Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(111)

So she shared, “I thought maybe you girls could give me a tour of the castle.”

“I’d love that!” Fenella shrieked.

“Great idea,” Honor cried, jumping up from her chair.

Fenella got up as well and clapped her hands together, appearing like she was genuinely looking forward to this. “There’s so much to see, where to start?”

Honor leaned into Abby and confided, “She loves this old heap.”

“It isn’t an old heap. It’s beautiful,” Fenella shot back then squealed, “The armoury! Let’s start in the armoury!”

Considering the circumstances, Abby would have picked a room that didn’t hold ancient weapons but she followed Fenella anyway.

And Fenella was right, it wasn’t an old heap.

It was beautiful.

And it was perfect, absolutely perfect, for Cash.

If she could build something that represented his strength, his energy, his beauty, it would have been Penmort.

The armoury was filled with ancient weapons, and even more ancient flying pendants which dripped in veritable rags from their poles, they were so old and way cool. There was a billiards room with an enormous billiards table. There were the inner and outer halls with their colossal fireplaces that led to the huge dining room with a gleaming table that sat twenty. There was the grand stair hall with intricately carved balustrades and a grand piano at the foot. There was also a study with an ornate carved desk that was so huge two people could sleep on it without touching.

On the second floor were bedrooms, many of them having their own sitting rooms, dressing rooms and bathrooms. The second floor also held the morning room, and the leather gallery filled with portraits of Beaumarises past. Lastly, the second floor also held a beautiful, cosy sewing room which was situated in a turret.

Fenella told Abby the third floor held the now unused servants quarters, nursery and school room. She explained as well that the rooms below the ground floor were also mostly no longer utilised but had been, in olden times, for the running the house, including the kitchens, housekeeper’s and butler’s offices and quarters, a coal room, laundry rooms, things like that.

Fenella said on the first floor they’d missed the conservatory and library. As these were Fenella’s favourite places, they were to be their final destination.

They had made it to the long, handsome, wood-panelled gallery, filled with portraits of ancestors (and, Abby noted with some surprise and a vague sense of alarm, that all the women were blonde and all the men looked quite a bit like Cash).

Except, of course, Alistair’s portrait, which was the largest of any and the most pompous. Something about it, its size and the prominence of place, turned Abby’s stomach.

“I know,” Honor whispered beside her, obviously reading her thoughts, “makes you sick, doesn’t it?”

Abby didn’t speak but she nodded.

Then Honor turned dancing eyes to Abby. “I wonder what Cash will do with that when he moves in?” she asked, motioning to the portrait with her head.

“I hope he burns it,” Abby murmured and Honor took her arm in both hands, leaned into her and gave her arm a squeeze.

Then she muttered, “I’ll bring the marshmallows,” and Abby couldn’t help it, it was such a divinely evil comment, she laughed.

“This is my favourite,” Fenella called and Honor and Abby moved toward Fenella who was standing off the main gallery in a big bay window where there were two, smaller portraits.

Abby walked up to Fenella’s side and saw she was gazing at a man who looked, shockingly, just like Cash.

It wasn’t an old portrait. By his clothes you could see that it was recent, not from this decade or the last, but not hundreds of years ago either. And it wasn’t like any of the other formal poses of the other pictures.

This man was a man on the move, a man with energy, a man with a healthy appetite for life. So healthy, he seized it by its throat and consumed it.

How the artist captured it, Abby had no idea. He was striding across a field, Penmort resting grandly atop its tor in the distance. He had two dogs at his heels, beautiful German Shepherds. He was in outdoor clothing, tweed blazer with patches at the arms, boots over his trousers, mud up the heels and ankles. He had broad shoulders, an athletic build and you could tell he had a wide, strong gait, made easy for him by having long legs. He held a shotgun, cocked open and lying over his forearm, the gun butt tucked into his side.

The picture was in profile, but the man was looking over his shoulder as if someone had called him, or, perhaps, he was calling his dogs. Therefore, the artist had been able to capture him full-face.

And he was heart-stoppingly handsome.

On closer inspection, he didn’t look just like Cash. There were subtle differences. His forehead was broader, for one. He wore his hair shorter, for another. The planes and angles of his face were harder and sharper, but no less attractive.

But the similarity was uncanny.

“Who is that?” Abby asked.

“Anthony Beaumaris,” Fenella answered and Abby’s body jerked at the realisation she was gazing upon Cash’s father.

“My God,” she breathed and she felt her chest constrict at the knowledge that this man, this compelling, dynamic, striking man had had his life cut short.

Something made her lift her hand as if to touch the portrait, as if touching it would mean she’d touch him, but when her finger was just centimetres away, the scream began.