Under the Hill(6)

Abby would doubt her sanity if it weren’t for Ned Newhall, the kind and knowledgeable guide on that disturbing house tour. Rather than telling her she’s hallucinating, Ned takes an interest in Abby’s strange encounters and encourages her to figure out what’s going on, starting with investigating the story of the family she saw . . . and exploring her own past.





But as Abby begins to piece together a history that’s as moving as it is shocking and unravels a long-ago mystery that nearly tore her family apart, she also begins to suspect that Ned’s got secrets of his own, and that his interest may be driven as much by a taste for romance as a love for history.





1





She didn’t want to be here. But Brad had told her she ought to get out more, find some interests of her own, so here she was standing in front of the last house on the walking tour of Waltham’s most noteworthy mansions, relics of the town’s nineteenth-century industrial heyday. Could she summon up the energy to go through one more? She’d already seen four, and her feet hurt. How could this one be any better than the others?

But she wanted to be able to tell Brad that she’d taken the house tour today. Not part of the house tour, not some of the house tour: the whole tour. That meant she had to grit her teeth and go through this one. Then she could go home, make a nice cup of tea, and take her shoes off.

The house looked nice, she had to admit. It was not too big or too posh-looking. Friendly, almost. The house sat on a rise, and when she reached the broad terrace Abby turned to contemplate the low roofs of Waltham below. Not much of a view, but at least the house nestled proudly on its land, lawns spread out like skirts around it. She turned back to the house to study the details. High Victorian, the house sprouted chimneys, dormers, porches, a porte-cochere, and a wealth of gingerbread trim. It was a full three stories, with a turret on one end. She made her way to the front door.

When she stepped into the paneled hall, a man about her own age greeted her and handed her an information sheet. A name badge in a plastic sleeve, clipped to the pocket of his blue-gray Oxford shirt, identified him as Ned. Abby noted that the shirt was exactly the same color as his eyes, or what she could see behind his gold-rimmed glasses. She smiled timidly.

“Is it too late to take the tour?”

“No problem,” Ned replied cheerfully. “Take your time. It’s self-guided, and you can wander anywhere on this floor, but not upstairs. Let me know if you have any questions.”

Abby drifted into what must have been the main parlor. With her newfound architectural expertise, she observed that the dropped ceiling was not original, but the wavy glass in the many windows was. The room had been furnished in a cheerful chintz in light colors, and the woodwork was painted white. It had probably been much more somber a century ago. She crossed back through the spacious entry hall to a small sitting room opposite. This was more charming, intimate. There was a small fireplace surrounded by pretty decorative tiles, with a mirror inset over it. This would have been where the family spent most of its time, she decided. On the far side of the fireplace was a door; passing through it, Abby found herself in the kitchen. Nothing of great interest here. At the back of the house, it was dark, and it had clearly been remodeled, in the 1930s, she guessed. The house was surprisingly small, Abby mused; it had appeared much larger from the outside. Maybe that was the point of all that gingerbread.

If the house was as square as it had appeared, there should be one more room on this floor: the dining room. She chose another door out of the kitchen and crossed through a small, richly paneled hall, from which she could see the front hall. She stepped into the dining room. Plainly this room hadn’t been modernized. Her eyes followed the soaring lines of the elegant woodwork to the original coffered ceiling, then to the elaborate carved mantel at the far end. She laid one hand on the doorjamb—and then something changed.

So much anger, so much pain.

She knew she was standing in the same place in the same room, its tall windows draped in opulent swags of peach-colored damask, its fireplace surrounded by colorful tiles, flanked by columns. She could make out the gleam of polished silver on the sideboard, the colorful arabesques on the fireplace tiles.

But now there were people in the room, and Abby strained to hear any words. An older woman—in her fifties, maybe?—sat at the broad mahogany table in the center of the room, her hands flat as if to stop them from trembling. Without wavering, the woman watched a man pacing nervously on the opposite side of the table. He was slight, with a receding hairline, balanced by a luxuriant mustache. His suit collar was stiff and high, a stickpin anchoring his broad tie. He looked both sheepish and belligerent. She—who was she?—looked down to see a blanket-wrapped baby in her arms.

“Miss? Are you all right?”

Abby nearly jumped out of her skin at the touch of a hand on her elbow. The man from the hallway had come up behind her.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Maybe you should sit down.”

Abby was fighting between embarrassment and the lingering remnants of the irrational fear that had swept over her. “I, uh . . . I’m fine. It’s just that you startled me. I’ll go now.” Abby wanted nothing more than to escape from this stranger’s kind attention.

He still held her elbow, watching her face. “Please, no. There’s no rush. Why don’t you sit for a minute, just to be sure you’re all right? Come on.” When she didn’t resist he led her not to the parlor but to the smaller sitting room. Apparently he agreed with her that it was a friendlier room, she thought. He settled her into a wicker chair plump with cushions. “Now, just stay there for a moment. I’m going to make a cup of tea. All right?”