“You’ll find the house has many details alluding to your history,” the attorney told them both, smiling broadly and turning toward the parlor. “The image carved over the door here is said to be a likeness of your fifth-great-grandmother, WinterBone. It was commissioned by Erazmus himself in honor of his beloved mother when he fashioned the house.”
Cordelia felt a shiver pass through her as she stared into the wooden face, remembering how it struck her yesterday. She felt like she was on one of those historical tours of a famous person’s home, like a president or an author. Only, this washerfamily estate. And Mr. Togers’ droning was solely for her and her sister’s benefit.
“And you’ll no doubt have seen the portrait of Erazmus that has hung in his study since the mid-1800s,” Bennett added.
Cordelia nodded.
“In the dining room,” he called as he walked toward the door under the stairs, “you’ll find several more portraits, including your great-grandfather, Linden, and his sister—your great-great-aunt Morna.”
Bennett stopped in front of two portraits hanging side by side—a young man and woman. He had golden-brown hair and blue eyes with a pale suit and waistcoat, standing before the library mantel. She was posed in the garden, in a long, pleated dress of teal silk, and though she was every bit as fair of face and skin, her dark auburn hair and warm brown eyes were in stark contrast to her brother’s. Cordelia knew her right away, despite the peachy cheeks and demure stance. It was the woman she’d seen on the stairs.
“Morna,” Cordelia said softly.
Bennett hung his head. “Yes. I’m afraid her life was quite tragic. She was rather afflicted. It took her from her brother in the end.”
“Afflicted?” Eustace asked. “With what?”
Bennett cleared his throat. “Melancholyis what they called it at the time.”
“Depression,” Eustace clarified.
“And suicide?” Cordelia followed.
Bennett nodded. “Unfortunately. Only a few years after your aunt Augusta was born. It was a terrible tragedy for the family. But Linden carried on, and here you both are.” His smile tightened.
“Who’s this?” Eustace asked, sliding over to the next painting of a handsome young man with golden hair in a frock coat and burgundy ascot, also poised before the stately library mantel.
“That is Roman Bone. Linden and Morna’s uncle. Erazmus had four children—Roman was his only son,” Bennett informed them.
“He looks quite dapper,” Eustace noted. “I’m sure the ladies went mad over him.”
Bennett smiled sadly. “He was quite the socialite in his prime, that’s true. Though, he changed dramatically after he lost the twins.”
“Jesus,” Eustace said. “These are bleak. Can you point us to a happy one?”
Bennett moved to the next portrait, featuring a man and woman in the parlor. She was seated in a spoon-back chair, and he stood behind with a hand on her shoulder. “Your great-great-grandmother, Opal, and her husband, Theodore. A very proud woman, I am told, who inherited not only her father’s estate but a great deal of his sense and drive as well.”
“And his scowl,” Cordelia noted.
“Yes, well. I’m afraid it wasn’t a pleasant union,” Bennett informed them. “Your great-great-grandfather was a drunk and a gambler and carried on with a good number of women during their marriage.”
“You need to freshen up on the meaning ofhappy,” Eustace told the attorney before shooting Cordelia aWhat gives?look.
Bennett smiled flatly and moved through the kitchen to the solarium. “Here you’ll find the herbaceous heart of the house.Erazmus had this solarium built for his young bride, Arabella, who took great comfort in its beauty.”
Cordelia and Eustace glanced around skeptically. Though full of plants, the solarium had a grim, diluvian air, manifested in the unseemly pond at its center. And the glass dripped with condensation, as if the greenhouse itself were weeping.
Eustace raised her eyebrows. “Of course she did.”
Cordelia had to hide a chuckle in her sleeve.
Bennett frowned. “Shall we tour the second story?”
“After you,” Eustace told him.
He led them up a spiraling iron staircase in a corner of the solarium that entered a back door to one of the bedrooms. “This was Arabella’s personal suite,” he told them, his arm unfolding to indicate the four-poster bed hung with heavy, mauve Dupioni curtains and the adjoining sitting room, large enough for a matching settee and two armchairs. The wainscoting had been upholstered in the same rose silk as everything else.
“I’ve never seen pink look so depressing,” Eustace whispered in Cordelia’s ear.
