bored faces, but there were always a few that would light up to the subjects with the same vibrance as she. She relished sharing history with others, even to the captive audiences, if only to spark their interest or plant some tidbit of appreciation in their subconscious for the artwork, the history, the lost stories from times of the past.  

Cordelia approached the front door, looking out through the tall window at the overgrown grounds behind the walls. Through the window she could see the mail basket on the porch was empty, as it had been for months now since the pandemic. She knew of the news now only from her portable radio, which she would listen to from the library divan as she drifted to sleep. There was limited power to the building, just a generator from outside to give her electricity for a few appliances in the kitchen. The kitchen remained otherwise untouched these days. Dust collected over the kettles and pots, the butcher boards, and the wood stove. She occasionally moved the dust with a dry, cotton cloth. She used the microwave to heat her only meals – just a tv dinner a day from the miniature freezer and a kettle of earl gray tea. She had not been to the store in a while. She could not remember in how long now—but the frozen meals were consistent and served their purpose. 

The only running water in the house came from the rusting sink faucet in the kitchen. When she turned the water on, it ran cold, orange, and slow, the air rattling the pipework down the walls. As Cordelia slowed down with age and her energy waned, she began to gather dust on herself, in the creases of her face and over her knotted gray hair. What did it matter now, with the pandemic, since there was nobody to come by the house. There was no delivery or curious local or colleague from her university days coming to see her.  

Cordelia did hope for a letter though, from her dear friend, Dr. Wesley Hall. Years after Cordelia had bought Harwood Manor, her funds had been running out, and she faced losing the property. Dr. Hall had bailed her out, and for a time, mailed small, monthly checks to cover her personal expenses. She was grateful to Dr. Hall; he had always been a good friend, and he believed in her vision for the manor. He had reassured her that one day Cordelia would be able to open Harwood to the public and share its original history and restored beauty. It had been a long time now since Cordelia received any mail –let alone one of Dr. Hall's loyal checks. She assumed they were delayed somewhere due to the pandemic, but over time she was beginning to fear the worst – it felt more likely something had happened to Dr. Hall after these years. 

Outside, Cordelia stepped into the cool morning air, at once greeted by mews of the cats in the garden. They wove around her ankles, batting at her legs, some lounging in the distance, allowing the others to plead their case for breakfast. Alma hung back, in the doorway. Cordelia opened a small, metal garbage can and scooped kibble into five large bowls. The cats had come with the property. They had been living there for generations, some with ancestors she imagined had been cared for by Rose herself. She scooped the kibble, noticing the can was nearly empty. It had been nearly empty for days. Nearly empty, but never running out, just like the gasoline in the generator. Despite being alone for months, Rose had suspected there must have been someone else refilling it. She often felt watched and was beginning to wonder if she was receiving anonymous help. A benevolent neighbor, a good Samaritan perhaps, looking out for Cordelia and the cats without wishing to break no-contact during the pandemic. She returned inside. 

____ 

That night, from the divan in the library, Cordelia's eyes fluttered open. She could hear a distant voice in the hallway. Her radio was shut off and it was just past 11pm. She had been sleeping since sundown. The voice was low and hurried, and now she could hear the dragging of a heavy object over the floor.  

She froze, her head still cradled in her arm; her eyes were wide, staring into the darkness of the library. She had heard voices in the dark before, heard objects move even, but this voice was a stranger's. The dragging sound grew louder, now with objects clanking. 

Burglars! She thought, now thinking of the precious paintings, the vases, the antiquities outside the library, all in their places, vulnerable without her. Her face grew hot with anger, and her heart fluttered with adrenaline. She nearly levitated to her feet, almost tripping over Alma who was blending into the darkness. Alma's hackles had been up, alerted to the same noises in the hall. Cordelia danced over the floorboards light and fast, on her toes, remembering every creaky spot to avoid as she flattened her body against the wall, peering around the corner of the doorway. 

Bright lights flashed in the hallway, and now there were two voices, low and whispering. Now one even laughed– the bold-faced audacity—Cordelia clenched her fists, boiling in anger. She was stupidly unprepared for this day to come—but now of course—in the pandemic the place was quiet, and it was defenseless to intruders. Without a phone, how would she even call the police? If she could call them, how long would it take for them to get to her, down the lonely road miles outside of town?

She was the manor's only defense. She clenched her hand over a poker by the fireplace, careful to remove it without clanging it against its stand. Alma was now hiding under the lampstand in the corner, only the glow of her eyes in the shadows of the moonlit library.  

She heard footsteps on the stairs. The floor groaned above her. Cordelia could not even remember the last time she had heard someone up there. The hall had gone quiet, so she felt the courage to leave the library and follow the intruders up the stairs. Rounding the corner, her foot stepped over something hard and round, nearly rolling her ankle. She looked down to find a thick, black cable, taped down and trailing through the hall and up the stairs. She followed the cable, quiet on each step, listening for the voices to guide her. They were growing distant, so she hurried up the stairs so as not to lose them. The hall was dark, lit only by the moonlight gleaming off the reflective surfaces. She did not need light. She knew where every object was by heart and could navigate with her eyes shut. The bright light flashed again at the end of the hall. 

The intruders were in Rose's studio. Cordelia gasped, setting a foot down hard, the floor creaking under her. She covered her mouth, holding completely still. 

"Did you hear that?" Hissed a voice. 

"Shh," another responded. "We're not alone." 

A faint beeping sound came from the studio.  

Cordelia could hear her own heart thumping in her chest. The poker hung heavily at her side. She suddenly felt exposed, standing in the middle of the hall. How ridiculous for her to follow the intruders upstairs—what could she do? Behind her, at the stairs, she could not retreat without being seen. Without anywhere else to go, in a split-second decision, she rushed down the hall toward the studio past the studio's open doorway and around the corner. 

The beeping intensified in the studio. 

"Is that you, Rose?" Called one of the intruders, shining a light into the hallway. 

Why would they be calling for Rose? Cordelia looked down at her empty hands, wondering where she had left the poker. Now both intruders shuffled into the hall, flashing lights wildly in both directions.

"Shhh..."  

They were only dark silhouettes to Cordelia behind their bright lights. From her hiding place she watched their movement, perfectly still as she crouched in the shadows. She lowered herself to the floor, like a cat. Cordelia crept slowly away from the silhouettes, careful not to make a sound. As she slid her body over her floorboards, her nails scratched softly against the wood. She stopped moving, heart pounding in her chest. 

They had heard her. Both lights shined directly at her. The machine in the studio beeped intensely. But the intruders froze, perfectly quiet in the darkness. They did not seem to see her, belly down, lying in the middle of the hallway. It was strange indeed, but she shut her eyes tightly, her forehead pressed against the floor. She waited, searching her mind for a plan. She was cornered, completely vulnerable, no way to escape. 

___ 

At sunrise, Cordelia opened her eyes, blinking at the rays of sun filtering through the library's tall, diamond-paned windows. As she set her feet to the creaking floorboards, "pllllrppt" chirped a shadow under the sofa. The shadow manifested two black limbs, outstretched, extended claws, and two, striking green eyes.  

Cordelia reached down absently to pet Alma the cat before she stood up and shuffled out the wide, library doors. As she rounded the corner to the hall her foot slid over a small, black disk. She picked up the object in her fingers, examining it closely. 'Canon' in silver italics. Strange, she thought, before setting it back on the floor where she found it. 

She went to the front window to look out at the empty mail basket on the porch. Alma's soft, warm black fur weaved between her calves. One day she would open the doors to the public, and students and tourists would come to see for themselves the beauty of Rose Harwood Manor. They would marvel at her artwork garnishing the scarred walls with painted cats and birds and gardens. One day there would be chatter in the halls. Hands would be folded conservatively over pamphlets, respectful lines forming behind velvet ropes to admire the history, the vision and beauty of Rose's home. One day after the pandemic, there would be people in the manor again, and Cordelia would share with them the stories behind its ghosts.

One day.