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“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, thevillage. 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—”
