The Mirror (The Lost Bride Trilogy #2)

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Sonya knew Cleo’s morning routine as well as her own, so when Cleo passed the library shortly after ten, Sonya answered the grunt with a wave.

She gave her housemate ten minutes, time enough for that first, mind-clearing cup of coffee, then with Yoda, headed down to the kitchen.

Cleo sat at the island with coffee, a toasted bagel, and her phone. After grabbing a Coke, Sonya gave Yoda the option of outside, which he took. Then she sat beside her friend.

“I take it our overnight guests are gone?”

“They are. Owen at the crack of dawn, and Trey not long after.”

“Makes me very glad I don’t have work that requires me to come near the crack of dawn.” She lifted the bagel, got a good look at Sonya’s face. And set it down again.

“Well, shit. Just shit! What happened? Did I sleep through something?”

“Apparently everyone did but Trey.”

As she listened to Sonya’s recount, Cleo nibbled on the bagel.

“Three a.m., binding the curse with her own blood. And I’m a hundred percent on your conclusions. Not for love of the 1800s Collin Poole, but pure jealousy and avarice. She wanted to be lady of the manor. And she still does.”

“When Patricia Youngsboro married Michael Poole Jr., she didn’t have her wedding or reception here, and refused to live here,” Sonya said. “Closed the manor until her son Charles inherited, and he opened it, moved in—with Lilian Crest. But for those twenty years or so, the manor stayed closed—maintained, but with no occupants. Why would she do that? Unless she knew of or believed in the curse?”

“I’m going to say both.”

“Both,” Sonya agreed. “Everything I’ve read says she was a hard-ass, status-symbol type of person. A controller, one who ruled her business and her family.”

“Yeah, I’d say separating her dead son’s twins qualifies as controlling. And downright mean.”

“She embraced all things Poole.” Sonya held up a finger. “Except the manor. The historic family home, a major status symbol. Her other son, Lawrence, never lived here. Her daughter, Gretta, never lived here. Why?”

“Because she didn’t want them to.” Instead of a finger, Cleo held up a fist. “Iron fist. That’s what you’re thinking, and again a hundred percent. But she couldn’t do a damn thing about it when her husband left the manor to Charles—Charlie—and he moved in.”

“Exactly,” Sonya agreed. “Charlie said no to the control, no to her rules. So Dobbs had her sixth bride, after a couple of decades of holding the manor.”

Sonya pushed up. “From what I can tell, Clover was already pregnant when they moved in. But Dobbs didn’t go after her, or her wedding ring, until the birth of the twins.”

“You think, after that twenty-year gap, Dobbs wanted more. More blood, more rings, more power?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“And I’m right there with you.”

“I need to find out more about Patricia Poole. She must’ve been in this house before she married. At parties, for dinner. Something. Then she shut down one of the biggest—aside from the business, the biggest—Poole status symbol, and had a house built on the other side of town. And as far as I know, she took nothing out of the manor. No furniture, no family heirlooms.

“Deuce—Trey’s father—is coming to talk to me about it this af ternoon. And I want to know more about Gretta Poole. She lived a lie, pretended to be Collin’s birth mother. And she never married, raised Collin in her mother’s house. She never lived on her own.”

“Under her mother’s thumb. Or we could go to Gilead, because I bet Patricia could’ve given Aunt Lydia a run. Under her eye.”

“Yeah, with the manor closed again, until Collin inherited it, and moved in.”

Clover let loose with “Sweet Child o’ Mine.”

“It’s interesting,” Cleo commented, “having a three-way conversation that includes a ghost, through her musical selections.”

“But I think she can only tell us so much, all of them can only tell us so much. That’s why we need the living. I’m going to go back to work.”

She walked to the door to let Yoda in. “If you’re not in the middle of your own and can break off, feel free to join us when Deuce gets here.”

“I think I will. I not only want to meet him, but I’d like to hear what he has to say firsthand.”

“You’ll like him. Come on, Yoda. Break’s over.”

She went back to work on Gigi’s, and thinking of Owen’s “girlie” comment, worked on some potential ads and taglines about gifts—for the women in your life.

She worked on some choices specifically targeting Mother’s Day. Embrace the girlie, she decided.

As it neared two, she shot off an email with those drafts attached. Let the client get a feel for the direction, she thought, before she put too much time and effort into it.

Downstairs, she put a coffee service together, added a plate of cookies.

She carried the coffee service into the front parlor, stopped, and looked around.

The piano gleamed under the vase of white tulips. All the pillows were plumped, and the air smelled faintly, very faintly, of orange oil.

“Thank you, Molly,” she said just as the doorbell sounded. “Right on time.”

She thought of the first time she’d opened the door to Oliver Doyle II, on a cold winter day in Boston, and without any idea how that visit would change her life.

She wouldn’t have this house without Deuce, she considered as she went to let him in. And looked down at Yoda. “Plus, I wouldn’t have you.”

She opened the door to cool April air, and the man who’d helped change her life.

It was easy to see Trey in him, in those wonderful blue eyes—his behind silver-framed glasses. His full head of hair had gone silvery gray, but those distinctive eyebrows remained dramatically black.

Sonya reached out both hands to him. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“Sonya. It’s always a pleasure to see you, and to visit the manor.”

She heard the door to the Gold Room slam like cannon fire.

“Really?”

“Yes.” He stepped inside, then bent to pet Yoda. “Trey’s caught me up on events, and tells me you and your friend Cleo are handling it all very well.”

“I think we are. It helps that Cleo loves the manor as much as I do. Come in and sit down. I made coffee.”

“Much appreciated.” Then he looked over and up as Cleo started down the stairs. “And this must be Cleo. I’ve looked forward to meeting you.”

“I’ll say the same.” She held out her hand. “I really like your wife.”

“So do I.”

Cleo flashed him a smile. “Sonya said I could sit in on your talk, if that’s all right with you.”

“More than. I hope I can fill in some blanks, though some of that will be speculation, gossip, and opinion.”

“We’ll take all three.” Cleo hooked her arm through his as they walked into the parlor. “But gossip not only often rings true, it adds the fun.”

“I’m not ashamed to agree.” Sonya poured out the coffee. “And I think adding all three together helps us get a clearer picture of my father’s biological family. And could help us evict a certain element from the manor.”

From the library, the iPad blasted the Allman Brothers Band and “Black Hearted Woman.”

“Clover agrees.”

He smiled at that, all the way into his eyes.

“It seems you’ve developed a relationship with her. And adjusted, in a matter of months, to—we’ll say—the eccentricities of the manor.”

“It’s funny. I stopped thinking about leaving almost from the moment I moved in. It casts a spell. A positive one,” Sonya added.

“Son always wanted a house like this,” Cleo told him. “The history, the character, the quirks. Maybe even, deep down, the ghosts.”

“That would’ve been really deep down,” Sonya said. “And I’m not thrilled about walking through the house in my sleep, or watching the brides die. But if that leads to that eviction, I’ll take it.”

“You’re exactly what Collin would have wanted,” Deuce murmured.

“Tell me about his grandmother. Tell us about Patricia Poole.”

“She was a force,” Deuce began. “A strong-willed woman. Well-respected, if not well-liked. My own parents have said Michael Poole Jr., her husband, had a great deal of charm, and little interest in the business. He had no problem turning the reins there over to her so he could travel and—let’s use a word that fits their time frame. Cavort .”

“Good word,” Cleo decided.

“Their marriage—and here we turn to gossip—was, by and large, one of convenience. Each did as they chose. I remember her as a hard woman who ruled both the business and her family with an iron fist.”

Once again Cleo held hers up. “Exactly my phrase.”

“Then you already have some understanding of her. Collin’s childhood under that rule was very restricted. He escaped whenever he could—and he was good at it,” Deuce added with a smile. “It seemed she deemed me an acceptable companion, and I was also very good at being polite, well-spoken, and well-behaved in her presence. It helped that she was busy with Poole Shipbuilders, with her various clubs, social engagements and had little interest in young boys.”

He sipped his coffee, smiled. “I was fortunate to have two grandmothers. They both disliked Patricia Poole, and were both very good at putting on a pleasing face when necessary. But children hear more than adults tend to think, and I’d catch snatches when her name came up. Bully is a term I’ll use in polite company.”

“She bullied her daughter into pretending to be Collin’s mother.”

Deuce nodded at Sonya. “I agree with that speculation. I knew Gretta Poole better than Patricia, and always found her easily cowed. A nervous sort of woman. I would call her a dutiful mother, but not particularly affectionate. I wouldn’t know the reason behind all of that until I did the Poole genealogy for Collin.”

“It’s clear my father got the better end of that deal. But to go back, and I understand it was before you were born, it feels like the manor should have been a showplace for Patricia Poole. Instead, she refused to live here, and closed it.”

“I agree. From all my research and from the snippets overheard and remembered, Patricia embraced all things Poole. Except the manor. I thought of a comment—my grandmother Doyle at Collin and Johanna’s wedding. She said Collin’s grandmother hadn’t stepped foot in the manor since Patricia and Michael’s engagement party.”

“So she had her engagement party here. She did visit the manor often before she married Michael Poole?”

“As the Youngsboros and Pooles were on equal steps on the social ladder, and according to my research, Michael and Patricia’s engagement was expected, I’d say yes. And.”

He opened his trim briefcase. “When I worked on Collin’s book, I made copies of some clippings, some photos. Society pages, you see. Gossiping about Patricia and Michael stepping out, him escorting her to parties, galas.”

When he offered the folder, Sonya began to look through.

“Handsome couple, they’d say,” she muttered. “And this one’s a shot of them at a holiday event. ‘Will Christmas Bells Lead to Wedding Bells?’”

“So you see, their engagement was anticipated.”

Cleo studied the photo. “They’re striking together. So formal, but striking. She looks… formidable, even at this age.”

“Look here, this was taken out back.” Sonya pulled out the copy. “‘Summer Soirée: Garden Party at Poole Manor.’ You can see her here, with her hand on Michael’s arm. And it’s dated the summer before they were married. Before the Christmas article. So she certainly came to the manor prior.”

“Here’s another, announcing the engagement. A picture of them, at the foot of the staircase, Son. ‘Valentine’s Day Engagement Announced.’ I have to give her props for knowing how to dress. In all these pictures.”

“Something she was known for,” Deuce put in. “Always perfectly presented.”

“Something put her off the manor,” Cleo said. “I bet we can guess who—or what.”

Clover played “Black Magic Woman.”

“I tend to agree.” Deuce reached for a cookie. “I wouldn’t have said Patricia Poole was an easily frightened or intimidated woman, but I tend to agree. I had assumed she simply wanted a more modern house, a bit more manageable, closer to the village and the business. But knowing all we know now?”

He shook his head.

“She never used it, not for parties, fundraisers. She couldn’t sell it. It comes down through the Pooles, and I can speculate that however much Michael Poole accommodated her, he drew a line there.”

“So it came down to Charles.”

“The son she couldn’t control. The one who stepped out of her orbit as soon as he could. He came into money at eighteen, took it, and lived as he wanted. From what I can put together, he dropped out of college and traveled awhile.”

“More like his father than his mother?” Cleo asked.

“From what people who knew him say, yes. My father knew him, liked him. He’s described as charming, generous, and definitely free-spirited.”

McCartney’s “My Love” trailed down the stairs.

Deuce smiled a little. “I’ve no doubt they loved each other. And no doubt Patricia wasn’t pleased when he brought back a young wife, a pregnant wife, along with friends they’d picked up along the way, and not only opened the manor but moved in.”

“I don’t understand.” Genuinely baffled, Sonya lifted her hands. “He moved back, with Lilian Crest, his pregnant wife. But no one questioned Collin was Gretta Poole’s son?”

“According to my mother, the group Charles brought with him largely kept to themselves. Neither she nor my father were aware, until I dug up the marriage license and so on, that Charlie had married. They were only here a few months, when Lilian—sorry, Clover—died in childbirth. Charlie hanged himself. Patricia took over. She unquestionably bribed or bullied those in authority to cover it up, to lay the groundwork for what would become the dark family secret.”

“And her daughter let herself be used that way. Lived with that every day.”

“She would never have defied her mother,” Deuce told Sonya. “Not like Charlie.”

“Speculation, gossip, and opinion? Why?” Sonya wondered. “Why did she keep one baby? Why not keep both or put both up for adoption?”

“Lawrence Poole had no children, no heirs—and like his father, little interest in the business. And physically, his health wasn’t robust. Gretta—shy, nervous, awkward—would likely never marry and have children. Charlie was gone.”

“Bloodline.”

“Yes, Cleo, I believe exactly that. Collin was her chance—perhaps her only chance—to continue her direct bloodline. She didn’t need two, just one.”

“Did she try to stop Collin from opening the manor?” Sonya asked.

“As boys, we’d find our way inside.” Deuce looked around now. “I don’t think she ever knew, or understood, his pride and fascination in this house. In its history—his history, too. But he understood her well enough to make it a fait accompli. As he was of age, and the manor his, there was nothing she could do.

“Do you mind?” he asked as he reached for the coffeepot.

“Help yourself.”

“He told me once, not long after he’d moved in. We were playing chess upstairs, just the two of us, and he was full of plans for the manor, the business, his life. God, we were young!”

With a wistful smile on his face, he doctored his coffee.

“He said his grandmother threatened to disinherit him if he didn’t relent. Now, she couldn’t have cut him off from the business, the Poole inheritance, but her own wealth. And when he refused, she said she’d wasted her time and resources on him. She said he was as big a fool as his father, as useless as his mother.”

“Poor Collin,” Sonya murmured.

“It didn’t cut him deep, I promise you. At that time, we didn’t know his true parentage, only the lie Patricia had carved into the family tree. I commented that how would she know his father was a fool when he’d died before Collin was born? Collin shrugged that off. Just her way, and told me she’d said he’d rue the day. Rue the day,” Deuce repeated, “and he laughed at that. So did I.

“She never set foot in this house. She didn’t attend his wedding; she didn’t come to Johanna’s funeral. Though they worked together until she died, they remained estranged on a personal level.”

“Yeah, my dad got the better end of the deal.”

Even knowing it, Sonya felt tugged in two directions. The cold cruelty of it on one side, her father’s happy life on the other.

“She could’ve told Collin why she’d closed the manor,” Sonya continued. “If she’d been genuinely concerned for him, she would have. He might not have believed her, might have dismissed it, but she didn’t even try to tell him.”

“He’d have told me if she’d spoken of it. And,” Deuce added with a slight shrug, “we very likely would have laughed again. Did we believe the manor haunted? Absolutely, as we’d believed since we were boys. But that was exciting. People already called it Lost Bride Manor, but that was local superstition as far as we were concerned—and intriguing.”

Looking back, thinking back, Deuce sipped his coffee.

“Even when I began to do the Poole genealogy, write their history, I didn’t see those deaths as anything but a tragedy of their times—the first a murder, yes, but the others accidents or medical issues.”

“Did Gretta know?” Sonya pressed. “She never married—and that may have been her choice. But I wonder if her mother discouraged her on that, particularly after Collin and my father were born.”

Deuce sat back. “That’s a very good point, Sonya. And it would fit Patricia snugly.”

“If her daughter fell in love,” Cleo continued, “got close to someone, she’d almost certainly tell that person the entire story. Blow the lie up right there. Can’t have that.”

“I want to talk to her—to Gretta Poole. Am I allowed to do that?”

“Since Collin’s death, I’ve been her custodian, and the trustee of what he left to take care of her. I’ve been to visit her twice now, but she doesn’t know me. You’re a blood relation, and certainly allowed to visit. But her condition’s advanced. She rarely speaks to anyone, and when she does, it’s generally nonsense. Though she’s usually passive, she can be disruptive. Anxious again, frightened. Even angry.”

“I’d like to try. I won’t know if it’ll do any good until I do.”

Nudging up his glasses, he gave her a long look.

“You have Collin’s eyes—well, your father’s. It may spark something. I’ll see you’re put on her visitation list. That way you can pick a time that suits you.”

“I appreciate it, very much. All of it. Did you know about the mirror?”

“I’ve never seen it. Collin told me, again even back when we were boys, that he dreamed of it. A mirror framed with predatory birds and animals. And of the boy, who looked just like him, in the glass. I thought they were dreams, and later, when I found out about your father, assumed some sort of twin memory or connection.”

Reaching out, he closed his hand over Sonya’s. “Now that I know it’s not, I worry about it, and you. And I worry I didn’t know enough of what has, can, and does happen in this house when I knocked on your door last winter.”

She turned her hand to link her fingers with his. “You changed my life, and I’m grateful. I want to be here, and I want to do everything I can to end whatever power Hester Dobbs has in this house.”

When Sonya said the name, doors slammed, something pounded against the walls, and the ceiling light swayed as if in a sudden, wild wind.

“She will have her tantrums,” Cleo said, and picked up a cookie. “Sonya said she feeds on fear and grief. We’re not giving her a damn thing to eat.”

“I’m glad Sonya has you, Cleo. I’m glad you have each other.”

“And we’re not alone here.” Sonya gave Deuce’s hand a squeeze in turn. “They’re all here, all seven brides. Others, too, others here in the manor. I know that absolutely. And they all want her gone. I don’t know why it’s for me to do—us,” she corrected. “But it is.”

She smiled as the noise died. “So I’ll go see Gretta Poole at some point. Maybe she can add something, maybe not. And in a few weeks, Cleo and I are throwing a major event.”

“I heard about that. It’s quite an undertaking.”

“The manor was made for big, happy parties.”

“It counteracts, I think,” Cleo put in. “People and fun and light and music.”

“How it used to be. After Johanna… Collin lost his heart. But before? He’d often have a summer party, and always one during the holidays. Smaller gatherings in between. Maybe it does counteract. One thing I can be certain of is people will come. So be prepared.”

He rose. “I’d better be on my way. I’m going to do some more research on Patricia. The originals of these clippings and photographs should be tucked away in here somewhere.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. We can look.”

“In any case, I’ll leave these with you. My mother or Ace may have some filed away, too. So we’ll see. We’ll do whatever we can to make sure you live here safe and happy. I’m glad to have had some time here, and to have met you, Cleo. I had a friendship like yours and Sonya’s, and I know how much it matters.”

“Give Corrine my best,” Cleo told him. “I really enjoyed my day with her. She made me look damn good.”

“I’d say that would be the easiest job she’s ever had.”

“And now I see where Trey gets his charm.”

“She’s been a real asset to my work,” Sonya added as they walked him to the door.

“She’ll be happy to hear that. Everyone at Doyle Law is thrilled with your work on the new website and the rest. I mentioned it to a colleague in Ogunquit. You should be getting a call from Peter Stevenson.”

“Thank you! I love new clients. Thanks for coming.”

“Anytime, and I mean that. Take care of each other.”

“That’s what we do.” Cleo draped an arm around Sonya’s shoulders.

“I can see that.”

They watched him walk to his car, waved him off.

“I feel better.” Sonya closed the door. “I feel like I have a clearer picture of Patricia Youngsboro Poole.”

“And it ain’t flattering. I’m surprised she and Dobbs didn’t get along—and I have to figure they didn’t. They’re poured from the same mold, if you ask me. Now, Oliver Doyle II? Top marks there. Now that I’ve met both Trey’s parents and his sister? You better grab on, Son. As my mama would say, that boy’s from good stock.”

“I’ve got a pretty good hold, but—”

She broke off as Yoda, tail wagging, trotted down the hallway with the ball clutched in his jaws.

“Now I know where you got off to.” She bent down to pick up the ball he dropped at her feet. “You’ve been playing ball with Jack.”

“You’ve got a built-in dog sitter.”

“Apparently.” Since Yoda eyed the ball with joy and kept wagging, Sonya gave in. “Okay, not done yet? We’ll take ten minutes for ball play outside.”

“I’d join you, but I’ve got work now. Y’all have fun.”

As Cleo headed up, Sonya grabbed a jacket. “It really has to be ten minutes, pal. I want an hour on the Ryder proposal, and I have other things to deal with first.”

But she stepped outside and reveled in how spring seemed to slip closer every day. Overnight freeze or not, the daffodils waved their buttery heads. And she swore the grass seemed greener when Yoda chased the ball across it.

As she tossed the ball for the tireless dog, she scanned the sea, hoping to see a whale sound. She glanced up at the balcony off her bedroom, and imagined what Trey had seen during the night.

It made her shudder.

To die that way, to choose to, she thought, and condemn yourself to decade after decade of anger and, yes, evil. All because you didn’t get what you wanted in life.

“It makes no sense, does it, Yoda? But at the core, she’s insane. An insane witch. But she can’t beat us.” She tossed the ball again. “She won’t. That’s the last time, Yoda. Your human has to earn her living.”

As she started back toward the house, one of Cleo’s studio windows flew open. Sonya braced, but Cleo called out.

“It’s not her, but, Son, you’re going to want to come see this.”

“On my way.”

She hurried to the door, then scooted Yoda in before she ran for the stairs and bounded up. As if it was a new game, the dog bounded up with her.

A little breathless, she arrived at Cleo’s studio.

“What is it? What happened?”

“I needed something and went in the closet.”

Cleo gestured toward the open door.

Inside stood a portrait, beautifully painted. Her dark hair fell in pretty curls down the right side of her head toward the lace inserts on the sleeves and bodice of her white silk wedding gown.

Her ring sparkled on her finger, a slim gold band crusted with diamonds that seemed to flash even in the dim light of the closet. She carried a bouquet of pale pink peonies and trailing greenery.

Her eyes, Poole green, radiated joy.

“It’s Lissy. Lisbeth Poole Whitmore. Not my father’s work. Collin’s. It’s Collin’s signature in the corner.”

She looked at Cleo. “First I found Johanna’s portrait, then Clover’s, now you found Lisbeth’s.”

“And your dad painted Clover—the mother he never knew, and in her wedding dress—so before he was born. Collin painted this, all that detail, a woman who died years before he was born.”

“They went through the mirror.” Laying a hand on Cleo’s arm, she steadied herself. “Not just Collin, but somehow my father went through the mirror. Like I have.”

“And more than once, I’d say.”

“We’ll take her downstairs, hang her with Johanna and Clover.”

“One more thing, Son? The portraits, the three of them, are all the same size, and use the same type of frame. Like they’re meant to hang together.”

“And that’s what we’ll do.”

Sonya carried the painting down, and for now, propped it against a wall in the library. She and Cleo would hang it in the music room that evening.

But now she had work, and was grateful to have it. Quitting her job and going freelance the previous fall had been exciting and terrifying.

She supposed she could rate her move into the manor on exactly that same scale.

Now the manor was home, and she had a business. Maybe not thriving at this point, but steady. And incredibly satisfying.

She supposed, in a twisted way, she had Brandon Wise to thank for where she sat right now.

He’d been low enough to cheat on her—just weeks before their wedding—with her own cousin, in her own house, in her own bed. She could wonder now if it had been luck or fate that had brought her home early enough to catch the two of them naked in bed.

Either way, she decided, a lucky escape for her.

And when she’d broken the engagement, refused to listen to his lame excuses, he’d gone on a mission to undermine her at work.

“Corrupting my client files, letting the air out of my tires,” she muttered. “So screw any sort of twisted thanks. I’m here because I took the steps, I did the work, and I took the risks.”

She glanced toward Lisbeth’s portrait and thought she was there, in the manor, to live, to work, and to stand up for seven women who’d come before her.

She buckled down to work.

When she had enough on the layout to send to the client for approval, rejection, changes, she shifted to work on a book cover.

Since the Adirondacks and deep winter set the stage for the thriller, she began with the protagonist’s isolated cabin, under a cold moon. Blue shadows, she thought, that isolation, a sense of dread and danger in the thick line of snow-drowned trees.

Maybe footprints across the snow. A single light in a window—and a silhouette behind it.

Sonya worked on the concept, tried two more for comparison.

While she liked the first design, the sense of cold, of danger lurking, she set them all aside to consider fresh in the morning.

She scrubbed her hands over her face, then dropped them when she heard the Beatles and “I’m So Tired.”

“Yeah, maybe. But not done yet.”