by your beauty. And perhaps, they're both the same.
“A Victorian house? You’ve got to be kidding.”
I was staring at Brett Waterston as if he lost his mind, but he just kept on smiling nonchalantly, happily munching on a submarine sandwich.
Brett could be maddening, inscrutable as hell when he wanted, and in this instance, seemed to be reveling in my discomfiture.
He finally dusted the crumbs off his vest, took a sip of coffee and said, “It’s an 1875 house built for a local businessman—and I’m not kidding about it being free. All you need is a vacant lot nearby and a company willing to move it.”
As it happened, I had a vacant lot less than a mile away. There was only one problem—my wife, Faith, wanted to put a new house on the site—and not just any new house, but an ultra-modern circular structure, part Greek temple and part Frank Lloyd Wright.
It would be hard getting her to see anything else.
“By the way,” Brett winked conspiratorially, “It’s called The Grey Lady and it’s haunted.”
I wish he hadn’t said that. He knew I’d be hooked, or at the very least interested enough to take a look—which, of course, I did that very afternoon.
“I want it, Faith.”
She was painting her lips a cherry color knowing very well she was distracting me—but then, she always does that.
“Oh Tom, you promised me I could have the lot and you knew I had my heart set on a Henri Clouts original.
“I did say that,” I told her frankly, “but that was before I saw the house. You’re going to fall in love with it, I promise you.”
She gave me a vulnerable look, and I began to feel like a selfish heel.
“You’re very good at that, you know,” she said in a soft voice.
I didn’t want to say it, but had to—she backed me into a corner. “Good at what?”
She knew she had me, because as I said the words, my voice cracked, and my throat suddenly went dry.
“Oh, you’re very good at making promises,” she said breezily, fluffing her hair and critically examining her makeup as she sat before the dressing table mirror.
I didn’t want that critical gaze turned on me, so I caved immediately. “You’re right, Love—I promised you the lot, and a promise is a promise.”
I tried putting on a brave smile to cover the sinking feeling inside.
She put down the lipstick applicator and turned her huge brown eyes upon me.
“So, that’s it, is it? Just like that—you’ll give me what I want?”
I smiled in spite of myself. “That’s right—you’re irresistible.”
“Irresistible, huh? I like that.”
“It’s the truth,” I said, and it was.
“Well, I may be irresistible, but I’m not foolish. The Grey Lady appeals to you, so I want to see her.”
My jaw dropped, “You do?”
“Yes,” she smiled slyly, “I want to check out the competition.”
“But there is no competition,” I protested.
She arose and approached me, softly whispering in my ear, “Maybe I want to keep it that way.” Then, she kissed me lightly, allowing me to inhale the faint scent of her perfume.
“So, take me.”
I was stunned. “What?”
“Take me to the see The Grey Lady, Silly—what did you think I meant?”
Obviously, she made her point. And there was no competition—there never was.
We drove to the house and the minute Faith saw it, she loved it.
“Why didn’t you tell me it had so much charm?”
“Well, the dowager is 115 years old—I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
“Interested? I adore her—so dignified and stately. I must have her!”
And that was that.
All that remained was to hire a structure relocation firm, and pay an insane amount of money to have the Countess gently enthroned on a flatbed truck and moved—actually processed, through the downtown core to her new location on our suitably shady side street.
I’m sure the dowager was pleased.
I expected Faith to completely renovate the interior, but she surprised me—she brought in her friend, Louise, as consultant and the two of them worked together to carry out a period restoration. When they were through, all the original charm of the house was renewed.
Gas lighting fixtures were installed and the fireplace was once again burning wood. Even the carpet, drapes and wallpaper were vintage and true to the era
In the course of removing the old fireplace, the girls found what Louise described as a ‘crayon portrait’ of the original Lady Grey. Apparently, a weak photographic image was used as the basis and the rest of the effect was achieved with charcoal or pastels.
Louise said it was a very accurate representation that ironically bore an uncanny resemblance to Faith. Both women had elegant swan-like necks and firm jaws and if I saw the portrait among Faith’s family photos I’d swear Lady Grey was a close relative.
Faith was thrilled at finding the portrait and mounted it in an oval, bubble-glass frame and hung it above the fireplace.
Within the month, the house was finished and we had a house warming and toasted The Grey Lady.
Everyone dressed up in the style of that period. Faith wore a lovely cream-colored dress with a tight bodice and skirt gathered at the waist that fell naturally over her hips to her ankles.
She was a head-turner that evening.
I noticed her blonde hair seemed to glow auburn in the gas lighting and her brown eyes seemed even darker.
Everything about her seemed deepened by the ambience of the 19th century house.
A few nights later, there was a thunderstorm and as we huddled close to the fire, I swore I saw Faith’s features shift slightly, losing their softness and becoming more defined, as if chiseled from stone.
She was talking softly, dreamily staring out the window at the rain. Then suddenly, her voice seemed sharper, the consonants more clipped and precise.
I stared at her fascinated by the subtle changes—her cheekbones seemed more prominent, her fingers longer, and her posture more rigid.
It must be a trick of the light, or my over-active imagination, I told myself.
I hadn’t told her what Brett had said about the place being haunted, and maybe withholding that piece of information had been preying upon my mind.
But the eerie effect faded as the rainstorm weakened and everything seemed to return to normal.
It's a one-off, I reassured myself, but what happened next would prove how premature that conclusion was.