Daughter of Light by V. C. Andrews

Waldorf Astoria in New York City. I wondered if everything presented to me in that house would have a biography attached. I really was going to live in the middle of a history book, but oddly, that made me feel safer. It was as if I had gone through a door and traveled not only thousands of miles away from my father and my sisters but a few hundred years away, too.
    Actually, despite the sorry face I wore, I was enjoying the first really relaxing moments I’d had since getting into the truck with Moses. The dining room was surprisingly bright and airy because of the sliding patio doors and two large windows. Mrs. Winston explained that this part of the historic house had recently been renovated. Recently, I learned, meant within the last twenty years.
    “I didn’t want to do it, but the business required it. Naturally, the historical society made us jump through hoops,” she said.
    “And then some,” Mrs. McGruder added.
    There was a long light oak table that could comfortably seat a dozen people, a matching armoire with shelves of very old china, and two side chairs in opposite corners. Above us was a pewter chandelier that looked as if it had once held candles instead of light bulbs. The walls there, as they were elsewhere, had pages from old newspapers in frames, drawings of Colonial government figures, and an occasional print of a watercolor depicting farms or the original streets in the city.
    “We don’t usually provide lunch for our guests,” Mrs. Winston continued. “This is a bed-and-breakfast, but we do have what is called half-board if you want to take your dinners with us as well.”
    So there would be no misunderstanding, she wrote out the prices.
    “The room you’ll be getting is our Abigail Adams. All six of our guest rooms are named for Quincy historical figures. Abigail was, of course, the wife of John Adams, who was the second president of the United States, and the mother of John Quincy Adams, who was the sixth. I’m giving you a discount because you’re just starting out here.”
    “Thank you,” I said. “And thank you for lunch. It’s delicious.”
    “Everything Mrs. McGruder makes is delicious. At the moment, our three other guests are half-board because they know they’ll get a dinner ten times betterthan anything in any restaurant out there,” she added.
    “I’d like to do the same,” I said.
    “Very wise decision. Well now,” she said, seeing that I had finished my lunch, “shall we show you the Abigail Adams?”
    “Yes, please,” I said.
    We went out to the stairway and started up. It was only a short stairway, but because the windows in the upstairs hallway were small and far apart and because there were no lights on at the moment, it was much darker.
    As if she knew what I was thinking, Mrs. Winston turned to say, “We don’t waste electricity here. I don’t put the lights on until after dusk. For years after electricity became a big thing, my family held on to candles and oil lamps. I think we might have been the last ones in this section of Quincy to install a telephone. One should not be so eager to give up one’s history. Not all change is for the better, you know.”
    I didn’t say anything, but I understood her point. None of her ancestors had given up as much as I was trying to give up and deny about my own history.
    We turned right and went to the third door, where she paused as if we were in a movie and she was anticipating some entry music.
    “The Abigail Adams,” she announced, and opened the door.
    I imagined it had been renovated, too, because it had two large windows, one on each side of the simple white enameled four-poster bed, maybe half the size of the king-size bed I had in California. It was madeup with simple light blue linen. There was an old-fashioned crocheted bedspread with knotted fringe. The windows faced the street. The chintz curtains were tied back so the light fell fully on the small table beside the bed. On it was a shaded reading