“I’m sorry the place was left as is,” Mr. Warner said as he turned the key to the massive oak door.

“It’ll be fine.” Gretchen refrained from dancing an unrefined jig across the expansive porch. “I’ve loved this house ever since I was a little girl. I can’t believe it finally came on the market.”

“Well, you might want to brace yourself from any high expectations.” The real estate agent pushed the heavy door open and stepped to one side to allow his client entry first. “It needs a ton of work.”

“I can make it exactly how I want it.” Gretchen smiled through the dust-filled air. “Miss Havisham, here I come!” She intoned with the flourish of one hand.

“Don’t recognize that name.” Mr. Warner frowned.

Gretchen laughed. “She was a character from Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations. Jilted at the altar, she wore her wedding gown the rest of her life.” 

“Oh.” The man shrugged. “No wonder I didn’t recognize that name. No big reader, I’m afraid. Always preferred numbers myself. Now…” He gestured. “Like any true Victorian home, the living room is on one side of the entrance and the formal parlor on the other, divided by this wide staircase.”

“It’s exquisite,” Gretchen breathed. “I can put my grand piano in this room. Never thought I’d find a place big enough for it. This is perfect.”

They moved through the spacious dining room, peeked in at an antiquated half-bath, or powder room as fancy folk liked to call it, and halted at the kitchen at the rear of the house.

“It needs a lot of updating.” Mr. Warner held up placating palms. “Are you certain you want to tackle such a project?” He studied Gretchen’s petite form. Again, she laughed.

“Just because I’m a seasoned citizen doesn’t mean I’m daft or helpless. I have great connections and two very handy grandsons. They would love to take on this project.”

“Well, the condition could certainly alter the asking price and leave you more room for a remodel.”

“Of course.” Gretchen ran a hand over the scarred counter. “So much history here,” she murmured. “How I wish I could know it.” She stepped to the window and gazed out to the rear yard. “What a lovely gazebo!”

Mr. Warner opened the door and they both stepped out.

“As I said,” Gretchen began. “I passed this house every day on my way to and from grade school. I never saw a soul. The drapes were always drawn. The house seemed friendless and sad. I would make up stories of who might live here. Sometimes it was a ship captain whose life was lost at sea. His widow stayed home the rest of her life waiting and longing for the husband who would never return.” She moved off the porch.

“Then, it was a girl, similar to Miss Havisham.”

“Oh, yes. Charles Dickens, you said.”

“Yes, she mourns for her unfaithful lover all the days of her life.” Gretchen snickered. “I thought that was so romantic when I was in sixth grade. Now, with age, I know that would be just plain stupid. Life goes on. The jerk wasn’t worthy of my heroine. She should have moved on and found a good man.” She paused. A smile flitted across her weathered face. “Like I did.”

“Shall we go upstairs?” Mr. Warner glanced at his wristwatch.

“I’m sorry.” Gretchen sent a last wistful glance toward the backyard as they reentered the house.

“There are stairs as we entered, as you well know.” Mr. Warner pointed to a narrow door on the right wall of the kitchen. “However, a second set is here. These are the servants’ stairs.”

“Oh,” squealed Gretchen. “It gets better and better.”

“Be careful. They’re narrow and steep.”

“I can just see the maids dashing up and down them, balancing teapots and linens.”

Mr. Warner shrugged.

Upstairs, they inspected four large bedrooms, all with working fireplaces, weathered hardwood floors and oak molding. Boxes filled the closets of most. “This is the clutter of which I spoke.” Mr. Warner waved an apologetic hand.

“It’s all right. My grandsons and I will take care of it.”

“You seem determined to purchase the house.”

“I certainly am. I cannot let this opportunity pass. I can bring it back to life and enjoy it for the rest of my own natural life. Both my grandsons love this architecture.” A quick laugh. “They may even fight over it at my graveside.”

Mr. Warner frowned. “There is a full bath at the end of the hall. You may be dismayed to see it is also outdated. There is no shower.”

Gretchen stepped into the large room. A delighted shriek escaped her lips as she clapped her hands. “A claw-foot tub!”

“You are pleased?” Another dubious frown.

“Oh, my! The antique ones are impossible to get now. Yes, I am delighted. Even if I have to install a lift to get in and out. They are incredibly deep!” Gretchen stroked the chipped enamel. “This is probably the most exciting surprise of the day.”

Afterwards, they sat in Mr. Warner’s car to discuss details, a contract, home inspection and more.

“Do you know who the seller is?” Gretchen asked. “I’ve always wanted to know.”

“I’m sorry, I have no idea,” Mr. Warner said. “An attorney listed with us. He represents the heir who lives somewhere in England. ‘Just sell it,’ the heir had stated, ‘as quickly as possible.’ So, here we are today. The list price is rather low, due to the seller’s desire to unload it.”

“May I have my grandsons look at the house before I sign?” Gretchen asked. “I still want the home inspection, but they will examine everything with their Oma in mind.”

“Oma?”

“Yes. That’s an informal way of saying Grandmother in German. My grandparents on my father’s side were German. I had the privilege of visiting the country several times when I was younger. Beautiful.”

“Interesting.” Mr. Warner glanced at his watch again. “You may want to put earnest money on the house to hold it, although…” His voice trailed off. “Well, you are the only person who has shown the slightest amount of interest so far.”

“My grandsons can come tomorrow. Will you let us in?”

“Of course. Say, 10 a.m.?”

“Perfect.”

“Oma, what would you do with this huge place?” Brian asked the next morning.

“I have a few ideas.” Gretchen squeezed his upper arm. “Maybe an Airbnb. It has so much charm.”

“That sounds good,” Ben agreed.

“Or, I could rent out rooms to college students.”

“Humph.” Brian grunted. “I remember how crazy I was in college. Not sure you’d want to do that.”

“Even if you remodel to just flip,” Ben said, “you would make a huge profit.”

“I’m not interested in that. I want to stay here for the rest of my life.” Gretchen grinned. “Then, let the two of you fight it out.”

The young men laughed.

After the house closed, Gretchen stood on the front porch with her grandsons. “Here we go!”

As they strategized over where to begin the remodel, she wandered up the stairs and into the largest bedroom. This is where I’ll settle. After a contented sigh, she moved to the closet and began pulling down dust-encrusted boxes.

Idly lifting the lid on the first, she stopped with a gasp. Inside were hundreds of faded, sepia stained photographs. She picked up a handful and let them fall, one by one, onto the antique vanity table.

Unsmiling faces stared up at her. Finally, I get to meet the inhabitants – or at least their kin – through these photos. Carefully, she scanned each picture. Some had names scribbled on the back, others did not. So, who actually lived here? In all my years, I never saw anyone come or go. Not even a car. But, the yard was always maintained. The house always looked lonely, but never abandoned.

Her breath caught as she lifted the next photo. A yelp pushed past her lips.

“Oma, are you okay?” Both grandsons burst into the room at the same time.

Her hands shook as she held out the photo.

“Who is this?” Ben gasped.

“She looks like you,” Brian added. He flipped the image over and read, “Adelaide Chenoweth, age 16”.

“Oh.” Gretchen sank to a nearby chair. “Adelaide,” she whispered.

“Does that name mean anything to you?” Ben asked.

“That’s my real name,” Gretchen stammered.

“Adelaide? I’ve never heard it before.”

“I didn’t like it either. When I protested to my mom, she told me I was named for her mom and should appreciate the honor.” Gretchen wiped a single tear from her cheek. “I hated the name so much; I demanded they use my middle name, Gretchen, which was my Oma on my father’s side. Almost nobody knows my real name.”

“It’s kind of pretty,” Brian said. “But, it doesn’t sound German. Not like Gretchen.”

“It’s not. It’s English. My mom’s folks were from somewhere in England.”

“Do you know your grandmother’s maiden name?”

“Not off-hand. I’ll have to check my mom’s important papers to see what I can find.”

“What are the odds…?” Ben laughed. “Of you buying a property that belonged to family?”

“Maybe that’s why I was so drawn to it as a girl.”

A few days later, the three settled in the gazebo before starting the day’s demolition.

“Did you find out that name?” Brian asked.

“Yes.” A soft laugh. “No wonder I couldn’t remember it. It’s Chenoweth.”

“What a strange name,” Brian said.

Ben whipped out his smartphone. “The name Chenoweth is Cornish, it says.”

“Cornish?  I thought you said your people were from England,” Brian stated. “And, what the heck is Cornish?”

Ben consulted his phone. “It’s a county in southwest England. What’s the name of the seller?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Warner told me an attorney handled everything because the heir did not want to be known.”

“Very strange,” Brian said.

At that moment, Gretchen’s cat, black with white boots and tail, rubbed against her ankles, demanding to be picked up.  

“Good morning,” Mr. P,” she said. “Do you like your new home?”

A loud purring in the affirmative caused the three to laugh.

“Do you have your grandmother’s full name,” Ben asked. “You could go on one of the genealogical sites and maybe find her kin.”

“Plus, they are also handy for tracing down relatives once you are on the site.”

“You could also reach out on social media and see if you get a lead there.”

That night, Gretchen pulled out the box of photos again. “Imagine, Mr. P, these could be unknown relatives. As she shuffled the pictures, a yellowed envelope slid out of hiding, two words scrawled on it. Adelaide Chenoweth. Gretchen’s hands shook as she opened it. A single forget-me-not flower from the last century spilled out along with a slip of paper.

I’m sorry, Adelaide. I’ll love you forever.

“Oh, my, looks like Grandmother Adelaide had a heartbreak. The heartbreaker didn’t even give her the note. What a chump!” She opened her laptop to see if anyone had responded to her request. Does anyone in Cornwall, England have an ancestor named Adelaide Chenoweth who would have been born in the late 1800s?

 “Look, Mr. P! Someone responded.” She took several deep breaths. “I don’t know whether to be excited – or scared.”

Good morning. I am Rebecca. I live in Cornwall. I have Chenoweth ancestry on my mother’s side. Some of them migrated to the United States, so perhaps we do have a family connection. What do you know and what do you need to know?

Gretchen scanned the photo, explained her search and why, then pressed send. Soon, the strangers-maybe-distant-cousins researched, compared findings and researched more. She traced Adelaide’s family back many generations. All came from Cornwall.

How did she get here? Who loved her but was sorry? Unfortunately, genealogy fills in no blanks, other than birth, marriage and death.

I don’t know if this is of any help or not, Rebecca wrote several months later. When I was a little girl, my grandmother told of a scandal in our family. A cousin of hers got tangled up with a local aristocrat, who dumped her when his family forced him to marry one of his own kind. We are very class conscious here in England. I wish I could tell you the name of that family, but I cannot.

Gretchen sighed. She picked up the photo, now framed and in a place of honor on her desk.

“Well, Miss Adelaide, it seems my childhood imagination will have to fill the blanks here. If Rebecca is correct, you have your own Miss Havisham story.” A wry smile. “I’m glad you didn’t spend the rest of your days in mourning as she did. I’m glad you moved on – or I wouldn’t be here.”

Did Grandmother’s lover buy this house? She wondered as she prepared her afternoon tea.  That’s impossible. If he was titled, he’d have to stay in England.

“Oma.” Brian’s call shattered her thoughts. “We need your opinion of these tiles.”

Gretchen climbed the back stairs. Of course such a house would appeal to him – keeping the classes separated, with front and back stairs.

“What’s wrong?” Ben asked as she entered the bathroom. “You look upset.”

“Not upset.” Gretchen shook her head. “Just disappointed. I’ve wondered about this house all my life. Seems I’ll have to keep on wondering.” She explained Rebecca’s email.

“Build your own story,” Brian suggested. “You’ve always loved writing. Record what you think happened, toss in some drama and crank out a best-seller.” The brothers laughed.

“Think about it,” Ben added. “What are the odds that two kids could fall in love, be forced apart and then end up in the same small town in America?”

“Impossible,” Gretchen conceded.

“Exactly. That’s why it’s a great story.”

That evening, she sat with Mr. P in her lap, and picked up the picture of Adelaide. Their eyes locked. She shivered as she returned the photo to its place. Her hands poised over her laptop keyboard.

“I’m sorry, Adelaide. I’ll always love you…”