A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [33]
Cici had flipped the switch that illuminated the overhead light fixture, revealing a small chamber with a painted iron bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. The interior light was not really necessary, though, because of the glass-paned door that opened to the exterior of the house. A set of steps, all but concealed by an overgrown boxwood, appeared to lead to the back garden.
The bed was neatly made up with a patchwork quilt, and on the dresser was a worn leather Bible. Bridget carefully opened the front cover of the Bible and read the faded brown handwriting inside. “Ida Mae Simpson, 1951,” she said softly. “Wow.” She glanced around. “It’s like whoever lived here just . . . walked away.”
On the left-hand wall there were two doors. Cici opened one of them to reveal a small bathroom.
“Probably this whole cellar was the servants’ quarters,” Lindsay said, “until they decided to turn it into a wine cellar. And this room they would have kept and updated for the modern-day housekeeper.” She sighed. “Imagine being able to live like that. I feel like I’m in one of those PBS specials. You know, Upstairs, Downstairs or something.”
“I think you’re right about this being the old servants’ quarters.” Cici opened the second door, and found a light switch on the interior wall. A narrow staircase opened upward into the house. “Probably this opened into a hallway originally until they decided to build this room around it.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Bridget. “That must be the staircase that goes from the kitchen to the attic. I never realized it went down, too!”
“That’s because there are doors on every level to conserve heat,” explained Cici. “This must have been the maid’s quarters, or maybe the chief housekeeper’s. She would have access to all the floors from here, plus the kitchen garden.” She nodded toward the outside doors. “Nice digs, for hired help.”
“Come on,” said Lindsay, catching Bridget’s hand and pulling her into the stairwell. “Let’s check it out.”
Cici flicked a switch that illuminated a bare bulb one floor above them, and Lindsay tossed a grin over her shoulder. “I just love this house!”
They traced the staircase all the way to the attic, a long, dusty-floored room that they had only briefly explored before. The small windows at each end were so caked with grime that only a pale wash of sunlight made its way through, and the expanse was mostly in shadows. There were some pieces of abandoned furniture—a rocking chair with broken rungs, a child’s wooden table, a painted lampshade—and odds and ends piled in various places against the wall.
“We really need to spend a day up here straightening this place up,” Lindsay observed, plucking a few cobwebs from her hair.
“I wonder what’s in those boxes,” said Bridget, making her way toward a haphazardly piled row of boxes—some cardboard, some wooden—that lined a long wall.
“Mice, probably,” replied Cici, and Bridget withdrew quickly.
“It’s like living in a castle,” said Lindsay with a wondering shake of her head. “You never run out of things to explore.”
“Say, Lindsay,” grinned Bridget, elbowing her in the ribs. “Do you think this is where your ghost hangs out?”
Lindsay drew a breath to reply, and then they all froze as a sound floated up the stairs, muffled and distant.
“Hal-loooo!”
Bridget’s eyes grew big. So did Lindsay’s. The voice came again.
“Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?”
Cici went to the window and looked out. “It’s Maggie’s car,” she reported with visible relief, and they hurried downstairs to greet their guest.
Maggie insisted she just stopped by to see how they were settling in, but was easily persuaded to stay for coffee and muffins. She had brought Farley with her, and while she told them how to find the nearest hairdresser and where the Laundromat was, Farley rumbled around the barn until he found a box of tiles that matched the ones missing from their roof, and proceeded to make repairs. As usual, all he wanted in return was ten dollars.
“It’s his disability insurance,” confided Maggie. “He’s convinced that if he charges more than ten dollars