She’d thought herself prepared. She had the photos, she had her father’s drawings. But there it stood on its carpet of snow, atop the rise of cliffs and over the lashing sea.
Like something out of a novel, she thought, or a classy horror movie, with its twin turrets and many windows, the deep blue cladding against stone that showed dull gold in the gloom.
There rose the big weeper, its curving branches glittering with ice. The house had the forest at its back, like a wall of green.
Smoke rose in lazy curls from the chimneys, and someone had shoveled paved walkways. One led to the wide, covered portico at the entrance.
And Sonya fell in love.
However foolish, she felt the house waited for her, and stood ready to take her in. Nerves conquered, sheer delight rising, she drove forward.
A muscular black truck was parked at the far end of the main walkway, and she pulled in beside it. She got out, simply stood in the kick of wind and studied what, through fate or lineage or the luck of the draw, could be hers.
She saw a shadow move across a window on the second floor. Someone watching for her arrival, she thought. As she lifted a hand to wave, the main doors opened.
She’d expected Mr. Doyle, but the man who stepped out, hatless, a parka tossed over a flannel shirt, was considerably younger.
The wind caught at his hair—a lot of black hair—as he strode toward her in scarred brown boots.
She caught the resemblance quickly—the shape of the face, the blade of nose, the sharply carved lips curved in a quiet smile.
And she couldn’t mistake the eyes, that wonderfully eerie blue rimmed in black.
As those eyes held hers, she smiled back at him.
“I’m Sonya. You look like your father. Oliver Doyle III?” She made it a question as she held out a hand. She’d expected smooth lawyer’s hands, but his had the feel of a man who worked with them.
“Guilty. Welcome to Lost Bride Manor.”
“I’m sorry. Lost Bride Manor?”
“So the locals dubbed it a couple centuries ago. How was the drive from Boston?”
“Uneventful.”
“Best kind, and you beat the snow. Let’s get you out of the wind, then I’ll get your bags.”
“I don’t mind the wind, and it’s not that much. But I could use a hand.” She opened the trunk. “I’m going to get my purse from the front.”
She grabbed it and the still unopened container of cookies.
“Is your father inside?” she asked as she pulled out her weekender.
“No. He wanted to be here to greet you, give you the tour, but he’s a little under the weather.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Just a cold.” He hauled out her two suitcases as if they weighed nothing. “But my mother laid down the law. Is this it?” He gestured to the three boxes she’d sealed and labeled.
“That’s it.”
“I’ll come back for them.”
She nodded, looked back at the house. “It makes a statement.”
“What does it say to you?”
“I’m here,” she said as they carried the first load to the entrance. “I see. I know. And I’m spectacular.”
She stopped, looked out. “You can see the bay, the marina, the village. Oh, there’s a boat way out there. I’m surprised you can’t see Greenland. I hope my room faces the sea.”
He gave her a curious look. “You’ve got your pick, but we figured you for the master, and it does face the sea.”
“God, look at these doors!” She ran her hand over the deep carving.
“Original. Arthur Poole—also the original—had the mahogany shipped over and built them himself.”
“Really?” Two hundred years, she thought. She’d wanted history, and here it stood, right under her hand. “Well, they’re amazing, and obviously built to last.”
She stepped inside, and attributed the sudden buzz in her ears, the quick shiver of energy to excitement.
The floors of the wide foyer gleamed as they led the way to a staircase she could only call grand, as four people could have walked up abreast. A massive iron chandelier showered down light from its three tiers.
A pair of ladder-back chairs with tapestry seats flanked a long table by the wall between two doorways. It held a collection of pewter candlestands. Above it hung mirrors of varying shapes and sizes.
Across from the table needlepoint pillows plumped on a curved settee in peacock blue. The painting above it held a woman, young, her pale blond hair worn up and graced with flowers. Diamonds glittered at her ears, and a necklace of teardrop sapphires draped around her neck.
She wore a long, white, high-waisted gown embroidered at the hem and the cuffs of puffed sleeves. At first glance, Sonya thought her hands ringless. Then she saw a gold band on her left hand, a diamond on her right.
“Astrid Grandville Poole. The first bride. There’s a fire in the front parlor.” He gestured to the right, to the doorway beyond the portrait. “I’ll get the rest of your things.”
She nodded and stood where she was, texting her mother and Cleo as she studied the painting.
You could sense the movement in the skirt, she thought—that was the artist’s skill. Had he meant to paint her with sadness in her eyes? Eyes as blue as the sapphires she wore.
And the way she stood, the way she held a small bouquet down at her side, the pink and white rosebuds pointing down?
She felt that sorrow, a wave of it, as it seemed those sapphire eyes looked into hers.
She turned as he brought the last of her things in.
“How did she die?”
Shrugging out of his parka, he looked up at the portrait.
“She was murdered—stabbed—on her wedding day.”
“The lost bride,” she murmured. “No wonder she looks so sad.”
“Her husband had it painted and hung there so anyone coming into the manor would see her, and remember.”
“I take it he didn’t kill her.”
“No, a jealous woman. Let me take your coat.”
“Thanks. Oliver—”
“Trey,” he told her. “My grandfather’s Ace, my dad’s Deuce. I’m Trey.”
“Clever.” The wave of sadness passed; amusement followed. “And simpler than Oliver one, two, and three. Trey, did you know Collin Poole—my uncle?”
“Sure. He was actually a kind of uncle to me, and my sister. He was family. I’m just going to put the coats with your things for now, but there’s a closet in the front sitting room. Collin used it for coats and outdoor gear.”
“There’s a front parlor and a front sitting room?”
“If you’re after open concept, you won’t find it here. What you’ve got is a labyrinth. I’ll take you through. Where do you want to start?”
“Might as well start here.”
She turned into what he’d called the front parlor.
She found it surprisingly cozy given its size, and the fire crackling away inside an elaborate dark wood framed fireplace added cheerful.
A trio of windows offered views of the snow-covered lawn, the stone seawall, and the sea beyond it.
Another chandelier—iron again, but considerably smaller—dropped from a ceiling medallion. The sofas, chairs, all softly faded, would easily seat twenty. Like the floors, the tables gleamed. As did a piano tucked in a corner.
“Did he play? Collin.”
“He did, and pretty well. Do you?”