“Throwing. You throw pots.”

  “That. At least one piece from, what, a hunk of clay, through the stages to complete.”

  “Oh, I like that.”

  “Facebook, Instagram?”

  Anna made a noncommittal sound, shrugged.

  “I’ll fix it. Do you have business cards?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll fix it. Brochures. Small, colorful trifolds, I think, you can leave at local businesses—and there’s your husband’s hotel. That’s a built-in right there. Here’s what I’m going to do.

  “I’m going to do a mood board, a template—an inactive website, the shell of one. No charge.”

  “Listen, your time’s—”

  “Consider it a very sincere thanks for helping stock my kitchen. You’ll look that over, and if you like what you see, we’ll go from there. If you don’t, no obligation.”

  “I have a feeling I’ll like it.”

  “I’m good at what I do.”

  “So am I.” Hands in pockets, Anna studied the computer screen. “And you’re right, it doesn’t show well, at all.”

  “Let’s sit down in what I’ve just decided is my consulting area.” After picking up her tablet, she gestured to the leather sofa facing the fire. “First, let me get your contacts so I can send you some options.”

  Once they’d settled and Sonya put Anna’s information in her contacts list, she moved to the next phase.

  “First, I’m going to suggest a name change for your business.”

  “Really?” Obviously dubious, Anna hedged. “I don’t want anything cutesy, you know? I want to keep it simple, so it’s about the art, the pottery.”

  “Exactly. Your pieces can be displayed, as art, but what I’ve seen on your website, and here in the manor, you create the usable, art with purpose. Practical Art.”

  She brought up her drawing app, and using her stylist, wrote that out giving the first letters in each word a sweep, keeping the rest of the words in clear, concise cursive.

  “That’s really good.”

  “Just a first pass, but it says what it is, so simply. It says you can have something beautiful you can use. I’ll play with the font, but something like this, in a strong color, has impact.”

  “I thought using quiet colors would be more friendly.”

  “It can be, but in this case, the pastels don’t say: You’ll use this, it’s beautiful, and it’s going to last. The personality of the artist should come through in the design. You’re not pastel.”

  Anna sat back, nodded. “Keep going.”

  Sonya spent an hour, asking questions, answering them, toying with a logo, and getting a feel for the needs of her newest client.

  “I’ve got enough to get started. I’d print some of these basic ideas for you to think about, but I still have to find a way to get my printer upstairs. There’s a cabinet up there where it can be out of sight.”

  “The DVD cabinet, sure. Can I help you with that?”

  “Even if you weren’t pregnant, no. It’s a monster.”

  “You should give Trey a call.”

  “I imagine he has enough to do. I’ll figure it out, and meanwhile work up those options for you. If you like, we’ll move forward.”

  “I already like. You had me at Practical Art. I got a lot in exchange for a coffee cake.” She rose. “And wait until the soon-to-be grandmothers get a look at Baby Mine. Now I’m getting out of your way so you can work.”

  “I should have something for you in a day or two,” Sonya said walking Anna downstairs.

  As they reached the first floor, the music Sonya had turned off when she answered the door started again.

  “Well, that’s … weird.” Sonya looked up the stairs. “I must’ve jostled the app or something.”

  “Or something. I don’t think I know the song.”

  “More weird.” Sonya got Anna’s coat. “It’s one of my mother’s favorites. Apparently Dad had it playing when she was in labor with me. ‘All for Love’—an oldie.”

  “They must like you.” Anna spoke casually as she put on her coat.

  “They?”

  “The lost brides, and the rest. They picked a song that has personal meaning for you.”

  “You don’t actually believe in ghosts.”

  Anna just pulled on her hat and smiled. “Ask me again after you’ve lived here for a week. Thanks for taking me on. I realize now I need you more than I thought I did. Talk soon.”

  When she closed the door, Sonya stood staring up the stairs as the music flowed down.

  A technology glitch, she told herself. They happened; ghosts didn’t.

  It may have taken her a few seconds to push herself up the stairs again, but she went up. And got to work.

  Chapter Eight

  1828

  I am, I believe, first a sensible woman. I have been educated, speak French fluently, play the pianoforte quite well indeed as well as being more than competent on the harp. As the oldest daughter, I have learned how to run a household, as I would, of course, one day make a fine match.

  Above all this, I am pleased to say, my father instructed me, from a young age, on the workings of the family business. Some would say a young woman has no need to understand business matters.

  I do not find those who say that sensible.

  My father, the younger of twins by seven minutes, inherited the manor and his brother’s share of the Poole family business when, in the autumn of 1806, my uncle died by his own hand soon after the tragic death—by murder—of his bride of only hours.

  My dear parents, already betrothed at the time, married the following spring. I was born ten months thereafter.

  I have two brothers and two sisters. Though I am the eldest, I must accept that the manor will one day pass to my brother Horatio, as is Poole family tradition.

  This is of no import as, with that fine match, I will have my own household.

  Being a sensible woman, I did not—as my flighty sisters do—subscribe to Jane Austen’s novel’s entertaining but unrealistic view that romantic love must, can, or should factor into a match.

  Like minds, mutual respect, and of course social standing are much more important to a successful marriage.

  I found all of that in William Cabot. To my surprise, I found love as well.

  Our courtship began with those like minds, and a mutual attraction that, I admit, added a thrill. That attraction bloomed into love.

  The day I accepted his proposal of marriage, and my father gave his blessing, was the happiest of my life.

  Until our wedding day.

  I, a winter bride (we do not wish to wait!), take my vows. I, a sensible woman, wear white silk, embroidered with stars at the hem and trimmed in ermine, sashed at the waist in satin.

  Given the season, the sleeves are long and gathered, with stars forming the poof at the shoulders.

  I have never thought myself beautiful (though William tells me I am), but I feel beautiful in my wedding dress, with my hair swept high under my veil and my grandmother’s pearls around my throat.

  And William, in his black tailcoat, so handsome as he looked in my eyes and put the gold band on my finger.

  I return to the manor a wife, to celebrate this match that is all my heart desires. I dance with my husband, with my father, my brothers. I embrace my mother and kiss the happy tears on her cheeks.

  As we will wait for the spring crossing for our honeymoon in Europe, we spend our wedding night in my girlhood home. And I become a woman in William’s arms.

  He shows me love well into the night, and I find nothing sensible here. It is all feeling and discovery, and awakened passions.

  And I think I dream when at last we sleep. I dream of wandering my childhood home in my nightclothes, holding a candle aloft to guide my way.

  I see the great doors my grandfather built standing open. I walk through them into spring, into flowers madly blooming in the sunlight. I, a sensible woman, laugh and toss my candle away, where it gutters out in the snow I neither see nor feel.

  I walk through the snow, through the wind blowing wild, and feel only soft grass and balmy breezes.

  I see a woman at the seawall, beckoning to me.

  When I reach her, I see a stranger who looks at me with mad eyes. She grips my hand, so hard, and I feel then the bitter bite of cold that has seeped into my flesh, into my bones.

  She speaks.

  “He chose death rather than me. He chose death to stay with her. Be damned to them, and now to you. Walk with them, Catherine Poole. Forever a bride.”

  I try to run, but the wind batters at me. I stumble in the snow. I hear her laugh, more bitter than the wind, as I fall, drag myself up, fall again.

  The world is white now, and swirling. The wind a screaming gale that blows my desperate calls out to sea.

  I think of William, sleeping in our marriage bed, and cry out for him to save me.

  I reach up toward the manor, my home, but it is lost, lost in the snow that covers me in icy blankets. I see my hand, raw and red, nearly purple. The ring William put on my finger is gone.

  I drift away, drift to sleep in the cold and the snow.

  And die.

  * * *

  Sonya worked through the dinner hour, took a break when she realized lack of fuel was making her light-headed.

  Down in the kitchen she told herself no on making a sandwich. Instead, she heated up a can of soup, put a salad together. While she ate, she played with a few more ideas on her tablet.

  She answered a text from her mother.

  Everything’s good! Pretty much set up, and been working most of the day. Met Anna Doyle—lawyer’s daughter—and I’m pretty sure new client. Big cheer! She’s a potter—a good one. I’m having soup and a salad, so I’m not starving. Planning on getting into the village tomorrow—next day latest—so I won’t be a hermit. Love and more love.

  They texted back and forth a few times, and when they signed off, she sent a text to Cleo.

  Hey! Met Trey’s sister, Anna. More gorgeous. She’s a potter who needs a design package, so woo to the hoo on that one. Texted with Mom, and she’s hoping to come up for a day soon, maybe spend the night. You have to come visit!

  And because she knew just how to tempt her friend, she added:

  Not only is the manor amazing, they’re saying it’s haunted. Portrait of a Poole bride from the early 1800s in the foyer, murdered on her wedding day. Spoooooky!

  The response came quickly, as Sonya knew it would.

  Ghost bride! You know I’m there. Give me a couple weeks to clean up some work. I’ll come for a weekend. We’ll go ghost hunting.

  Yeah, sure, Sonya thought, but gave Cleo a thumbs-up emoji.

  After she tidied the kitchen, she went back to work for another hour. Too early for bed, she thought, but had to admit her brain had worn down.

  She’d go over it all again in the morning, and if it still looked good, she’d send the options to Anna. And drive into the village, get out of the house, and explore a little.

  But right now, too tired to work, too wound up to sleep, she decided on a glass of wine and a movie. After all, she had dozens of DVDs to choose from and a big screen right upstairs.

  She settled on a romantic comedy, something fun, she mused, frothy and fun, and sprawled on the big couch.

  She made it through most of the glass of wine and most of the movie before she drifted off.

  The clock chiming three woke her. Her heart pounded as she lay, confused and half dreaming. She heard music, piano music. Something wrong with her tablet, she thought, and rubbed at her eyes.

  She thought she heard someone weeping.

  She must’ve turned the TV off before she fell asleep, she decided. And turned the lamp on across the room. And pulled down the throw currently tucked around her.

  Just more tired than she’d thought, and still adjusting to a strange house and all its strange spaces. Still groggy, she groped for her phone to take with her and charge overnight.

  Or what was left of the night.

  It wasn’t on the table. Yawning, she pushed her hands into the pockets of her sweats. Instant panic struck when they came up empty.

  Jumping up, she shook out the throw, began searching the cushions of the couch.

  She told herself she wasn’t one of those people whose life depended on her phone, but … Her life was on that phone.

  She got down on the floor, hunted under the couch, under the table.

  And noticed the wineglass, the remote weren’t on the table.

  Had she gotten up before she’d fallen asleep?

  She yanked open the drawer of the coffee table, and there sat the remote, exactly where she’d found it.

  “Okay, I put it away. That’s something anybody might do and forget when they’re half-asleep.”

  She pushed up, walked to the railing and looked over.

  The fire simmered—shouldn’t it have gone out by now?—and she clearly saw her phone on the desk, on the charger. The tablet with it, also on charge.

  Relieved, she turned to the steps.

  The music stopped, and for whatever reason, the sudden silence had her nerves jumping.

  She left the tablet where it was, grabbed her fully charged phone to take with her to her bedroom.

  Where the bedside light glowed, and the duvet and sheet were smoothly turned down.

  “Sleepwalking? Anxiety might bring that on, and I’m feeling pretty anxious.”

  After putting the phone on the bedside table, she climbed into bed, still in her sweats. But left the light on.

  A precaution, she thought. Just a precaution.

  As she closed her eyes, she heard—thought she heard—a door softly close.

  For the first time in her life, Sonya pulled the covers over her head.

  * * *

  When she woke in the light, she convinced herself she’d imagined things. Just anxiety, she thought again. She hadn’t allowed herself to admit how much stress this move entailed.

  Enough she’d slept in her clothes.

  No big deal. She’d get coffee—and some of that coffee cake—check the work, fuss with what needed fussing with. Then she’d shower, spruce herself up a bit, and drive into the village.

  She needed to get out, stop at the bank and open an account, visit some of the shops, take a close-up look at the bay.

  She went straight down to the kitchen. And saw her wineglass standing beside the sink.

  “Okay, that’s it. No more crashing in front of the TV.”

  After she made coffee, sliced some cake, she took both up to the library. She’d go over the work while she ate.

  Since she only planned to work an hour or so, she didn’t bother with a fire.

  She spent a little more than two, but knew when good was good.

  And this was damn good.

  Let it sit, she told herself. It was still shy of nine, so she’d let it sit, get that shower, change, then take one more look before she sent it off to Anna.

  When the doorbell bonged, she nearly jumped out of her ancient slippers.

  “Jesus! I’ve got to ask if I can change that thing.”

  When she went down and opened the door to Trey, her first thought was: Why? Why hadn’t she showered and changed first?

  “Morning,” he said. “I hear you have a printer that needs moving.”

  “Oh. Anna shouldn’t have bothered you about that.” She stepped back to let him in. “It’s not urgent.”

  “I’m heading out to see a client, so it’s not much of a detour. Where’s the printer?”

  She had a moment to think he smelled good—fresh, outdoorsy good. And she almost certainly didn’t.

  “First floor in the library. I’d like to set it up on the second floor. Can I get you coffee?”

  “That’s okay, I’ll be getting some. The client drinks it by the gallon.”

  Wishing she’d at least taken a brush to it, she shoved a hand at her hair. “How’s your dad?”

  “The boss cleared him to work today, so he’s good.”

  “The boss being your mother.”

  “You got that. Anna said you’re redoing her website.”

  “I’m working on a design I hope she likes.” She walked upstairs with him. “I networked with the printer in Collin’s office to get started, but that’s not really practical day-to-day. It’s helpful to print out some of the design, add it to my mood board.”

  “Mood board.” Then he nodded when he walked in, saw hers. “Okay, I get it. That’s a major change for Anna.”

  “Too much?”

  “I like it, if that matters.”

  He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets and studied the board.

  Really studied, Sonya noted. Took time.

  “Yeah, I like it. She had a college friend do most of the one she’s got now. It didn’t have much, ah, bang, I guess, and was a pain in the ass to load and navigate. This looks like it’ll have the bang.”

  “It’ll also be quick to load, easy to navigate.”

  They stood, elbow to elbow, studying her work.

  “Is this a logo? She doesn’t have an actual logo.”

  “She should. That’s one option for it. She wants simple, so I thought a sketch of a vase and candle holder, strong colors. Different shapes, but both her style. I thought a sketch rather than a photo, but we can try that, too.”

  “You’ve gotten a lot done in a short time.” He glanced around. “This is a good setup for you. You don’t want the printer down here? Easy access?”

  “See that thing?” She pointed to it. “Efficient but unattractive. This room’s too wonderful to have that monster sitting here. There’s a cabinet upstairs.”

  “Yeah, DVD cabinet. We’ll haul it up.”

  He started to lift it, shot her a look that made a laugh tickle her throat.

  “I said monster. Look, it can wait. Maybe I can get John Dee to help you haul it up sometime.”