In 1850, Marabelle Parker, an aging family servant, tells the story of the Barrett family of Crimson Hall, North Carolina, including an explanation of the Curse of the Mrs. Barrett’s.

Thaddeus Barrett, master of the Hall, is a compassionate dreamer who fancies himself an inventor and pioneer. His fourth wife, Barbara Crosswhite Barrett, is with child (and thus not expected to live much longer, hence the curse.) Sixteen-year old Felicity is too pretty for her own good and spends all her time either primping or planning her coming out party. Thirteen-year old Grace is independent, headstrong and mischievous, and her twin sister Amelia, although deaf and dumb from a near-fatal illness when she was a small child, is her constant cohort and often the brains of the operation. Add to this the various servants, neighbors and ghosts of the Hall – and you have the unforgettable saga of Crimson Hall.

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EXCERPT :

Chapter 1
Introductions, Explanations & Such

The comforting thing about stepping into a day gone by, even a day long gone by, is that it never changes. Like the page before you, it remains fixed and set. Mind you, I’m not claiming there’s much worthy of fascination in Crimson Hall, but we do have some rich characters hereabouts and, upon occasion, some interesting happenings, and I do love to revisit them in my mind.
Me, I’m an old servant, not much use to anyone anymore, being infirm and nearly always confined to my bed, so I have time to devote to these musings and memoirs. Plus I’m a fair hand at writing and I can describe this estate down to the most minute detail and recall past events with great and utter clarity. And there is something else, something so strange and new to me I hardly know how to describe it. It seems the more I lie here, slipping away toward my everlasting peace, the more I feel my mind and body part ways here and now. I am growing able to let my spirit-self float away from me for short spells. What I call my spirit-self travels down the halls and into the more occupied rooms of the Hall where life still goes on as it always did and, I imagine, it always will.
You might be wondering to yourself, if it’s true I can float my spirit self away then why don’t I go to somewhere more interesting and exotic -- somewhere like Paris or Persia? I suppose the answer is two-fold. First, I never did much want to see those places and second, and more important, everyone I love resides right here in Crimson Hall.
It wouldn’t surprise me a whit if you were to think I am either senile or dreaming, perhaps by some aid of a laudanum-based restorative. Well now, we just met so you won’t know that I never did set store by restoratives and such. And the God’s Honest Truth is, I thought I was dreaming at first. But, then, people would be visiting and they would begin relaying something that had gone on during the day and, sure enough, I would already know all it from my dream. And that’s how I eventually came to accept they weren’t dreams after all. You can believe it or not, that’s your call, but I am swearing here and now that my spirit-self is rising up from this decrepit old body and floating away on its own. Kind of a practice for heaven, I like to think. So, with no further ado, allow me to introduce you to the residents of Crimson Hall as best as one can with pen and ink and the finest hemp paper.
Crimson Hall, the Hall itself, seems the most obvious place to begin. I specify ‘the Hall itself’ because the village located two and half miles away adopted the very same name; I suppose because people around these parts used to identify their whereabouts by the Hall, it being the biggest landmark and all.
The Hall is an enormous, rambling stone estate, known for its unique color, which is far more red than brown. It’s said that the stones came from some island across the sea – the same island that Indigo come from, although for the life of me, I can’t remember the name of the place. All I know is that, on an early spring morning such as this one, a first time visitor to the Hall cannot help but gawk at the spectacle. I know because I have seen it many, many a time.
Once that initial wonder subsides, one begins to note the other ridiculously bright colors that dot the mostly untamed landscape; wild yellows, rich purples and playful pinks beneath a sky so shockingly blue, we had the sheer audacity to name it after ourselves -- Carolina blue. Truth be told, and forgive me if it’s boastful, but I don’t think you could find a more beautiful spot in the whole, wide world than this one.
Crimson Hall was the first grand manor built in these parts, more than a hundred years ago, back in the summer of 1742, when North Carolina was still a colony and the village was still in its infancy. The fact is, at sunset, the cast of the setting sun on this particular stone makes the home look bright crimson; thus its name.
It’s home to the Barrett family, as it always has been and since, I imagine, it always will be, as I can’t imagine a world without Barrett’s any more that I can imagine a world without Crimson Hall.
Mr. Thaddeus Barrett is the current Master of the house and he is a wonderful man. Mrs. Barbara Crosswhite-Barrett, his fourth wife (who is expecting their first child and, thus, not expected to live too much longer) is the current Mistress. I would have to say the fourth Mrs. Barrett is surprisingly pretty for having the long nose she does. She also has long, black hair and lovely brown eyes. She’s Mr. Barrett’s first wife to have dark hair, which doesn’t really mean anything, it’s just an interesting thing to note. She is a nice enough lady and there’s not a soul that I know of that would wish her any ill will. Still, it’s hard to make yourself get to know her too well. It’s hard to lose a Mrs. Barrett. I should know, as I’ve been one that’s lost three of them, although, admittedly, only two caused sorrow. Now, understand, I’m not one of those that say there’s some kind of curse on the Mrs. Barrett’s, but I will say that one, such as myself, learns to serve without getting as emotionally involved as one used to.
The one I feel most sorry for is Mr. Barrett. He never keeps a guard up about anything or anyone and he’s broken to pieces every time he loses someone. Truth be told, he’s almost childlike in some ways; the way he gets excited over one of his new inventions or concoctions, or upset with some silly thing that’s happening in the Senate. I have seen him get wildly upset over some crazy thing or the other and then forget it as soon as pudding was served. It’s not that he’s not highly intelligent or a perfect gentleman, because he is. He was taught all sorts of things by the finest tutors and he went to University, as well. Plus, he has considerable talent at business, I’ve been told.
The Barrett girls, Felicity, Grace and Amelia also are in residence, of course, although Felicity counts the days until her coming out (and eventually leaving the Hall) and Grace insists on investigating every school for young ladies that opens. So far, none have been to her liking and, personally, I can’t see that she’d cotton to being told what to do and when to do it. Our Grace is very independent and headstrong.
There are only seven servants in our household at the present time, including me, although I don’t do any serving anymore, and also counting Mrs. Honor Gray, the washerwoman who comes three times a week from the village. She has the largest hands of anyone I’ve ever seen, man or woman; so large that it’s difficult not to out-and-out gawk at them. They always strike me as two odd flesh-colored creatures stuck on the end of her arms. I assure you, if you were to see them, you would drop your jaw.
Young Mr. Samuel Bellwood, the son of Old Mr. Samuel Bellwood, who was Mr. Jonathan Bentley Barrett’s butler, does the fetching and carrying and takes care of the fires and such. Samuel is around about fifteen years of age I believe and more quiet than most, due to the fact that he has trouble saying some of his words, mostly words that have an R in them. God love him, I know he’s had his share of difficulty because of it, teasing and such. He’s also a fine looking boy despite that wild mane of thick brown hair.
His elder sister, Isabelle, nineteen years of age, is one of our maids and just as pretty as the day is long and the other maid is Gertrude Locke. Gert’s probably in her mid-twenties. She’s a fine young woman, not unattractive and not unkind. The truth is, she’s one of those that doesn’t stand out. You might see her around all day long and not pay her a minute’s worth of thought. Of course, in this house, you have to stick out a bit to get any notice paid you. I wonder if that doesn’t explain our Grace a little bit.
We have a wonderful cook by the name of Mrs. Fields and she has a scully maid by the name of Dottie Polk. My name is Marabelle Parker and I’ve been on this good earth better than seventy-three years. Fact is, I’ve been at Crimson Hall longer than anyone else that’s in residence at this point in time, which is March in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and fifty.
I gave you a brief literary-type glimpse of the outside of the Hall; now we’ll move on in, going by way of the front doors into the Grand Foyer (as if we’re guests, which, truth be told, you are.) The marble floor came all the way from Italy, I’m told, although I don’t know if the actual marble floor came over from Italy or maybe just the marble for the floor. I suppose that’s more likely it. That was, of course, way before my time here.
I can tell you this; it used to look far fussier in here, as Old Mr. Barrett was exceedingly fond of statues, sculptures and very large paintings. (By Old Mr. Barrett, which is what we always called him, I mean Mr. Godfrey Wilson Barrett, Thaddeus’s grandfather.) He either set the décor or he changed it to be the way he wanted and then it stayed that way for decade after decade until the second and most beloved Mrs. Barrett had most of the sculptures and near all of the statues moved to one of the cellars. It was she that fixed most of the house the way it is now.
No doubt you’ll notice the ceilings are better than twelve feet tall and the staircase is so wide, four men could climb it shoulder to shoulder at one time and not jostle one another. To the immediate right of the Grand Foyer (facing aways from the front doors) is an elegant looking salon, which is cloth-draped at this moment, and, to the left, a ballroom. These were last used just over a year ago, for the nuptials of Thaddeus and the former Mrs. Crosswhite.
If you continue all the way through the Grand Foyer then take a left at the portrait-lined corridor, you’ll pass the dining room first and then the morning room before you get to the music room (though one might call properly refer to it as a conservatory) and this is where you should find Grace and Amelia this time of morning. Mr. Barrett made them promise to be consistent and methodical with their piano and harpsichord practice before he agreed to get shed of that last governess. Not that they took that promise all that seriously, knowing, as they do that he’ll never remember to check up on them. Those two run a little wild.
They’re twins, thirteen years of age and nearly identical looking with long, light hair and light blue eyes. If I’ve heard, “how do you tell them two apart?” onced, I’ve heard it a hundred times. Of course, that’s usually followed by, “I mean before the one that talks, talks.” The fact is, they look different to me and they always have, even from the time they were little things and both of them did talk.

Well, what do you know! There they are in the music room, as they should be. Ah, but not practicing, I see. In fact, their harpsichords don’t look touched and as a further point of fact, there seems to be a fine layer of dust that’s settled on the instruments. The girls are staring into the large, gilded-frame looking glass, which likely means it’s a game of some sort.
If you’re loitering in the doorway, I would recommend stepping to one side because I know those sharp little clicking footfalls that are drawing closer. That would be Miss Felicity Barrett coming towards us at a fast pace and with a scowl on her pretty sixteen-year old face, which, unfortunately, is not that unusual.
The first thing you’ll probably notice is how very pretty our Felicity is, how nicely put together. The child prides her appearance dearly. She stops just inside the music room and thrusts her hands upon her hips, glaring at her sisters. “If you are not going to practice, go elsewhere. Some of us do care about practicing and improving ourselves.”
“Which is good,” Grace replies, without looking away from her image in the looking glass. “Since some of us need it more than others.”
If you observe closely, you will see the barest hint of smile on Amelia’s lips as she glances back at Felicity, whose jaw has grown slack at the insult.
Grace still does not look away from her own image as she speaks again with somewhat exaggerated sweetness. “But the fact is, we are going to practice. You know what Father said. The same time every day.”
“No you’re not,” Felicity hisses. “You’re just occupying the room to annoy me!”
“Remember what Father always says,” Grace continues. “Consistency and dependability are so important in the formation of one’s character.”
Felicity narrows her eyes and makes a low sound in her throat before whipping around and storming away, stomping considerably more than necessary to demonstrate her level of frustration with her sisters.
If you study these three young ladies closely, you’ll find similarities among the more obvious dissimilarities. All their eyes are blue, although Felicity’s eyes are a darker, smokier gray-blue, and all their hair is fair, although Feli’s is honey-colored in contrast to Grace and Amelia’s lighter, almost silver-white moonbeam shade.
Felicity is petite and yet shapely, with fine facial features, including a small, slightly turned up nose. Grace and Amelia are tall for their age, already nearly as tall as Felicity, slender and straight as arrows. Their features are pleasing but regular, or so Felicity is fond of remarking. As for myself, I don’t think any two creatures ever came any sweeter looking -- but then maybe it should be stated that I love these two ferocious creatures just about better than anything else on this blessed earth.
The resemblance between the three girls lies principally in the shape of their mouths, which they got from their Papa. They all smile in the same infectious way when they are amused and purse their lips identically when they are annoyed. Their eyes, too, bear a resemblance in shape and it, too, is most noticeable in the delivery of some strong emotion.
“That arrogant little toad was our sister, Felicity,” Grace says to her own image in the looking glass. “She has a very high opinion of herself. We loathe her.”
Amelia frowns; bored with the exercise. What makes you think you can wish your image into the looking glass?
“Our image,” Grace corrects. “Or images, I should say. I don’t. Not really. I’m planning what I’ll say when I can. Anything that is that good of an idea . . . well, there just has to be a way to do it.”
Amelia frowns, feeling too restless for her bones. I want to go outside.
Grace looks away, obviously in a cantankerous mood. “It’s going to rain.”
It is not. Besides, I don’t care. I want to work on the fort.
The thought of working of the fort obviously appeals to Grace because the two of them suddenly dash out of the room, a whirl of excitement and energy. You mustn’t let their height and their pretty faces fool you – they’re still children.
Our Amelia, bless her little heart, is deaf and dumb; her condition caused by the same fever that took her mother’s, the second and most beloved Mrs. Barrett’s, life. Amelia was three years old at the time. But before you go and get too melancholy at the news, you should know that the twins share a mental connection of such proportion that Amelia misses out on very little of what goes on around her. She can play both the piano and the harpsichord, can’t she? Some people say she just copies what Grace does and I suppose that’s possible. But one thing is for sure and certain; like the other two, our Amelia is well cared for and greatly loved. There is no call to feel sad on her behalf.
Truth is, the twins are like near the happiest people I’ve ever seen. They not only march to their own drumbeat but they dance to it too, and don’t care what you or I have to say about it. I think there’s a great kind of freedom in that that most folks never get to experience.