August 18, 1919
I met a man, today. At the Harvest Festival. I was waiting for Elliot near the flower stands when he approached. I watched as he purchased a single variegated tulip. The petals were white and red on long green stem. You can only imagine my surprise, when he walked right up to me and handed me the flower. In the language of flowers, tulips like that mean that receiver has beautiful eyes. I wonder if he knew that; if he was trying to compliment me without saying anything. Perhaps, he just thought it was a lovely flower.
I was flushed red, immediately.
He is very tall. Much taller than I (my head just barely aligns with his shoulders), and he has long blonde hair like spun gold, and eyes that are grey like summer storms. His name is Absalom. He’s a Hart. Of course he would be a Hart. Absalom invited me to enjoy the festival with him, and I accepted. Father would be furious to hear what a lovely day I had with the son of his rival, but I don’t care.
Absalom is intelligent, and kind, and talks to me as if I were an equal. We had the most wonderful discussions on art, and music and politic. World culture. He has traveled to many places. He offered to take me to them.
I don’t want to be too hasty with my words, but I could see myself falling quickly in love with him.
I will be seeing him again in the days to come. Here’s hoping I can keep a good head on my shoulders.
The last of the Havens had died. An elderly woman by the name of Anna who had never married had taken the Haven name to the ground with her. The house of their name had been empty since then. It was rumored to be haunted, which was enough to keep most potential buyers at bay. Any who dared to come view the home were quickly scared off by eerie coincidences that interrupted their tours. The realtor always cursed the house when she left. She hadn’t believed in ghosts until now.
Julianna Drusilla Haven had died some time ago. Now that the woman who would have been her great great great (and so on) niece had perished, she was content to live in solitude. If her spirit was to be trapped within this godforsaken house, she would rather it be in isolation. If there were no more Havens to live in the house, then there was no one to live in the house. Period.
The mousy real estate agent continued to have other ideas. She showed up on the front porch in the early afternoon. Julianna, though annoyed, would have no problem scaring off the next batch of potential buyers. A spooky piano that played itself; slamming doors; pockets of cold air and hushed whispers were all it usually took to change their minds.
Today was different, there was no tour, no bright eyed and eager faced couple that thought they were getting a good deal on an old home. Just a man. One man, and the keys had been pushed into his hand, and he had been left to his own devices.
A tall, blonde haired and grey eyed man had pushed his things into the foyer and left them there. Exploring the rest of the house. Julianna was furious. Who was he? And how dare he think he could move into her family’s home. She followed this man, silent and unseen as he observed the house.
The man didn’t do much else. He found the piano in the parlor and had started to mess with it. Julianna hovered in front of her portrait above the fireplace, still furious, and watching as he tuned the instrument. Did he intend to play it? Julianna rounded the man and the piano and sat on the bench with a silent huff, crossing her arms over her chest. He sat next to her, though he didn’t know it, and she didn’t have to but she made room for him on the seat. She watched his hands, long graceful fingers danced across the keys.
How dare he.
How dare he.
Skilled as he was he had no business touching her things. Eating something greasy and foul smelling and drinking whisky from the bottle like some kind of vagrant. When he paused in the middle of Clair de lune for another swig of whisky, Julianna slammed the cover over the keys and pushed aging sheets of music to the floor in a fit. She glared at his profile as pages noisily fluttered to the ground.
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
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The Old Haven House [Closed] - by megs - 06-01-2017, 08:50 PM
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