Till All These Things Be Done

Stanton House

CHAPTER ONE

STANTON HOUSE

    I stared at the old brick house and knew that I belonged there.  It was an immense colonial structure, built in 1768, and had ivy climbing up its walls on the north face. 


    My friend of twelve years, Mitchell Carrington, was a native of these parts, and had been kind enough to accompany me.  He had been walking around the exterior of the 3825 square-foot house, looking for structural flaws, while we waited for the real estate agent.  He walked over to me, hands in his pockets, and nodded.


    “I can't find a thing wrong with it, Amber.  It's surprisingly sound for its age.  How many rooms did she say it has?”


    I looked at the paper the Realtor faxed me earlier that week.  “It has four bedrooms, three full bathrooms and a partial bathroom; according to the listing it also has a large library, den, large living room and huge kitchen with the original walk-in fireplace.”  I placed the paper in my purse.  “I believe she said that the living room, den and library also had the original fireplaces as well.”


    Mitch turned as a silver Kia SUV pulled into the circular gravel driveway.  A rather robust middle-aged woman with dark brown hair stepped out and smiled at us.


    “Good morning … I'm Dolores.”  She took my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.  “You must be Amber Townshend … and you are …?”


    Mitch smiled and replied, “I'm Mitchell ...Mitchell Carrington.”


    “Oh!  Are you by any chance related to Betsy and William Carrington?”


    “Actually, yes … my mom and dad.”


    She smiled again and shook his hand. “Wonderful people, your parents.  I know your mother from high school.  Is your father still teaching at the university?”


    “No, he passed away last summer.”


    “Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that.”  She took keys out of her purse and motioned for us to follow her.  She opened the front door and we walked into a huge room with an immense, crystal chandelier.  A large, winding, oak stairwell ascended from the center of the room to the floor above.


    “You'll remember that I told you during our phone conversation that this mansion was built in the eighteenth century.  It was owned by Johnathan Stanton, a lieutenant with the British army who turned and acted as a Colonial spy during the American Revolution.  He fell ill shortly after returning after the war, and died.  He willed the home to his cousin, Ellen Witby, who also lived here in Williamsburg.  It's been in the family ever since.  The current owner moved to Manhattan ten years ago, and just decided to sell.”


    The Realtor gave us a tour of the home, which was still furnished with what looked to be beautiful eighteenth century reproductions.  There was even a harpsichord in the library.  She shocked me when she announced that most of the furniture did indeed belong to the Lieutenant, and were not reproductions; the owner would consider selling these with the house.


    “Now, you did notice that the kitchen still has its original open brick fireplace in which the servants cooked.  Mr. Witby had updated the rest of that room to accommodate modern gas appliances.  He also advised me that I should offer the house and its contents for One-Hundred-Fifty thousand dollars.  Closing fees are included.”  She looked at me and paused for a moment, and then continued, “I think I ought to tell you that the price is quite low for something of its value.”


    I cocked my head and replied, “Yes.  Why is that?  Is something wrong with the house?”


    She waved her hand slightly. “Well, he thinks that the Lieutenant's ghost is still present in the house.  I don't know.  Mr. Witby never lived here, and tried renting the house out several times, but none of the tenants ever stayed longer than three weeks.  He said it would take a special person to live here.”


    She gave us a few moments to talk alone.  Mitch thought the home was in excellent condition, and I agreed.  I think my mind was already made up the moment I saw the house from the outside.  As I said, I knew I belonged there.