Page 11 of The Forgotten Boy

Winifred pointed to the dark-haired woman. “That is Clarissa, and that”—she pointed to Clarissa’s laughing companion—“is my mother. They were the best of friends until the last days of their lives.”

“The school nurse,” Juliet noted, remembering what Rachel had told her about her great-grandmother. “And that’s why you have records about the school and the influenza.”

“Indeed. I’ve already had Noah bring down the most pertinent items from the attic. They’re in the dining room.”

For a historian, the trove of primary source materials spread out on a twelve-foot-long refectory table was as enticing as alcohol and arguing was to Juliet’s ex-husband. She had to restrain herself from attacking it all at once and forced herself to listen to Winifred’s overview.

“Here is the school register for 1918, the curricula vitae of the teachers and staff, maps of the dormitory wings with boys’ names penciled in, copies of the rules and regulations, standard curricula by year, etc. Also, my mother’s diary and casebook, covering November 1918.”

Juliet was itching to open that casebook, but she forced herself to pay attention as Winifred indicated a number of newspapers encased in clear plastic. “Local reporting during that last autumn of the war, lots of good background details about domestic and farm life here at the time. And then, of course, all the news about the pandemic, including casualty lists by area and week.”

“This is perfect,” Juliet said. “You won’t mind me coming over to research for a week or so?”

Winifred laughed. “Trying to work here would be a waste, what with three active boys running around. You came by car? I’ll have Noah help you load the boxes. Keep them as long as you’d like.”

She stepped out for a minute to ask Noah—Juliet assumed he was one of Rachel’s sons—and Juliet ran her fingers lightly over the items spread across the table.

When Winifred returned, Juliet asked, “What’s this?” while touching the cover of a vintage photo album. When Winifred nodded for her to go ahead, she opened it to find not photographs, but newspaper cuttings.

LOCAL BOY MISSING IN STORM

DOZENS COMB THE WILDERNESS IN SEARCH OF MISSING CHILD

SIR WILFRED SOMERSBY OFFERS REWARD FOR NEWS OF SON

SHOE LOCATED ON RIVER BANK; THOMAS SOMERSBY PRESUMED DROWNED

Juliet looked at the dates—all 1907. If she remembered correctly, Sir Wilfred had been Clarissa Somersby’s father, which meant the lost boy had been her brother. This had not been one of the—admittedly few—stories her mother had passed on.

“Is this where the Havencross ghost story comes from?” asked Juliet.

“Oh no, the ghost sightings go back much further than Thomas. I think somewhere there’s a monograph that attempted to collate all the sightings, but I couldn’t locate it offhand. I’ll keep an eye out. But no, the Forgotten Boy”—Winifred capitalized the phrase with her voice—“goes back centuries. Perhaps all the way to the Wars of the Roses.”

“That’s what Rachel mentioned. But surely not really Richard the Third and his nephews?”

Winifred shrugged. “Who knows? There have never been any credible accounts of their disappearance. The North was always Richard’s power base. Who’s to say the boys didn’t end up here—maybe to be quietly killed, maybe on their way to being smuggled out of the country?”

Juliet didn’t believe it—or at least, she didn’t believe anyone would ever prove it. It was just another in a long line of centuries’ old rumors and legends. Besides, the Havencross ghost references were to a single boy, not brothers.

Next to her, Winifred straightened and said, “If you want to know more about the ghost, you should ask Noah. He’s got a story. And here he is now. We’ll just pack up these papers and he’ll get them in your car for you.”

Juliet turned, prepared to greet Rachel’s son with a friendly smile. But Noah could not possibly be her son. Her brother, she guessed. He was in that indeterminate age between midtwenties and midthirties, his hair a common shade of light brown. He had a quick step that brought him to Juliet with outstretched hand before she’d recovered from her surprise.

“Noah Bennett. It’s awfully nice of you to entertain Aunt Winnie for us.” But the teasing was good-humored and made Winifred roll her eyes as she might at a teenager.

“All the pleasure is on my side,” Juliet said, wincing inwardly at how artificial she sounded. “I am truly interested, I mean. In Havencross. And I need something to do during the long winter nights.”

She was babbling like an idiot. Duncan had always told her she should think about how she presented herself in professional settings. Not that this was professional. Nor was it personal. What exactly was this?

Up close, Noah Bennett’s eyes were hazel-green, with the kind of long lashes that women always envied on men. At least he was polite enough not to draw attention to her awkwardness. He merely shook her hand, then helped his great-aunt with the papers and boxes.

When all had been secured and she’d bid Winifred Murray goodbye, Juliet directed Noah to her car.

He deposited three boxes on the back seat. “You sure you don’t want me to follow you and help unload?”

“If I can’t manage three boxes, then I should hardly be left in charge of Havencross on my own,” she said.

“You know you can ring the farm anytime if you need, well, anything. You’ve met Rachel. She’s got enough energy to run a small power plant. And you’ve got my number, I think.”

---