by Nora Roberts
Closing his eyes a moment, he listened. He could hear nothing but rain, the whoosh and splash of it on roof, on ground, on tree.
He’d done the right thing, he told himself. He wasn’t crazy after all. He’d found his place. It felt like his, and if it wasn’t, what did it matter? He’d find another. At least, finally, he’d stirred up the energy to look.
He stepped back in and, humming, walked back across the ballroom toward the family wing, to check out each of the five bedrooms.
He caught himself singing under his breath as he wandered through the first of them.
“After the ball is over, after the break of morn; After the dancers leaving, after the stars are gone . . .”
He stopped examining baseboard and looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see someone standing behind him. Where had that come from? he wondered. The tune, the lyrics. With a shake of his head, he straightened.
“From the ballroom, idiot,” he mumbled. “Ballroom on the mind, so you start singing about a ball. Weird, but not crazy. Talking to yourself isn’t crazy, either. Lots of people do it.”
The door to the room across the hall was closed. Though he expected the creak of hinges, the sound still danced a chill up his spine.
That sensation was immediately followed by bafflement. He could have sworn he smelled perfume. Flowers. Lilies. Weddings and funerals. And for an instant he imagined them, pure and white and somehow feral in a tall crystal vase.
His next feeling was irritation. He’d only sent a few pieces ahead, including his bedroom furniture. The movers had dumped it in the wrong room, and he’d been very specific. His room would be the master at the corner, overlooking the garden and pond at the rear, and the avenue of oaks from the side.
Now he’d have to settle for this room, or haul the damn stuff himself.
The scent of lilies was overpowering when he shoved the door all the way open. Almost dizzying. Confused, he realized it wasn’t even his furniture. The bed was a full tester draped in deep blue silk. There was a carved chifforobe, a tall chest of drawers, all gleaming. He caught the scent of beeswax under the floral. Saw the lilies in that tall, crystal vase on a woman’s vanity table, its legs curved like the necks of swans. The chair was delicate, its seat an intricate needlepoint pattern of blue and rose.
Silver-backed brushes, a brooch of gold wings with an enameled watch. Long blue draperies, ornate gaslight sconces set on a low, shimmering light. A woman’s white robe tossed over the back of a blue chaise.
Candlesticks on the mantel, and a picture in a silver frame.
He saw it all, snapshot clear. Before his brain could process the how of it, he was staring into an empty room where rain streamed outside uncurtained windows.
“Jesus Christ.” He gripped the doorjamb for balance. “What the hell?”
He drew in a breath. There was nothing in the air but must and dust.
Projecting, he told himself. Just projecting what the room might have looked like. He hadn’t seen anything, or smelled anything. He’d just gotten caught up in the charm of the place, in the spirit of it.
But he couldn’t make himself step over the threshold.
He closed the door again, walked directly down to the corner room. His furniture was there, as ordered, and the sight of it both relieved and steadied him.
The good, solid Chippendale bed with its headboard and footboard unadorned. The one point of agreement he’d had, always, with his mother was a love of antiques, the respect for the workmanship, the history.
He’d bought the bed after he and Jessica had called off the wedding. Okay, after he’d called it off, he admitted with the usual tug of guilt. He’d wanted to start fresh, and had searched out and purchased the pieces for his bedroom.
He’d chosen the bachelor’s chest not only because it appeared he was going to remain one, but also because he’d liked the style of it, the double herringbone inlay, the secret compartments, the short, turned legs. He’d selected the armoire to conceal his television and stereo, and the sleek Deco lamps because he’d liked the mix of styles.
Seeing his things here in the spacious room with its handsome granite fireplace in dark green, the arched gallery doors, the gently faded wallpaper, the pitifully scarred floors, clicked him back into place again.
The adjoining dressing area made him smile. All he needed was a valet, and white tie and tails. The connecting bath, modernized from the look of it sometime in the woeful seventies, had him wincing at the avocado-green decor and yearning for a hot shower.
He’d take a quick walk through the third floor, he decided, do the same on the main level, then take the ugly green tub for a spin.
He headed up. The tune was playing in his head again. Around and around, like a waltz. He let it come. It was company of sorts until Remy showed up.
Many the hopes that have vanished, after the ball.
The staircase was narrower here. This level was for children and staff, neither of whom required fancy touches.
He’d save the servants’ wing for later, he decided, and circled around toward what he assumed were nursery, storage, attics.
He reached for a doorknob, the brass dull with time and neglect. A draft, cold enough to pierce bone, swept down the corridor. He saw his breath puff out in surprise, watched it condense into a thin cloud.
As his hand closed over the knob, nausea rose up so fast, so sharp, it stole his breath again. Cold sweat pearled on his brow. His head spun.
In an instant he knew a fear so huge, so great, he wanted to run screaming. Instead he stumbled back, braced himself against the wall while terror and dread choked him like murderous hands.
Don’t go in there. Don’t go in.
Wherever the voice in his head came from, he was inclined to listen to it. He knew the house was rumored to be haunted. He didn’t mind such things.
Or thought he didn’t mind them.
But the idea of opening that door to whatever was behind it, to whatever waited on the other side, was more than he cared to face alone. On an empty stomach. After a ten-hour drive.
“Just wasting time anyway,” he said for the comfort of his own voice. “I should be unloading the car. So, I’m going to unload the car.”
“Who you talking to, cher?”
Declan jumped like a basketball center at the tip-off, and barely managed to turn a scream into a more acceptable masculine yelp. “God damn it, Remy. You scared the shit out of me.”
“You’re the one up here talking to a door. I gave a few shouts on my way up. Guess you didn’t hear.”
“Guess I didn’t.”
Declan leaned back against the wall, sucked in air and studied his friend.
Remy Payne had the cocky good looks of a con artist. He was tailor-made for the law, Declan thought. Slick, sharp, with cheerful blue eyes and a wide mouth that could, as it was now, stretch like rubber into a disarming smile that made you want to believe everything he said, even as you caught the distinctive whiff of bullshit.
He was on the skinny side, never had been able to bulk up despite owning the appetite of an elephant. In college he’d worn his deep-brown hair in a sleek mane over his collar. He’d shortened it now so it was almost Caesarean in style.
“I thought you said a couple hours.”
“Been that. Damn near two and a half. You okay there, Dec? Look a little peaky.”
“Long drive, I guess. God, it’s good to see you.”
“ ’Bout time you mentioned that.” With a laugh, he caught Declan in a bear hug. “Whoo, boy. You been working out. Turn around, lemme see your ass.”
“You idiot.” They slapped backs. “Tell me one thing,” Declan remarked as he took a step back. “Am I out of my fucking mind?”
“ ’Course you are. Always have been. Let’s go on down and have ourselves a drink.”
They settled in what had once been the gentlemen’s parlor, on the floor with a pepperoni pizza and a bottle of Jim Beam.
The first shot of bo
urbon went down like liquid silk and untied all the knots in Declan’s belly. The pizza was good and greasy, and made him decide the strangeness he’d experienced had been a result of fatigue and hunger.
“You planning on living like this for long, or buying yourself a chair or two?”
“Don’t need a chair or two.” Declan took the bottle back from Remy, swigged down bourbon. “Not for now anyway. I wanted to cut things down to the bone for a while. I got the bedroom stuff. Might toss a table up in the kitchen. I start buying furniture, it’ll just be in the way while I’m working on this place.”
Remy looked around the room. “Shape this place is in, you’ll need a fucking wheelchair before you’re finished.”
“It’s mostly cosmetic. People who bought it last got a good start on the big work, from what I hear. Seems they had an idea about turning it into a fancy hotel or some such thing. Gave it nearly six months before they turned tail. Probably they ran out of money.”
Lifting his eyebrows, Remy ran a finger over the floor, studied the layer of dust he picked up. “Too bad you can’t sell this dirt. You’d be filthy rich. Ha. Oh yeah, I forgot. You already are filthy rich. How’s your family?”
“About the same as always.”
“And they think, our boy Dec, il est fou.” Remy circled a finger by his ear. “He’s gone round the bend.”
“Oh yeah. Maybe they’re right, but at least it’s finally my damn bend. If I’d gone to one more deposition, faced one more meeting, handled one more pretrial negotiation, I’d have drowned myself in the Charles.”
“Corporate law’s what stifled you, cher.” Remy licked sauce from his fingers. “You should’ve tried criminal, like me. Keeps the blood moving. You say the word, we’ll hang out a shingle together tomorrow.”
“Thanks for the thought. You still love it.”
“I do. I love the slippery, sneaking angles of it, the pomp and ceremony, the sweaty wrestling, the fancy words. Every damn thing.” Remy shook his head, tipped back the bottle. “You never did.”
“No, I never did.”
“All those years busting ass through Harvard, tossed aside. That what they’re saying to you?”
“Among other things.”
“They’re wrong. You know that, Dec. You’re not tossing anything aside. You’re just picking up something different. Relax and enjoy it. You’re in New Orleans now, or close enough. We take things easy here. We’ll wear some of that Yankee off you soon enough. Have you doing the Cajun two-step and stirring up some red beans and rice on wash day.”
“Yeah, that’ll happen.”
“You come on into town once you’re settled in, Effie and I’ll take you out to dinner. I want you to meet her.”
Remy had pulled off his tie, shucked his suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his lawyerly blue shirt. Except for the hair, Declan thought, he didn’t look that different than he did when they’d been at Harvard sucking down pizza and bourbon.
“You’re really doing it? Getting married.”
Remy let out a sigh. “Twelfth of May, come hell or high water. I’m settling my bad ass down, Dec. She’s just what I want.”
“A librarian.” It was a wonder to Declan. “You and a librarian.”
“Research specialist,” Remy corrected and hooted out a laugh. “Damn prettiest bookworm I ever did see. She’s a smart one, too. I’m crazy in love with her, Dec. Out of my mind crazy for her.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“You still got the guilts over . . . what was her name? Jennifer?”
“Jessica.” Wincing, Declan took another swig to cut the taste her name brought to his tongue. “Calling off a wedding three weeks before you’re due to walk down the aisle ought to give you the guilts.”
Remy acknowledged this with a quick shrug. “Maybe so. Feel worse if you’d gone through with it.”
“Tell me.” Still, his gray eyes remained broody as he stared at the bottle. “But I think she’d have handled it better if we’d done the thing, then gone for a divorce the next day.” It still gave him a twinge. “Couldn’t have handled it any worse, anyway. She’s seeing my cousin James now.”
“James . . . James . . . That the one who squeals like a girl or the one with the Dracula hair?”
“Neither.” Declan’s lips twitched. Jesus, he’d missed this. “James is the perfect one. Plastic surgeon, polo player, collects stamps.”
“Short guy, receding chin, broad Yankee accent.”
“That’s him, but the chin doesn’t recede anymore. Implant. According to my sister, it’s starting to look serious between them, which just serves me right, I’m told.”
“Well, hell, let your sister marry Jennifer.”
“Jessica, and that’s what I told her,” he said, gesturing with the bottle for emphasis. “She didn’t speak to me for two weeks. Which was a relief. I’m not very popular with the Fitzgeralds right now.”
“Well, you know, Dec, I’d have to say, given the circumstances and such . . . screw ’em.”
With a laugh, Declan handed Remy the bottle. “Let’s drink to it.”
He took another slice of pizza from the box. “Let me ask you something else, about this place. I’ve researched the history, did a chunk of it way back after we came here the first time.”
“Stumbling around like drunken fools.”
“Yeah, which we may do again if we keep hitting this bourbon. Anyway, I know it was built in 1879—after the original structure burned down in an unexplained fire, which was very likely set due to politics, Reconstruction and other post–Civil War messiness.”
“That’s the War of Northern Aggression, son.” Remy pointed a warning finger. “Remember which side of the Mason-Dixon Line you’re plopping your Yankee ass down on now.”
“Right. Sorry. Anyway. The Manets scooped up the land, cheap, according to the old records, and built the current structure. They farmed sugar and cotton primarily and divvied off plots to sharecroppers. Lived well for about twenty years. There were two sons, both died young. Then the old man died and the wife held on until she apparently stroked out in her sleep. No heirs. There was a granddaughter on record, but she was cut out of the will. Place went to auction and has passed from hand to hand ever since. Sitting empty more than not.”
“And?”
Declan leaned forward. “Do you believe it’s haunted?”
Remy pursed his lips, copped the last piece of pizza. “That whole history lesson was your way of working around to asking that one question? Boy, you got the makings for a fine southern lawyer. Sure it’s haunted.” His eyes danced as he bit into the pizza. “House been here this long and isn’t, it’d have no self-respect whatsoever. The granddaughter you mentioned. She was a Rouse on her mama’s side. I know that, as I’m fourth or fifth cousins with the Simones, and the Simones come down from that line. Girl was raised, I believe, by her maternal grandparents after her mama took off with some man—so it’s said. Don’t know if I recollect what happened to her daddy, but others will if you want to know. I do know that Henri Manet, his wife, Josephine, and the one son—damned if I know what his name was—all died in this house. One of them doesn’t have the gumption to haunt it, that’s a crying shame.”
“Natural causes? The people who died here?”
Curious, Remy frowned. “Far as I know. Why?”
“I don’t know.” Declan had to fight off a shudder. “Vibes.”
“You want someone to come through here? Little gris-gris, little voodoo, chase off your ghost, or maybe summon the spirit for a little conversation? You can find yourself a witch or psychic every second corner in town.”
“No, thanks.”
“You let me know if you decide different.” Remy winked. “I’ll put you onto somebody who’ll give you a fine show.”
He didn’t want a show, Declan decided later. But he did want that shower, and bed. With Jim Beam buzzing pleasantly in his blood, he hauled in boxes, pawed through them to find sheets and towels. He c
arted what he figured he’d need for the night upstairs.
It was good old Catholic guilt rather than any need for order that had him making the bed. He treated himself to a ten-minute shower, then climbed into the fresh sheets to the sound of the incessant rain.
He was asleep in thirty seconds.
There was a baby crying. It didn’t strike him as odd at all. Babies tended to cry in the middle of the night, or whenever they damn well pleased. It sounded fretful and annoyed more than alarmed.
Someone ought to go pick it up . . . do whatever people did with crying babies. Feed it. Change it. Rock it.
When he’d waked from nightmares as a child, his mother or his nanny, sometimes his father, had come in to stroke his head and sit with him until the fear faded away again.
The baby wasn’t frightened. The baby was hungry.
It didn’t strike him as odd that he thought that. That he knew that.
But it did strike him as odd, very odd, to wake, bathed in sweat, and find himself standing outside the door with the dull brass knob on the third floor.
3
Sleepwalking. That was something he hadn’t done since childhood. But in the watery light of day it was simple enough to see how it had happened. Jim Beam, pepperoni pizza and talk of ghosts.
A little harder to accept was the gut-clenching terror he’d felt when he’d surfaced and found himself outside that third-level door. He’d snapped out of the fugue and into a nightmare of panic—one where he’d been certain he’d heard the fading echoes of a baby’s restless crying.
He’d run. He couldn’t have opened that door if he’d had a gun to his head. So he’d run, with his own bright fear chasing him, to lock himself back in the bedroom. Like a mental patient, he thought now over a lukewarm cup of instant coffee.
At least there’d been no one around to see it.
But if you thought about it, it was a rather auspicious first night. Cold spots, baby ghosts, fugues. It sure beat sitting in his empty town house in Boston, sucking on a beer and watching ESPN.
Maybe he would spend some time digging deeper into the history of the house. His house, he corrected, and with his coffee, he leaned on the damp iron rail of the gallery outside his bedroom.