The Tomb in the Orchard

Claude Chabot

Do I believe in premonitions? I never had any until the night I came home and was sitting by the fire and I imagined my mother’s voice saying, “Soon you will understand.” I admit I was startled, as I had not been thinking of her at all. “Understand what?” was my thought. It seemed she was present in the room, so clear was the elegant tone and clarity of diction that I remembered from life. This sudden evocation of her voice was startling, yet I had heard her voice often enough following her death…I had heard it because I missed its warmth and love and conjured it frequently. But that night it came to me without my behest and I only could dismiss it as the symptom of an excited mind having endured the fatigue of a long journey and about to embark on another. My attorney had pleaded with me not to go, as America, and New York in particular, were dangerous now, he told me, with all the unemployed and the economic devastation, but I insisted.

I had returned to Paris from a dig in North Africa that was at once gratifying and exhausting to find a letter from the estate agent awaiting me upon my arrival at my home in the Place des Vosges. Although I had wanted time alone in the peaceful confines of my old house in town, the letter moved me to leave almost immediately for America, in order to meet with the agent to address his urgent request, and to visit South Cliff, the mansion that had been the locus of my childhood reveries.

I didn’t hesitate as I needed a reprieve from my dusty and laborious inquiries into the ancient civilizations of the Levant that was not satisfied by merely returning to the pretensions of la grande ville. Thus, one week after receiving the agent’s letter, I flew to London on an aeroplane to board the Cunard liner Antonia for America. I arrived in New York in September on a fine autumn morning and after settling myself and my secretary at the new Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, I made plans to visit the estate.

I remembered the oft-mentioned stories told to me about its location: perched high atop the Hudson River commanding a view of the great city down its banks and its otherwise virtual isolation in a forest outside a tiny village. The only other neighbors were estates to the south and north. A great expanse of greenwood to the west was only recently evacuated of the Lenni Lenape Indians who had once enjoyed the bounty of the forest and the gleaming catch of the river, and, roaming up and down the steep, almost impassable cliffs, had probably first glimpsed the Europeans who would soon evict them from their land. My mother had often related these stories to me in her dreamy way, as she was a romantic like myself, and our mutual love of history inspired my passion for ancient cultures and dictated my choice of archaeology over custom and companionship.

But the real purpose of my visit from my home in my native France was to visit South Cliff, summoned by the estate agent’s cryptic query regarding my interest in the sale of the house, gardens and various outbuildings that comprise the estate atop the Palisades cliffs where my mother had first met my stepfather. Both of them have been dead for many years, and I had inherited from them a considerable bequest that enabled me to pursue my archaeological studies and excavations in the Levant. I hardly gave a thought to South Cliff, a place I had never visited, not even knowing whether or not it was occupied by a tenant, as the expenses of the estate had been paid through a trust fund in America for that purpose.

The Depression ravaging the world has changed that. Now, some of the costs of the estate and paying its taxes are borne by me. The expenses are never large, but now that the estate agent had contacted me, I thought it time to investigate what I am paying for and whether I wished to keep this mysterious property: mysterious because I have never actually seen it. After my mother and stepfather had settled in France, they spoke of its exceptional beauty and location, but never returned to it.

The next morning after my arrival in New York, I placed a trunk call to the estate agent only to discover that he was away for the day. I admit I was vexed. This presented a minor problem for me as I was taking advantage of my time in America to deliver a lecture at Princeton in two days’ time where I had long been asked to speak, and then planned to embark on a trip to Mexico to visit some colleagues who were conducting excavations in the Yucatan. The estate agent had known of my date of arrival and my plans, and I was irritated about his absence.

After dining with friends of friends the night before in New York and discussing my dilemma, they encouraged me to visit the estate on my own and connecting with the agent, if possible, the next day. After all, the whole point of coming to America in the first place was to see my inheritance, and if the agent were not available the caretaker could certainly show me the house and grounds. So, leaving my secretary Matilde in New York and giving her a surprise stipend to shop for a new hat, I hired a car, much to Matilde’s horror. She insisted that I have a chauffeur and thought it improper that a woman should drive herself. She forgets that on the digs in the Levant I am the chief archaeologist, never shrinking from what is normally considered a man’s work.

I embarked on a brilliantly sunny morning to the upper reaches of Manhattan and traversed the Hudson over a beautiful bridge, which, I understand, had only recently opened. I admit to being impressed and even awed by its soaring towers and wide expanse over the majestic Hudson, even as I am frequently annoyed and even repulsed by the aggrandizement of American achievement and the chauvinism with which it trumpets its superiority to the world. I could only be so repulsed by this chauvinism, because as a French citizen I know first-hand what contempt born of insecurity a great nation can have for a far less powerful but equally potent native culture.

My large American sedan took me up a forested boulevard through quaint villages and woods, passing the gates and gate houses of many other grand houses on the way, encountering very little traffic on this country road, when I finally arrived at South Cliff. It was not difficult to find, as it clearly was designated as 656 Hudson Terrace on the estate’s walled enclosure, the address given to me by the estate agent’s telegram. I saw the caretaker’s house from the highway easily but could not see the grounds or the main house from the highway. Tall trees blocked any view of the extensive property, and a badly maintained driveway was all that I could see from the highway, besides the gatehouse, which, though in good repair, looked forlorn. It seemed such a lonely, decrepit and dark place, not helped by the sun suddenly sliding behind a cloud when I arrived, and not at all what I had expected of the fine house and grounds that my mother and stepfather had celebrated over the years. Perhaps I was mistaken in finding this place on my own, I thought. But the number the agent had given me in his telegram to me that I held was the same as that on the cracked blue and white terracotta shingle on the side of the gatehouse. A sign next to this on a splintered board read, “South Cliff Estate-Private Property.” 

While the day had been clear skied and pleasantly warm, the sun was now out of sight and the air was hot and thickly humid, filled with gnats and the nearby sound of buzzing bees. I parked my sedan at the side of the road, as the gates, while partially open, were loosely chained, and I was only barely able to pass through them, confirming my suspicion that the estate was not occupied. I walked up to the caretaker’s house. I was alarmed to see that some windows on the first floor were shattered. This had not been visible from the road and was completely unexpected.

I stepped away from the house and walked further into the property, more than a little puzzled and a trifle alarmed at what presented itself before me. I had presumed that this house, which I held title to, was in full repair and occupied, but the gatehouse and gate made me think otherwise. At the same time, I felt suddenly dizzy and lightheaded. I am not at all an anxious person or an hysteric, but I felt unsettled and strangely confused by my surroundings, although I knew where I was and why I was there, I also felt that I was not there and in some way my trip to America had not really happened. Such an odd, nonsensical feeling! In fact, it is difficult to explain what I felt, but in some way I felt dislocated. However, I chose to steady my nerves, breathed deeply and as I recovered I felt well-oriented again. I was certainly not surprised by my vertigo because these spells happened frequently in the desert heat and colonial cities that were the usual location of my excavations. Nevertheless, I was still unwell and although my outstretched hand tried to grasp a small tree growing in the drive, I fainted.

Sometime later, not a very long time perhaps, I awoke lying on the ground near the drive to the main house. I had awakened from my faint by someone calling my name, again and again, a woman’s voice from far off and yet, quite close, “Francesca, Francesca!” Then silence and the sound of bees buzzing and a thick cloud of gnats up against my eyes. I started to answer, but the insects flew into my mouth and I closed it in disgust. But again, the voice of the woman shouted, “Francesca, Francesca,” and then again silence. I stood up, almost in a trance, very slowly dusted myself off, but momentarily stopped and leaned against a tree feeling suddenly dizzy again.

I looked around once more and started to approach the drive trying to see who was calling me. I now felt fully alert, but saw that my first impression of the drive as a poorly maintained roadway had been wrong, for although there were a few wildflowers growing at its sides, it actually appeared to be well-paved and clear of debris. Then, I happened to glance at the gatehouse, which although almost identical to my first impression of it, now appeared neatly maintained with white curtains fluttering in the breeze in an upstairs window. I was far enough away not to see the ground floor or the windows I had thought were shattered, but I did not want to take the time to walk back as I wanted to see the main house. The sun had come out again and I dismissed the illusion of the drive’s neglect to the clouded sky. I remembered how bleak the mountains on the island of Crete had once seemed in mid-summer on a clouded day and how beautiful and inviting they looked when the sun returned. The state of the gatehouse I dismissed as a mere economy, as a tenant was unlikely to keep a full staff, which was why the gatehouse might be vandalized. And I thought nothing more of my changed perception, at least, not then.

I heard that voice again; high-pitched, thin, unsteady but distinct, now clearly coming from somewhere down the drive shouting, “Francesca, Francesca.” I walked toward it. While the drive seemed to extend into the distance, after about one hundred feet it turned sharply to the left amongst the trees, and suddenly and dramatically revealed a well-kept expanse of lawn that barely sloped up to the fine house built to look like a Tudor manor. This was another Americanism I had anticipated not liking, the aping of English and Continental culture and architecture at the expense of the great American native cultures, but I admit the house pleased me greatly, even as it had so pleased my mother. At the side and back of the house, I could see the orchard rows beginning, just as my mother had so carefully described them, and the lavishly planted flower gardens at the manor house’s front. My immediate and delighted impression of the house and its gardens was that of a memory brought to life. And shortly, coming around to the front of the house was a woman who waved to me while holding onto her straw gardening hat. Suddenly, all the growing dread dissipated and I was being welcomed in the way I had anticipated.

 “Francesca, we’ve been waiting for you.”

I smiled and walked toward her until I was within a few feet of her kind face squinting in the bright sunshine. She was an older woman with a face that showed the lines of either age or illness, and she moved slowly coming to me as if she had little energy, but there was benevolence and an eagerness to please that shown through her physical infirmity. She was beautifully attired in an old-fashioned dress popular many years before. It looked faded but well kept, and her sun hat and shears that she held in her hand demonstrated that evidently she had been gardening.

She looked at my eyes, I think, taking in all the details I had just observed and laughed a bit.

“Yes, I hold onto things for quite some time if I can find a use for something when I garden.” She looked down briefly as if embarrassed. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Francesca; I’ve been waiting for you.” And she turned her face anticipating a kiss, which I happily bestowed upon this person who was truly unknown to me.

“Oh, you knew I was coming.” I was pleased at this. Obviously, the agent had informed the tenant of my arrival.

“Of course, my dear. I have been waiting for you and so has my husband.”

“Oh. I would have been clearer about my plans, but…”

“There was no need. I never leave here. This is my paradise. It’s true the gardener keeps the grounds, but I lend my care to the flower beds and roses, and the orchard, of course. What bounty we will have soon! My husband thinks me silly, but the apple and pear orchards please me. Come with me and see them.”

“I remember hearing so much about the flowers, gardens and orchards here.”

“From Francois?”

“Yes,” I answered slowly. Francois was my stepfather’s name. I was a trifle puzzled that she should know his name but assumed that the estate agent had mentioned the names of my parents who were the previous occupants, or she had found something in the house with his name.

“He loves them as much as I. Maybe more so.” 

Loves them. Or did she say loved? My stepfather had been dead for years. Or was it possible that she had married someone named Francois? Improbable but not impossible. After all, I was named Francesca, after my mother. Yet, I was becoming confused by this blending of the past and present and this stranger’s odd familiarity with details of the house and my life that it seemed only I should know. 

We walked in silence toward the back of the house and it all seemed a dream: the perfect verdant lawn; the brilliant sunshine drenching the pale cocoa-yellow stone of which it was constructed; the elegant casement windows, and not least its poised placement on a knoll facing south toward the river. Beyond this the fringe of forest and then the drop of the cliffs and, I think, the hazy view of Westchester and in the great distance the Long Island Sound, floating somewhere beyond it all.

Once there, the woman stopped and stared ahead of herself and smiled, the smile of someone proud of some very great undertaking. So she should be, as the park at the back of the house bloomed in discrete shadings of white, lavender and indigo, and presented such a strikingly elegant composition that I almost gasped. And to the side of the house, a small orchard of perhaps a half-acre, arranged in a half-moon beyond the fringe of the luxurious garden, seemed a kind of Eden, both contrived and yet somehow spontaneous, as the grasses and wildflowers had been allowed to grow tall within the orchard, thus presenting a rustic scene that contrasted handsomely with the brilliantly planted and impeccable symmetry of the flower beds.

“It’s so fine to be here.” I had the feeling of returning home, and I had, as my mother had described the details of the house, gardens and orchard exactly.

The woman smiled, “Forgive me, my enthusiasm for meeting you has overcome my manners. My name is Elizabeth Allison.”

I blushed for no reason other than pleasure and was about to tell her my name when she bent her head backward and laughed, an odd laugh, a bitter and unhappy laugh that quite surprised me. I bent forward to take her hand, but she suddenly stepped aside, stooping forward and walking ahead, as if she had suddenly changed entirely and whispered, “Would you like to see where I will live when the time comes?” in what I thought was an unnerving, sing-song and even childish manner, very different from her previous deportment. Without waiting for my reply, she walked off surprisingly quickly and turned after a few seconds to see if I were following, still smiling that sweet smile, which now seemed fixed and mask-like.

Her meaning was all too clear and all too strange. I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. And how odd the way she put it. I was beginning to suspect that her physical illness had affected her mental state. I didn’t answer, but didn’t have to, as she was suddenly moving quickly toward the edge of the orchard and toward the cliffs and I had no choice but to follow her.

There within the orchard was a small mausoleum, built of the same stone as the house. There was no cemetery, so the placement of the tomb looked out of place and unexpected, as if you had happened upon some grotesquerie while turning a corner. At the same time it was a gem of a building, with a sumptuously cast gate of Art Nouveau origin. Bees buzzed drowsily around the entryway flanked by bas-relief statues of heavy, crouching women with their eyes closed, their hands cast down and their arms hanging loosely at their sides; beautiful, but eerie in this unexpected setting of orchard in forest, the only strange note in this otherwise esthetically remarkable park. I had seen something like those women before in a tomb I had excavated in Egypt and it was most peculiar glimpsing the motif repeated in the New World.

“These are my lovelies…waiting for me.”

Now I began to feel very much ill at ease with her odd manner and sing-song, childish voice so very different from the woman I had first met. I was now certain that her illness had progressed so far that either it had affected her behavior or she made these statements out of despair. She stopped in front of the crypt as I stepped forward to examine it.

“I have paid for them and Francois will always be reminded of me, whether he wishes to be or not,” she muttered darkly, suddenly, and when I turned to look at her, she was scowling at me with the most terrible fury, and then her face closed into a kind of dead stillness as she spoke.

“You think, Francesca that I don’t know the reason for your visit? That I don’t understand once and for all why Francois married me? You think…you believe,” now she was shouting and she stepped weakly toward me, “…that I don’t understand!”

I was appalled and surprised, frightened and confused at all once.

“Francois?”

“Yes, Francois, my pretty pretty,” she hissed with particular venom on the repetition of the word, making it exceptionally ugly. Suddenly her face changed from the dull torpor and exhaustion of illness to a snide and ugly grimace of a sly and bitter smile.

“Yes, Francois, my pretty pretty, as if you had never heard of him. I brought you here to my tomb so you could see first-hand that even when I die, I will be here, close by, watching both of you. And you will bury me here because if you do not Francois will not inherit his portion of the estate. I would even change that now if I could, my bequest to him, but my marriage to him was tied to a legacy and cannot be altered. I was so stupid then, yes, stupid, the stupidity of a woman in love. That is why I do not use his name as my own any longer. Now all that is left to me is my hatred…of him, and of you, and my intent of staying here forever to remind both of you of your sin!” The last word she elongated into a sinuous shriek in the hot stillness of this forlorn and unfortunate morning.

I stumbled back, as if the sound had physical force, and losing my composure was about to say, “But, Francois is my stepfather.” However, even as I was confused, I understood what she meant, oh, I understood only too clearly and realized why my parents had never returned here, and the answers to many undesirable questions that lingered in the recesses of memory were suddenly thrust into clarity on this sunny, untoward morning. Questions I meant to ask my mother all those years now had ugly answers. That was when I recalled that fleeting memory of my mother’s voice in front of the fire at my home in Paris saying, “Soon you will understand.” But why, why did I need to understand, why at this point in my life was my parents’ relationship and my stepfather’s infidelity brought home to me?

Then she was at me, this hitherto frail woman, her fists raised and then striking me, my face, my eyes, pulling my hair and screaming, “Slut! Slut! You will leave with him, both of you. I will never allow you to remain in my home.” Although we were only a few feet apart, I was able to turn and run…run as fast as I could from this virago. I ran away from her, beyond the orchard, beyond the house, panting, gasping for air, down the drive where I stumbled in the gravel and fainted. The world faded quickly, but I heard her quite close by, repeating as I slipped away, “Yes, run, my pretty pretty, but you will not escape me.”

†   †   †

An August sun ravished the small office: windows were thrown open and fans lining the office shelves groaned and turned in the savage heat and humidity without offering relief. The window curtains fluttered, and then they hung limply as the trail of one quietly buzzing fan swept past them.

“She’s opened her eyes.”

I lay on a leather chaise lounge and I saw the ceiling fan, turning—a soft whir, and the bright afternoon sunlight coming through the blinds; then silence as the fan turned slowly away from me.

“Is the light bothering you?”

I shook my head.

“Drink this,” a well-dressed older man whispered as he bent down to offer me a glass delicately frosted with ice. I sipped. It was cold lemonade. I smiled and looked at him and swallowed the piquant liquid. He returned my smile.

“You speak English?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Can you sit up?”

“Yes.”

“You were not well. You had fainted and couldn’t rouse yourself.”

“I see. I feel well enough now.” I pulled myself up from the chaise lounge, and turning, put my feet on the floor, but felt dizzy, wavered and the old man steadied me as he took the glass from my hand. I lay down again. “Maybe not so well,” I murmured, smiling weakly.

“The doctor was here, you know. Says you had a shock.”

“I must have, since nothing like this has ever happened before.” I stared at him and he didn’t look away. “Would you tell me who you are and where I am?” But I knew where I was. This could only be the realtor’s office. I could see the maps of the local area from where I lay and postings of houses and estates for sale.

He sat down and again looked at me with sympathy.

“You’re at your estate agent’s offices, not far from South Cliff. I am Mr. Carlisle, the owner. I went up to South Cliff to meet you because your agent had a death in the family and couldn’t make the appointment you arranged with him.”

“I wish I could have met you there. A strange house, it looked vacant at first…”

 “It is vacant. I sent you letters, three or four over the years, inquiring if you wished to lease the gatehouse. It had been occupied until ten years ago. I wrote you, and thankfully you finally responded.”

“The main house is vacant?”

“The main house is a ruin, madam. It has never been cared for, except for the gatehouse.”

“Why…why is it a ruin?”

“Immediately before the owner died, she added a codicil to her will that it never be occupied, nor sold, nor rented, and never cared for after her death. But the gatehouse is technically a different property, due to the way the lands were assembled and the deeds drawn, and she never mentioned it, only the main house. So we have advertised it and rented it as South Cliff, the name of the main house and the estate. But even the gatehouse has not been occupied for several years. That is why I wrote you. You never received the letters?”

“Perhaps. I am out of the country for long periods of time. My attorney opens the mails when I am not home…”

“This is most curious. He never informed you of these matters?”

“Oh yes, yes. At least, that the trust could no longer support the taxes on the estate.”

The agent looked surprised.

“But that is not the case. We have sent ample funds along to you and we have received back the small payment from you for taxes. A peculiar arrangement, as we could have had the funds deposited with the town here to pay the taxes without all the fuss and bother of sending you the check and then receiving payment in return, but we assumed that you wished to make certain that your trust income was not being squandered.”

“There were funds to pay the taxes?”

“Yes, quite a bit, far more than needed. You must know that?”

He looked at me closely, studying my surprise.

“You don’t know, do you? But you did send us the tax payments?”

I nodded. I think I understood. My attorney who didn’t wish me to make this trip…and why he did not wish me to make it.

I think Mr. Carlisle also understood, perturbed by a disturbing revelation for both of us.

“There is a plan to build a new highway to link the Catskill Mountains with New York City, going down from New York State, then atop the Palisades and across the new bridge to the city. All of the great houses have been condemned for some time now and will be demolished to accommodate this highway. You will receive a check from the road authority for the assessed value of your holdings. You may not agree with the sale, but unfortunately, there is no room for negotiation in this matter.”

“But why did you not tell me all of this in your letter?”

“Because I did not wish to upset you. I handle other estates with other absentee landlords and some of these families have been furious with me. With me! You would have thought that I was personally going to raze their homes. Fortunately or not, in your instance, South Cliff has been ruined for years. The roof of the main house has fallen in and the grounds have returned to scrub.”

I was astonished. “For years?”

“There was a fire several years after the last residents left.”

“My parents.”

“Yes, your parents were the last residents, although the owner still lived in the house high up in a cramped attic room after the divorce. They had come to live there when they were married. It seems a strange arrangement.”

I said nothing. It was a strange and sad arrangement.

Perhaps you are curious about the name of the estate?”

I smiled, “Do tell me.”

“It was called South Cliff because it was a wedding gift from your grandparents who lived on the Greycliff estate, just north of the house. Greycliff was a marvelous place, hewn from the bluestone of the Palisades themselves. But that house is a ruin as well.  It never was occupied again after your grandparents built South Cliff. I believe your grandparents relocated to Southampton many years ago. Such a waste, such a beautiful home…all these homes…ruined or about to be demolished. Greycliff’s lawns are wild with overgrown hedgerows planted in the English style and tea roses climb and bloom against the cracked walls. I remember it as a boy, a strange and forbidding place, built in a typical Victorian manner, with an enormous widow’s walk surveying incomparable views of the Hudson, Manhattan and New York Harbor. South Cliff was a smaller, lighter and friendlier home, inspired by the Gothic cathedrals of France and the Tudor homes of England.”

“Yes, it is lovely.” He looked at me quizzically. “Or it was lovely, as I imagined it. Or dreamt it. “Was it a dream?” I asked myself.

“In any event, there is something else that I must speak to you about. Or perhaps this is not a good time?”

I looked at Mr. Carlisle, the dapper Mr. Carlisle, and wondered if he were in league with my attorney on these tax matters. Perhaps not. He seemed genuinely surprised. In any event, I would have my secretary broach a customs director I knew who would know how to address embezzlement.

“We will have to make arrangements to move the remains.”

“What remains?” But he didn’t have to tell me.

“Perhaps your father spoke of his first wife?”

I corrected him, “My stepfather. He told me that she had died. I had no idea where she was buried, until today.”

“Today?”

“She is interred in the orchard guarded by those strange statues. Or what is left of the orchard. Correct?”

Now Mr. Carlisle looked more than startled.

I looked away from him and brushed off a drop of moisture rolling down my cheek in the oppressive heat, watched and listened to the monotonous drone of the fan and saw and heard two bees buzzing around the casement window in the office.

A window so like that of South Cliff. There had also been the sound of bees buzzing around those strange bas relief statues of heavy, crouching women with their eyes closed, their hands cast down and their arms hanging loosely at their sides, guarding the tomb in the orchard when Elizabeth Allison had told me, “These are my lovelies…waiting for me.”

BIO

Claude Chabot has published over 20 short stories and has produced and directed four radio plays based on his own stories. One of them, an adaptation of his own ghost story, was aired on public radio worldwide. 

Claude has supported himself by writing advertising copy, promotional materials and other media.