Chapter Nineteen #2
Catherine Poole Cabot smiled quietly, a bit shyly, though her green eyes held joy.
Against a backdrop of snow, the sea beyond, she wore white silk.
The artist’s skill, Andrew MacTavish’s skill, brought that sheen to the canvas.
Stars glittered along the hem of the gown, on its poufed shoulders.
White satin sashed the waist of a wedding dress trimmed in ermine.
She wore pearls around her neck, and her hair dressed high under the star-trimmed veil.
She carried roses, the faintest blush of pink against the white. A gold band, as simple as the dress was elaborate, circled the third finger of her left hand.
Catherine Poole Cabot, daughter of Connor and Arabelle Poole, wife of William Cabot, who died in her nightdress and bare feet in a blizzard of snow on her wedding night.
“I watched her mother brush her hair out. It must’ve taken forever to style that way, and nearly as long to take down and smooth out.”
“It’s beautiful work,” Cleo said. “The light, the details. She looks lovely, and all her happiness is in her eyes.”
“You know where we haven’t gone before? The artist,” Trey continued. “Your father, in this case again, had to see her in this.”
“Dreaming, Collin said. Painted in dreams. I’ve had those dreams.”
“And then there were six. We’ll take her down.” Owen stepped in to lift the painting. “Put her up with the others.”
Sonya stepped back. “I know you’re right about the space, the way it would fit seven portraits. And the one of Astrid in the foyer, too large, different style. But if there is one more to find, who painted it? They’ve each done three now.”
“If you count it out, it would be Collin’s turn.” Trey stroked a hand down her back. “I guess we’ll find out when we find out.”
“She’s like the others, painted in detail, with skill.
The white dress, the flowers, the ring. Brides didn’t always wear white in her time or Astrid’s.
I did some research,” Sonya explained, “hoping for—I don’t know what.
Queen Victoria wore a white wedding dress, years after this, and that’s when white ruled the wedding day.
But both Astrid and Catherine chose white.
“Does it matter?”
“For the series, I’d say yes. It adds to the feel, the tone, the style. And,” Cleo added, “that sense of innocence. I’ll get what we need to put her up.”
When they reached the music room, Cleo peeled off. Owen walked over to lean the painting against the wall.
“I wonder, cutie, if you dreamed this.”
“The painting?”
“All of them. The way you chose this room, this wall, the way you spaced the first two.”
“We switched out what was there, and then … I don’t know. If I did, I don’t remember.”
When Cleo came back, Owen took the measuring tape. He measured from the corner of the wall to the portrait of Marianne, then walked to the other side, measured from that corner to Johanna’s portrait.
He stopped, muttered to himself, eyes closed. Before Cleo could speak, Trey held up a hand, shook his head.
“Do the math?” Owen said. “Factor the space from that corner to the seventh painting, calculate the other side, the size of the paintings, the spacing between? It’s exact. I’m telling you, man, you don’t get exact by accident.”
“If you were hanging seven paintings in a series?” Sonya said.
“You work with space so you know. I’d measure the wall, the paintings, calculate the spacing, do the math. Then I’d do the math again before I put in the first nail. You didn’t do any of that.”
“No. Maybe Collin did. Hell, maybe the manor did. Maybe, because I do work with space, I just saw the potential here. Or maybe I dreamed it.”
“Let’s put her up.” Trey walked over to give Owen a hand.
When Catherine stood with the other brides, they all stepped back.
“It’s stunning,” Cleo said. “Visually stunning. The art, of course, and the subjects. It’s also a history of fashion. You can see the changes generation by generation. The shape of the gowns, the sleeves, necklines. The hairstyles.”
“Seven women spanning over two hundred years since the manor was built. Seven brides. There would be eight if Patricia hadn’t taken the warning.”
“Maybe she didn’t want eight. Or six.” Cleo angled her head. “Another reason she scared Patricia off? Maybe. Seven’s a number of power.”
“She got six with Clover,” Owen pointed out.
“Yes, then one more for seven. Seven and two hundred years. Not six in two hundred and thirty or forty—I’m not doing the math.”
“Thirty,” Trey told her.
“Okay. But by skipping that one generation and waiting. Seven over the two hundred and thirty years since the manor was first built.”
“When she first started to covet it,” Sonya murmured.
“You don’t actually think she’d stop because, what, seven’s her lucky number?”
Cleo shook her head at Trey. “No. There are other numbers of power, and she got her two hundred years and seven. If that’s something. She amassed that power. She’s got no reason to stop, does she? And she’s insane on top of it.”
“She’s not getting a chance for eight.” Trey’s eyes hardened as he scanned the portraits. “We find the answer. And if the answer, or an answer, is on that wall, we need, and we’ll find, one more portrait.”
“Commonalities,” Sonya began. “Oil paintings in the same style. All wedding day portraits, all wearing white. All holding flowers, all wearing a wedding ring. Opposing that? Different backdrops, not all wear veils, two are pregnant—Clover visibly. Only two are Pooles by birth. Of the six we have, three died wearing that dress. Clover and Marianne died later in childbirth, and Catherine in a nightgown on her wedding night.”
“Sometimes they’re not wearing them.”
Sonya turned to Owen. “What? The wedding dresses?”
“The rings, in the paintings. Sometimes they’re not there. I’ll walk by, glance in, and for a couple seconds, they’re not there. Then they are.”
“I know.”
“It’s happened a few times so I know it happened, right?”
“You’ve caught glimpses of their reality,” Cleo decided. “Because they’re not wearing them. Dobbs is.”
“Interesting” was all Trey said.
“Weird, but you know?” Owen shrugged. “You get used to weird.”
“Weird’s one thing. Murder through sorcery’s another.”
Cleo raised her brows at Trey. “And on that happy note, I’m going up, let all this simmer.”
“I’m with Lafayette. So’s Jones.”
Sonya lingered even when Yoda and Mookie followed the others.
“You see the rings.”
“Yes, I see them.”
“It has to mean something that Owen doesn’t always see them—everything means something. It’s the figuring out what that makes you crazy. And to think I always liked puzzles.”
“Nobody solves a puzzle with pieces missing. And there’s more missing here than one painting.
If Dobbs is wearing the damn rings, and she is, how the hell are you supposed to get them back?
And what are you supposed to do with them if you do get them?
Why in all the time I spent in this house over the years didn’t she pull any of her bullshit? ”
Frustration built, spilled over.
“All that started with you. Why are you the one? The one pulled into this, the one expected to deal with it, solve the puzzle, find the rings, break the curse?”
“All I can say about the last part of that is because my father was born here, and that makes me a Poole.”
“You’re not the only Poole.”
“No, but the house is mine.”
“And all the baggage with it. All you didn’t know about when you agreed to the terms of Collin’s will.”
“I know about it all now,” she said, watching him carefully. “And I’m still here. You’re upset and angry. You’d already had a hard day before you got here.”
“It has nothing to do with my day, and I’m fine.”
“You don’t get really angry often, not so it shows, anyway. So when it does, it does. And I’m getting a feeling you’re mad at me. I don’t know why.”
“I’m not mad at you. The situation—there are six dead women on that wall, and one more to come. Not that long ago, Dobbs tried to burn the house down around you.”
“It wasn’t real. It—”
“Real enough, Sonya. What she can do is real enough she put seven women in the ground. Because of this house. Because of stone and wood and glass.”
The house was more than that, she thought. So much more. So was her heritage.
“You think I should go. Walk away, close it up again.”
“I think you should consider what it would do to you and your life if you spend it here, trying to find seven wedding rings. If this is what you want for your life, day after day, maybe year after year. Never being sure what Dobbs might do next.”
It was one thing, she realized, for her to take it on. Her heritage, her legacy, her need to honor both. And another to expect him to do the same.
“It’s a lot. And you’ve shouldered so much of it.”
“I’m not talking about me.”
“I am. You fix things. It’s what you do. You help people—that’s not just your job, it’s your nature. So you’ve shouldered a lot of it. It’s wearing on you. Do you need a break?”
“A break? From what?”
“From this.” Sick at the thought of it, she held out her hands. “All this. From juggling work and worry, and the normal with the crazy. From me.”
“What the hell do you take me for?”
She saw clearly she’d only made him more angry. And heard clearly, from the slamming doors, Dobbs enjoyed it.
“I take you for someone who doesn’t back down easy. Who manages to keep calm in a crisis. And maybe someone who’s had enough of knowing another crisis is coming, at any time, from any direction.
“I know you care about me.”
“Jesus.” Shoving a hand through his hair, he turned, paced away. “That’s a pale word for it.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
He spun back. “For fuck’s sake, Sonya.”
“Please. I realize I’ve been stupid not just saying it before.
Words matter, and I haven’t used them. I shouldn’t have held them back until you’re on edge.
I love you, and I don’t want to lose you.
I love you, and I’d so much rather you took a break, stepped back for a little while, than stay because it’s your nature to help. ”
“I don’t need a goddamn break, and I don’t need you to tell me you love me surrounded by stupidity.”
Shock smothered even instinctive temper. “Trey.”
“Shut up. Just shut up.”
He turned to pace again. She might have slapped back if she’d had words, or just walked away if she hadn’t been frozen in place.
“Just shut up and listen. There are other walls in this house.” He flung a hand toward the portraits. “Other walls that can hold paintings of murdered women. She’s got no reason to stop, Cleo’s got that right. I’m damned if you’ll be number eight.”
“I never thought I’d say this to you, but you need to calm down. I’m not a bride.”
“That’s right, and that’s a problem for me. As long as things are the way they are, as long as they are and you live in this house, you can’t be.”
“That would come under the category of my problem.”
“And the stupid continues.”
Her spine snapped as straight as a steel pole. “I’m not going to stand here while you call me stupid.”
Turning her back on him, she strode to the doorway.
“I’m in love with you. Words matter? There they are. I started sliding the first time I saw you, standing out front in the snow. Wonder all over that face. That face I can’t live without now.”
She’d turned, and now stood in the doorway with her heart in her throat. “Trey—”
“I’m not finished. I haven’t said those words because they matter. Because I knew once I had—”
“You’d make me so happy I’d actually feel stupid?”
“Sonya.” He shook his head, shoved his hands through his hair again.
She could actually see it happen, could see the calm slip over him again.
“I haven’t said them because once I had, it stopped there. I couldn’t move on to what I want, what I believe you want. I knew that, I’ve been dealing with that, but tonight?”
He looked back at the portraits. “It just hit harder, that’s all.
What Cleo said—solid manor logic—Dobbs won’t stop.
You’re an annoyance, an obstacle, so she harasses you, threatens.
She could hurt you. But you can’t become a competitor, Sonya.
You can’t give her the reason, the excuse, the power, whatever it is, to make you number eight. ”
He came to her now, took both her hands. “I want a life with you. I want you to marry me, for us to start a family because I love you. And because I love you, I can’t ask you. I won’t. And we can’t have that life or that family.”
“But you would, and we could, if I walked away from the manor?”
Shaking his head, he brought her hands to his lips. “No, that was wrong of me, and I’m sorry for it. I’d hate myself, and if you didn’t resent me straight off, you would down the road. And you’d be right to, that’s the goddamn kicker. You can’t walk away from this. From them.”
“I can’t, no, I can’t walk away from them. But I can want what you want. I do want a life with you, children with you. I want to fill the house with them.”
Now he smiled a little. “There’s a hell of a lot of rooms in this house.”
“Well, maybe not every one. Trey, it’s so much more than enough for me to know you love me, you want that with me. I can wait, because you love me.”
She fell into the kiss, into the love, the promise. She held on to it, and him, while Clover serenaded them with Adele and “Make You Feel My Love.”
She felt his, tasted it on his lips, knew it in his heartbeat, in the arms that kept her close.
And held her still when her head rested on his shoulder.
“We’re in this together,” he promised. “Whether it takes a day, a month, a decade. We’re in it together.”
Together, she thought. She looked at the women on the wall in their bridal white and made her own promise.
They’d find a way, the way, to free them, reunite those who wished it. And she and Trey would build that life together, right here in Lost Bride Manor.