The House of Secrets

by Elizabeth Blackwell

  “I need to understand what happened.”

  Alissa paused, gathering her thoughts. “I know it sounds crazy, but I feel a connection to them. They were happy here once. I feel like I owe it to them to bring that happiness back.”

  “You already have,” Danny said.

  She glanced at him, but his face was turned away, looking up at the maple leaves that hung above them. This was the closest he’d come to revealing any feelings for her. She could ask him what he meant. Find out if he thought of her as someone more than the person who signed his paychecks.

  Or she could let the moment pass.

  Continue living a life without complications.

  Dear Reader,

  I’ve always been fascinated by historic homes. As I walk the halls, I like to imagine the previous owners taking those same steps. What were their lives like? Were they happy here? While I don’t believe in ghosts in the stereotypical, chain-rattling sense, I’ve often wondered if a home’s past owners leave some trace of themselves behind. That curiosity was the inspiration for The House of Secrets.

  By tracing the story of two women—Evelyn Brewster in the early 1900s and Alissa Franklin in the present—I wanted to explore how two seemingly different lives can share certain parallels. As a history buff, I believe we can all learn from the past—and if you can solve a long-buried mystery along the way, all the better!

  Thanks for following along.

  Happy reading!

  Elizabeth Blackwell

  THE HOUSE OF SECRETS

  Elizabeth Blackwell

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  As a magazine writer and editor, Elizabeth Blackwell has written about everything from designing a dream kitchen to fighting a duel. She lives outside Chicago with her husband, daughter, twin boys and a vast collection of long underwear. Her first novel, The Letter, won first prize in eHarlequin.com’s epic romance contest and was published by Harlequin Everlasting Love in 2007. The House of Secrets is her first Harlequin Superromance book.

  Books by Elizabeth Blackwell

  HARLEQUIN EVERLASTING LOVE

  11—THE LETTER

  To Robert, a wonderful handyman

  and even better husband

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I LOVE IT.”

  It was ridiculous, this sudden desire Alissa Franklin felt for the dilapidated old house. It was far too big for one person: six bedrooms, a huge dining room, a formal parlor the size of a ballroom. It was also a good thirty miles from her office in downtown Baltimore, which would mean a nightmare commute. Not to mention the building’s shabby condition—sagging front stairs, paint peeling off the siding, scrapes marring the wood floors and water damage on some of the upstairs ceilings. It must have been beautiful once, a classic wood-frame Queen Anne with a wide front porch and oversized windows that welcomed the sunlight. Now, the elegant silhouette was all that remained of its past glory.

  But as Alissa walked through the rooms and stared at the overgrown garden in back, she felt she belonged. She imagined the gloomy spaces transformed by fresh coats of paint and new curtains. The power of the vision was so strong that she turned to Brad before they had even left the second floor. “I love it,” she whispered.

  Brad gave her the look he always did when confronted with one of her spontaneous enthusiasms. His mouth curved in a half scowl, his scornful dark eyes piercing her. Once, that look had been able to stun her into silence. Now, after four years of on-again, off-again dating, it only irritated her. It had lost its power.

  “Shh,” Brad whispered, nodding his head toward the Realtor walking a few steps ahead of them.

  Alissa followed Brad up to the third floor, where the servants’ quarters were crammed under the roof’s sloping eaves. Although now nearly empty, the rooms were a testament to a time when this was a vibrant home, bustling with life. Through a tiny window, Alissa looked out over the town of Oak Hill, spread out below her. The servants may have been stuck in the smallest, stuffiest rooms, but they’d had the best view.

  Alissa moved silently behind Brad and the Realtor as they descended the narrow stairs to the second floor, then along the grand staircase that wound down to the foyer. An elaborate cut-glass chandelier—hazy under a layer of dust—signaled that this was a space designed to impress, even intimidate. Alissa imagined someone from town arriving here, climbing out of a carriage on the circular drive, walking through the entrance and being confronted with this foyer. Taking in the glittering chandelier, the marble floor and the statues that would have been displayed in the now-vacant wall recesses. The people who lived in the simple brick houses of the town would have been dumbstruck by the scale of this mansion. Yet despite its opulence, the place still felt like a home, somewhere Alissa could see herself living.

  “So?” the Realtor asked. She was a tall, slim woman who obviously took pride in her appearance, from the ash-blond hair swept into a sleek chignon to her immaculate black patent-leather heels. Her highlights and expertly applied makeup camouflaged her age, which could have been anywhere from forty to sixty. When Alissa had called the phone number on the For Sale sign in front of the house—“Let’s just take a peek,” she’d told Brad, pulling her cell phone from her purse—the Realtor had answered on the second ring and offered to show them the place immediately.

  “I live only a few houses away,” she’d said. “It’s no trouble.”

  Brad had protested, of course, saying he didn’t want to be driving the country roads after dark. But Alissa knew the real reason behind his impatience. After what was supposed to be a romantic weekend getaway—a last-ditch attempt to smooth over the fault lines in their relationship—Brad was ready to give up the pretense of being a happy couple. Touring this house would only postpone the inevitable, awkward conversation about their future. Perhaps delaying that moment was what made Alissa so anxious to see the house.

  The Realtor introduced herself as Elaine Price, and Alissa explained that she was an interior designer interested in historic homes.

  “I’d be happy to show you around,” Elaine said as she led them up the front steps. “It’s quite a treasure.”

  Brad had scowled as he took in the state of the house, which clearly hadn’t been lived in for years. Elaine led them briskly along, showing each room with a minimum of description, as if the tall ceilings and generous spaces could speak for themselves. Now she stood before them in the foyer, smiling graciously.

  “So?”

  Alissa heard Brad starting to speak. “Well, if that’s it…” But she wasn’t ready to leave. She needed more time here, time to savor the atmosphere of this magical place.

  “When was the house built?” Alissa asked.

  “It’s more than a hundred years old—1904, I think. It was built for a young married couple.” Elaine smiled, continuing in a softer tone, “It’s actually a very romantic story.”

  Alissa kept her
eyes focused on Elaine, ignoring Brad’s impatient sigh.

  “You’ve heard of the Brewsters?” Elaine asked, leading them out the front door. The late-afternoon sun sent their shadows sprawling down the wide steps and circular gravel driveway. Alissa shook her head.

  “There aren’t any left, at least around here, but they used to be the richest family in the area,” Elaine said. “Made their money in shipping. Do you know Brewster Street near the harbor in Baltimore?”

  Alissa nodded. “Yes, my dentist’s office is there.”

  “That street was named for them,” said Elaine. “Sometime in the mid-nineteenth century, the family built an enormous country estate, which became their main residence. The city was filthy back then, and the air was supposed to be healthier out here. Which it still is, no doubt!”

  Brad nodded politely, but Alissa could tell he was anxious to speed things along.

  “So, is this where the family lived?” she asked.

  “Oh, no. They had a far grander home about half a mile that way.” Elaine gestured beyond the backyard. “It was one of those sprawling Gothic manors that seem to stretch on for miles. It was demolished in the sixties to make room for the highway. A tragic architectural loss, but the house was completely impractical for modern families.”

  Elaine paused, then gestured back toward the existing house’s facade. “This was built for Mr. Charles Brewster, the eldest son of Edward Brewster, who built the original estate. Edward had three children, and homes were to be built for each of them on the property once they were married. Charles was one of the wealthiest, most eligible bachelors in the county. But when it came time to get married, he chose the daughter of his mother’s dressmaker. It was quite the scandal.”

  “She must have been very special,” Alissa said.

  “Her name was Evelyn,” Elaine continued. “Apparently she was very lovely. Educated as well, which was unusual for someone from a working-class family. Charles’s mother fought the match, but they were simply too much in love. It was a whirlwind courtship, and Charles had workers here day and night to finish the house for his bride. I’ve always thought of this place as his wedding gift to her.”

  “And they lived happily ever after, right?” Alissa said.

  Elaine shook her head quickly. “I’m afraid not. Charles died only a year later, and Evelyn moved away. The memories were simply too painful. The house eventually passed out of the family. For the past thirty years or so, it’s been owned by Mrs. Foster, who lived here first with her husband, then, when he died, with her sister. After a while, though, it became too much to keep up on their own. A house like this needs a fair bit of maintenance.”

  From what Alissa could see, the two sisters hadn’t been able to keep up with the house for some time.

  “How long has the house been empty?” Brad asked.

  Elaine adjusted her necklace, avoiding his eyes. “A few years.”

  “How many, exactly?”

  “Oh, about three.”

  “And it’s been on the market since then?” Brad asked. This, he seemed to imply, was the kiss of death for real estate.

  “Oh, off and on,” Elaine said vaguely. “The family considered renovating, then thought they’d try to find a buyer as is—so many people prefer to do their own updating. There have been some offers, mostly from developers looking to tear it down. The family would prefer to see the home remain intact, so they’re waiting for that special person who sees its potential.” She gave Alissa a hopeful smile.

  “Well, thank you for showing us around,” said Brad, reaching out to shake Elaine’s hand. “We’ve got your card if we have any questions.” He walked swiftly down the steps and started along the driveway.

  Alissa hung back. “You didn’t tell us the price,” she reminded the Realtor.

  Elaine smiled. “Well, as I said, the family is looking for someone who appreciates the historic nature of the home. For the right person, I believe they’d be willing to be flexible.” She named a figure so absurdly low—a number not much higher than the price Alissa had paid for her condo a few years before—that Alissa let out a shocked laugh.

  “You’re kidding,” she said.

  Elaine lowered her voice and leaned in closer. “This isn’t an easy house to sell,” she confided. “The family doesn’t need the money. If they did, they would’ve sold to the developers. They have a sentimental attachment to the house, and I know they’re happy to make accommodations for someone who truly cares for the place.”

  Alissa glanced at Brad, who was already standing by the gate at the end of the long driveway. He jingled his car keys impatiently.

  “Thank you,” Alissa said, shaking Elaine’s hand. “It’s a wonderful house.”

  “It’s just waiting for a nice young family,” Elaine said with a wink.

  “Oh, we’re not married,” Alissa protested. For years, she had halfheartedly daydreamed about standing at an altar, saying “I do” to Brad. Those fantasies had gradually faded.

  “So sorry,” Elaine said with the practiced grace of someone used to extracting herself from awkward situations. “Well, I can see you’re in a hurry. Do call if you have any questions.”

  “Yes, I will.” Alissa scurried down the driveway and nudged Brad forward with one hand. “Okay, we can go now.”

  As they drove off, Alissa stole one last glimpse at what she already thought of as the Brewster house. She imagined herself as a young bride, being carried over the threshold by a man who had risked everything to marry her. Their house must have been a refuge from a disapproving world. What would it be like to be so in love that you were willing to defy your family and break all the rules?

  Alissa had always had an active imagination. It was the key to her professional success. Being an interior designer took more than sorting through paint chips and fabric samples; it took a talent for envisioning a space as it should be, not as it was, then convincing clients that she could make it happen. As soon as she was old enough to hold a paintbrush, Alissa had begged her mother to let her paint her room. By her teens, she was sewing slip-covers for the living-room furniture and making her own bedspreads. Bringing the Brewster house back to life would be the ultimate test of her talent.

  Brad eyed her from the driver’s seat. “That place looked cool from the outside, but c’mon—it was a dump.”

  Alissa felt her shoulders tense. “It just needs some work,” she said.

  “And you think you can save it?” Brad asked. “You’d go bankrupt.”

  “There’s the money from my mom…” Alissa began, then stopped. The money her mother had left when she died of cancer a year ago, which she’d told Alissa to use to “follow her dreams.” Alissa had assumed she’d put it toward a wedding, a fairy-tale affair so magical it might make up for her mother’s absence. Clearly that wasn’t likely now, given the state of her relationship with Brad. Had her mother hoped for something else?

  “Besides,” Alissa continued after a moment, “wanna guess the asking price?”

  Brad perked up with surprise when she told him.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Alissa said. “Plus, Elaine more or less said they’d be willing to drop the price even lower for the right person. If I sold my condo and took out a loan, I might have enough for renovations. I could get fabric and furniture from some of the firm’s suppliers at cost, so I’d be saving a ton of money there….”

  “Hang on. You took one tour of the house and now you’re selling your condo?” Brad asked. He didn’t bother to hide his disbelief.

  “I said if,” Alissa protested. But in her heart, she had already let go of the downtown loft, with its exposed-brick walls and stainless-steel kitchen. She saw herself at the Brewster house, stripping the paint off the elaborate crown molding in that beautiful parlor, or washing the streaked windows so the sun could shine in once again.

  “The commute would be awful,” Brad said.

  “I know.” Already, Alissa dreaded going to the offi
ce each day; a long drive would only give her more time to be miserable. Maureen, her boss, hovered over her as if she were still an intern, even though she had been a licensed designer for nearly three years. Now that clients had started specifically requesting Alissa, Maureen had become even more competitive and distrusting. If Alissa moved out to Oak Hill, maybe she could arrange to go to the office only part-time.

  Or better yet, not go in at all. For years, Alissa had dreamed of running her own business. Finally working the way she wanted to, without the distraction of a temperamental boss. It was impossible, of course—there was no way she could buy a massive house and quit her job. It would be crazy. And yet, Alissa felt a stirring of excitement at the prospect. The Brewster house, which had captured her imagination despite its neglected condition, now seemed like the key to a whole new life.

  Brad laughed sarcastically. “I can’t believe you were seriously thinking of buying that place,” he said.

  I still am, Alissa thought. But she remained silent.

  They drove on, the sound of the humming wheels mesmerizing them until they drifted into their own thoughts. In the end, it was Brad who spoke first. His ability to cut to the truth was one quality she still admired about him.

  “So this is it, huh?” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  Alissa started to ask him what he meant, then stopped herself. What was the point? Their passion for each other—once so exciting, so all-consuming—had fizzled in the face of their ultimate incompatibility. Brad was a good-time guy who wanted to keep the party going even as he passed thirty; Alissa was happiest cocooning at home and getting to bed before midnight. Brad liked hot summer nights and tropical beaches; Alissa preferred cool fall afternoons and vacations at mountaintop lodges. It was no one’s fault. They should be able to say goodbye without regret. Still, Alissa didn’t want to make the final decision.