This story is by Heather Ashton and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
Lydia woke with the light, immediately making her way to the window where she brushed the filmy curtains aside. She put a finger to the glass and watched the hoar frost crackle to life on the panes. The yard was spell-binding with fall color. The maple trees boasted vibrant shades of auburn, russet, and gold; the last of the roses were rubescent against their lingering leaves. Lydia sighed deeply watching her breath momentarily dispel the scene in front of her. She loved this time of year, especially the festivities. The thought brought a small frown to her lips. She could hear Jack in the hall yelling down the stairs for someone to bring his coat. Lydia walked into the passage and stood by Jack as he finished putting on his immaculately polished shoes.
“You need to get up an hour earlier than the sun,” she told him.
“I know, I know,” he grumbled without looking up. “I need to get up an hour earlier than the sun.”
“You’re never too old to listen to your mother,” she said.
She knew Jack wasn’t pleased. He hated it when she said that to him. She stood at the top of the stairs looking down into the foyer as Jack made his way down. Mrs. Timmons, the only help Jack allowed her to keep besides the child, Aemelia, handed Jack his coat. In no time, he had it on and was rushing out the door.
“I’ll be back half past three at the latest,” he said to Mrs. Timmons, straightening his tie and running his hand through his hair. “Please have everything Aunt Martha asked for packed and ready. I don’t want to disappoint her.”
Mrs. Timmons nodded, then Jack was flying out the door.
“Mr. Jack . . .” Mrs. Timmons called. Jack stopped and stood facing the drive, then turned back around and came to the door. He didn’t set foot in the foyer; instead, he leaned inside and looked up to where his mother was standing on the stair.
“Goodbye, Mother,” he said rather coldly, glancing at Mrs. Timmons who nodded in a pinched sort of way. She looked like she wanted to say something more. Jack didn’t give her a chance. He was already down the walk and headed for the road where his carriage was waiting.
Mrs. Timmons sighed, then shut the door and went back to the kitchen where Lydia knew she was making hot cross buns for the evening. Sometimes Lydia resented Jack’s harried lifestyle, always flitting here and there, popping in just to leave again, usually with the Amhurst’s lovely daughter, Rose. Lydia made her way quietly down the stairs, as was her way, and stood in front of the parlor. The air was quiet here, except for the clanking of metal pots. She knew better than to bother Mrs. Timmons while she was at her work. The invitation still sat on the mantle over the empty fire grate. She did not want to look at it. When Thomas was alive, there was always a fire in the hearth, even early mornings. Visitors came and went speaking with her husband about sundry legal matters. Thomas said the fire took the chill from the air, a chill that always seemed to linger in the room. She felt a chill now, or imagined she did, as she walked into the room and stood in front of the hearth. The envelope was still there, addressed only to Jack. The invitation was beside it, the letters embossed with golds and orange in her sister’s eloquent handwriting. Her name was not on the invitation. Jack’s was. She remembered the last time she visited her sister, Martha, for All Hallow’s Eve. The house was lit with candles, a hundred gleaming jack o’lanterns lining the porch. Martha’s grandchildren rushed in and out, gooey popcorn and sweets in their grubby fingers. The memory of Martha’s salted caramel filled Lydia with a longing she couldn’t quite explain . . . . There was also the memory of Roberta’s daughter, little Anna, her princess gown flowing across the lawn, as she ran to Auntie Lydia for a hug. The child screamed loudly and hid behind her skirts when her father rode from the forest on a black horse, a fiery jack o’lantern tucked beneath his arm. His over-large riding cloak was pulled high over his head as though he didn’t have one. The children shrieked and fell giggling to the lawn when they saw it was only Uncle Walter. Anna came out holding Lydia’s hand until her father whisked her into the air, both of them laughing.
Sweet, sweet memories, Lydia thought. And, my name is not on the invitation.
Lydia made her way into the kitchen. Mrs. Timmons was out in the yard choosing a ripe, orange pumpkin from the garden. She could see her through the window. Lydia picked up the serving plate filled with pumpkin biscuits and let it drop to the floor where it cracked to smithereens. It was a satisfying sound . . . .
Lydia heard a breathless gasp behind her. The child, Aemelia, who sometimes helped Mrs. Timmons, was standing in the doorway, her mouth hanging open and her eyes staring at the biscuits.
“Why wasn’t I invited to Martha’s this year?” she asked the child.
“You’re dead, miss,” the girl said, before curtsying and rushing out the kitchen door.
Dead? thought Lydia, as she wafted up the stairs to choose an evening gown. That shouldn’t deter Martha.
*
When Jack came home, running late as usual, he gathered up the things Mrs. Timmons prepared for Martha’s All Hallow’s Eve party and was out the door. He paused momentarily on the steps before saying goodbye to the heavy silence. Such foolishness, he thought, failing to notice the wind shifting across the leaves on the still verdant lawn as he buttoned his collar against a sudden chill that followed him into the waiting carriage.
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