Plus, Culdwell’s wife was nosy and smelled like broccoli.
So the pertinent questions were, how poor was the condition of Whimbrel House, and how much did Merritt actually care?
“I . . . might divulge one other thing listed here.” Mr. Allen’s mouth skewed to the side almost in distaste. A thick line formed between his eyebrows.
“Oh?”
He shrugged. “I’m not one for superstition, Mr. Fernsby, but it does state here that the previous tenant claimed the place was haunted.”
Merritt laughed. “Haunted? This is Rhode Island, not Germany.”
“Agreed.” While it was possible for magic to root itself in inanimate objects, it had become so rare—especially in a place as new as the States—that the claim felt incredible. “But haunted or not, the parcel is yours.”
Merritt knit his hands together. “How large of a parcel is it?”
Mr. Allen glanced at the papers. “I believe it’s the entire island. Roughly eighteen acres.”
“Eighteen,” Merritt exhaled.
“Marshland, mind you.”
“Yes, yes.” He waved his hand. “But wasn’t Jamestown built on the same? Folk are always multiplying and expanding. If the house is unsalvageable, there’s the land. I could sell the land.”
“You could, with the right buyer.” Mr. Allen didn’t hide his skepticism as he handed over the papers. “Congratulations, Mr. Fernsby. You’re now a homeowner.”
Despite his ever-growing curiosity, Merritt did not spend the extra money to take the kinetic tram out to Rhode Island; he took a train, a wagon, and then a boat. By the time he crossed a good portion of the Narragansett Bay and reached Blaugdone Island, he understood why no one had bothered to live there. It was vastly out of the way. There was something uncomfortable yet incredibly appealing about how out of the way it was.
Because after the hired boat dropped off Merritt and the one bag he’d packed, he heard a beautiful thing.
Silence.
Now, Merritt did not hate noise. He’d been raised in a sizable town and lived in a bustling city for over a decade. He was used to it. It was familiar. But the only time cities got quiet was during heavy snowfall. So it was strange for a place to be both quiet and warm. There was something about the hush that made him realize he was completely alone, on an island that may have been untouched by humankind for . . . years. A century, even. But it didn’t bother him, not precisely. After all, Merritt had been alone a long time.
The cry of a bird broke the silence momentarily, announcing Merritt’s arrival to others. Shading his eyes from the sun, he spied what he believed to be a heron off in some tall grass between trees. The leaves had not yet changed on the elms and oaks spotting the land, but they were certainly thinking about it. Just beyond that was a nub of a shadow—the house, most likely. He walked toward it, and the heron took off, long legs trailing behind.
The earth was moist beneath his shoes, the local plant life wild and untouched. He recognized some of it: weeping cherries, golden aster, autumn olive. He thought he smelled chrysanthemums as well, which had the effect of relaxing his shoulders. He hadn’t realized they’d been tense. Crouching, he pinched some soil between his fingers. It looked rich; if he started a garden now, he might be able to wheedle some garlic, onions, and carrots out of it before the frost hit.
A cottontail thumped and darted from his path—he’d have to cut down some of this grass—and a flock of swallows watched him from a slippery elm. The house grew in size, enough to garner some color—was that a blue roof? Blue shingles were a surprise, given the age of the house. Time faded colors. That, and most of the early roofs in the States were thatched.
The house continued to grow to two stories, and its sides took on a yellow hue. Merritt’s steps quickened, startling a feeding bird—a whimbrel—from a puddle. He’d half expected the house to be slanting one way, to have gaps between weathered boarding, to shelter large families of mice. Hence his decision to pack a single bag. It wasn’t his intent to stay; this visit was exploratory.
He approached the house from the north; it faced east. When he came around to the front, his lips parted as sea-scented air puffed his hair back.
The house was . . . fine.
It was perfectly fine. In fantastic condition, at least from the outside. No weathering, no missing shingles, no broken windows. The nature around it was wild, but surely someone lived here for the place to be so pristine. It could almost be brand new, though the style was certainly colonial.