The Other Side - J. D. Robb [68]
“Skylights,” Miss Darlington said when he remarked on the phenomenon. “Grampa hid them in unexpected places, behind cornices, valances. It was one of his hobbies—playing with light.”
She showed him the well-stocked library, numerous parlors, a small music room—so small, an ancient grand piano took up most of the space. She ended the tour in the center hall on the second floor, before the double doors to the outside portico. “This is where she dances.”
“Yes.” He put his hand to his forehead. “I sensed it.”
“Well, and also, I told you.”
“Astra feels it, too.”
Hearing his name, Astra leaned against Henry’s knee and grinned at him. “Tell me about the ghost, Miss Darlington,” Henry said with great seriousness. “Tell me everything. In your own words.”
“Yes, I thought I’d use mine.” She arranged her face so that it was as somber as his. Lowered her voice. Spoke slowly.
“It’s always at night. When there’s no moon. She wears white—they say she did in life, too: always dressed in shades of alabaster. Her long yellow hair is always down. Sometimes there’s music. They say it’s a Gypsy violin, and that would make sense. Her lover was a Gypsy.”
“Who was she?”
“Lucinda Darlington. My great-great-great aunt, for whom this house was built. In 1801.”
“Built by whom?”
“Eustace Darlington, her husband. For a wedding present. He was a wealthy merchant, much older, and she was young and beautiful and gay. Above all, she loved music and dancing—and he forbade both. He tried to make her a prisoner. In this house. But she fell in love—”
“With the Gypsy violinist.”
“Yes. They had a mad, passionate affair, made plans to run away. A servant betrayed them—Eustace caught them. On a moonless night.” She stepped to one of the portico doors and pushed it open. “They found her the next day—there. Dead and broken on the ground.” Theatrical pause. “As for Eustace, he went mad and committed suicide. By drinking poison.”
Henry let a suitable length of time go by. Miss Darlington looked quite splendid in profile, her features sharp-edged and tragic against the sky. “How many people have seen the ghost?” he asked in a stricken tone.
“Many. And not just Lucinda’s—the Gypsy is buried somewhere on the grounds, and they say all three of them haunt the house.”
“And do they? You lived here.”
“Oh, that will be for you to decide, Mr. Cleland. But I’ll tell you this.” Her voice, which had gone low and sepulchral before, went more so now. Her eyes, a deep and gold-flecked gray, snared him in their gaze. “I have seen and heard things in this house that would curl your hair.”
“Like what?”
She stared at him a little too long. The heavy, ominous look faltered. “Well . . . if I say, it might influence your impartiality. Wouldn’t it be better to begin your investigations with a completely open mind?”
She was good. Either that or she believed everything she was saying.
“Up to a point,” he started to answer, when he heard noises from downstairs—a door opening; voices. Miss Darlington began to pronounce a word he’d have sworn was going to be an extremely unladylike oath, but she cut it off before he could be sure. “Visitors?”
“My cousin,” she said through her teeth. “Bringing buyers.”
“Buyers?”
“I forgot to tell you. Willow House is for sale.”
Three
Cousin Lucien’s bulbous, corpulent features looked even more belligerent when he was annoyed, and he was annoyed now. Angie knew he turned a rude “What are you doing here?” or possibly even “What the hell are you doing here?” into a stiff “Angiolina, what a surprise,” only because of the young, prosperous-looking couple he’d brought to look at the house. If she’d been alone, he wouldn