“Like the way he was with the flower in your office,” Marguerite said. Her voice was hushed now too.
“Exactly like that. The curse seems to make him twitch every time he’s out here, but I…I can’t say I feel it. I’ve asked some of the contractors too, if any of the men are hinky or spooked. They just laugh. Say it’s the south. You—”
“You can’t turn around without running into some curse or another,” Marguerite finished for him. She turned and looked up at the old house.
“It should look strange to me, or creepy, but it doesn’t,” she said. “It didn’t even when it was covered in all those vines. And now…” she smiled. “The old girl is really pretty, I think. Shining like that in the sunlight.”
Win looked up, squinting, and Marguerite was right. The sun reflected off all the windows of the Holt House, gleaming with its newly scrubbed walls and reinforced brick. The ornate mansard roof bristled with its polished Victorian embellishments, and standing here, between the gazebo and the large back porch, Win could almost imagine the music playing to herald another party or dance staged by the Holts, welcoming their neighbors near and far.
Then a movement caught his eye, little more than a flash across the glass upstairs, and he froze.
Marguerite saw it too. Her hand tightened reflexively on his. “Was that a worker? Still inside? I thought they’d all left.”
“They have,” Win said tightly. “Stay here—no, don’t. Don’t leave my side.”
And he took off for the house.
Chapter Fifteen
“Hello-o…Hello! Anyone in here?”
Marguerite heard the voice as she and Win pounded up the back stairs, and in a flash remembered that she’d left her laptop in the kitchen. Her laptop and all her research. Win shot through the kitchen door first, his voice raised and clipped with every ounce of his billionaire outrage distilled into the shout.
“Who is that? You’re trespassing!”
A frightened squeak followed this accusation, then a babble of words as feet trampled down the stairs. “We’re sorry, We’re sorry! The door was unlocked and no one answered, we’re sorry!”
By the time Marguerite had verified her laptop was untouched and had followed Win into the front hall, Win was squaring off in front of three brightly dressed women in…well, they had to be in costume. It was the only way she could describe it.
The oldest woman of the group had a beaded headband that rested on the crown of her head, holding in place her long, flowing white hair. Her dress looked like some sort of medieval robe, sashed at the waist with a braided belt. Hanging along the belt were several small silk bags of—something. They were full, though, and about the size of Marguerite’s fists. Was she a part of some commune? An interpreter from the local historical society?
The two women behind her clasped their hands together. They were dressed in equally soft, flowing gowns, complete with the belt and bags, but they didn’t have headbands. Instead their hair was pulled back behind their ears and tumbled down over their shoulders. After babbling a few more apologies they stopped, and looked toward their leader.
Though her face was lined and her skin had that translucent quality that bespoke advanced age, the older woman’s pale blue eyes were intent and focused, and her smile broadened as she looked past Win to Marguerite. “Oh, of course, of course. It’s exactly as it should be,” she said happily.
“You’re going to have to leave, I’m afraid,” Win said, his tone still polite, but definite and firm. “This is a construction area, and private property.”
She merely beamed at him. “But you must hear this! The gardens, the house, it’s exactly the way it was in our dreams!”
Whatever Win had expected the old woman to say, that wasn’t it. “I…what?” he asked, flummoxed.
“And the old books!” one of the other women said, her voice a high chirp. “The journals of Ella Mae Swinton and Carmody Jones both mention this home from all the way back in the 1800s! They’ve guided us here. We had to come.”
Marguerite got it before he did. She moved up beside him, laying a hand on his arm. “You’re, ah, fortune tellers, aren’t you?” she asked, tightening her hold on Win as he stiffened.
“That’s as good a word as any, yes,” the old woman said, spreading her hands as the women behind her nodded with gusto. “I’m Laura, and this is Charlotte and Sarah. We have a small collective in Savannah, where we do most of our work. It’s been a busy summer, but we all—the three of us—have been beset with the most extraordinary dreams…” She looked around the main hallway of the mansion, her eyes alight with excitement. “And they’ve centered on the rebirth of a beautiful old home in the heart of the south. This house.”
The women behind her burst into excited chatter then. “There are flowers—oh the flowers, cultivated to honor the energy of the earth and particularly the night,” one said excitedly. “And the ponds! Did you know there were once ponds here? Are there still? They were created as centers of tranquility to honor the four elements.” The second woman’s voice was equally enthusiastic, her gaze pinging from picture to mirror to chair to doorway. “It was said there was a shrine to Venus, Goddess of Love, and that she even walked here on—”
“Enough,” Win said, and his momentary bemusement appeared to be replaced with a sense of grim resolution. “We’re nearly finished for the day, but I can escort you around the grounds, will that suffice? Will that…I guess, stop the dreams from troubling you?”
“Oh, they’re no trouble!” one of the younger women chirped. At Win’s expression, however, their leader Laura took control once more.
“That would be perfect,” she said solemnly. “We simply would like to bless the earth, and the flowers, and give thanks to Mother Earth and Sister Moon for her gifts.”
“I…” Win blinked, and Marguerite clasped his hand now, squeezing it reassuringly.
“We’re grateful for you to do so,” she said. “You’ve seen the rooms here?”
Laura turned her soft eyes on her. “It’s the gardens that have called to us.”
“Then to the gardens we’ll go.” With that, Win turned and led the unlikely troupe down the center of Holt House and through the enormous kitchen. When he stepped out on the back porch, the women exclaimed with delight, and they continued whispering and pointing throughout the tour. The gazebo made them stare in unabashed wonder, and the ponds drew them together in a quick knot, as they murmured words Marguerite couldn’t quite pick out and lifted their hands over the still waters. There were no plants yet, of course, but that didn’t stop them. They reached into the bags at their waist and sprinkled what looked like dried flowers and herbs all along the path. When they asked for a moment alone not five feet away from the old Holt marker to his deceased wife, Win could only wave them on, stupefied.
“I can’t believe I’m allowing this,” he murmured. “If anyone saw these people…”
“It’s not so crazy.” Marguerite tried and failed to hide her smile. “We have fortune tellers like this in Garronia too, and you can tell when they are simply acting on their beliefs, with no fell intention. These women are from—Savannah, they said?”
“A coastal town in Georgia,” Win nodded with a grimace. “It’s known for attracting its share of, ah…metaphysical enthusiasts.”
“Then we’re lucky to have them. If Holt House was going to become a historical site, then this would be fantastic publicity for us.”
Win groaned, and Marguerite burst out laughing. The sound drew the attention of the small group, but while she tried to sober quickly, they didn’t seem to mind. Their smiles didn’t dim, and they moved on without apparent need of either her or Win, wandering down to where the old docks once stood. Now-silent earth moving machines lay dormant across the wide lawn, but the women kept well away from them, focusing only on the river.
“They’re not going to bathe in there, are they?”
Marguerite giggled again, and Win looked down at her, his expres
sion shifting subtly as their eyes met. He reached out and settled his finger beneath her chin, tilting it up. “I’m still in desperate need of a shower,” he sighed. “I shouldn’t even be touching you.”
“Then you better be quick.” Marguerite’s pulse leapt as Win’s face, now far more serious than she’d expected, seemed to soften further. He leaned down and once, twice, barely brushed her lips with his. The touch sent a whorl of panic and excitement through her, and if they hadn’t been in the midst of a conducting a tour of the grounds, she realized she wanted more than anything else to pull him to the ground right there, ensuring they both got a great deal dirtier.
“Mr. Holt? Hello?” The sudden shout made them jump apart, and Win blinked, looking back. Laura emerged once more at the opening to the river walk, her eyes still merry.
Win shook his head. “I’m not—Mr. Holt isn’t here, I’m afraid. He’s in town. I’m merely overseeing the work.”
“Ohhh.” She nodded vigorously, as if this explained yet another mystery of the universe to her. “Well. We shouldn’t be keeping you then, but we cannot thank you enough for your hospitality in letting us honor the dreams that brought us here. These grounds were once sown with love, and that love was betrayed. It is our fondest hope that it will return again, though.”
As she spoke the other women scurried up behind her, their little bags all seeming far emptier now. Marguerite smiled indulgently as Win gestured them forward. She loosened her grip on his and let the women lead them along another shell covered path, bringing up the rear. The younger women pressed forward, peppering Win with questions, while their leader drifted back toward Marguerite.
“You’ve done a wonderful thing here, both of you,” Laura said, and Marguerite blinked up at her, surprised to see the woman regarding her with her old, kind eyes.
“I haven’t done all that much, actually,” she said. “Win—Mr. Masters—is overseeing the restoration.”
“No, child. It all started with you, you and your energy to break a curse you don’t even understand.” The old woman drifted a hand over her hair and Marguerite fought the shiver. She did know people like this back in Garronia—in fact, a whole family of them, one of the most colorful of Garronia’s far flung high society. But meeting this woman here, on the grounds of Holt House, made her feel almost eerie.
And what Laura said next merely increased that feeling. “The old journals of Ella and Carmody, they’re from a time long before the sadness that blanketed this house. In their day, there was nothing but love here—not merely love, actually. Passion. Ardor. You’ve felt it, yes?”
“I…” Marguerite managed a bemused nod. It seemed to satisfy the older woman.
“So you should know, the pain that was suffered here isn’t the true heart of Holt House. It was just more than its spirit could handle for a while. Now that you’ve come…” Laura nodded, her smile gentle and knowing. “I think you’ll see the truth of what I say.”
“Ah—well, that’s good then. Thank you,” Marguerite said, not sure how else to respond.
The older woman wasn’t finished yet, however. “There’s a bigger curse you’ll have to break, however, if you want to ensure the love you’ve found here lasts. You also know that, yes?”
Marguerite’s gaze snapped to hers. “What?” she demanded. “What are you talking about? What other curse?” A weight of fear settled over her, as heavy as a blanket. “What do you mean?”
“Only that you have a power within you that’s stronger than you know, to help a man see that the past is no longer ours to worry over; but the future is still a gift to be opened. Use that power.” Laura put her hand on Marguerite’s shoulder, then squeezed gently. “That’s all. Just use it.”
“Marguerite?” Win’s strong, assured voice broke the spell, and Marguerite turned forward, a surge of gratitude overriding her sudden confusion…confusion, and maybe a little fear. As she recovered, Laura strode ahead, leaving Marguerite no choice but to scramble to catch up. As she passed through the shadow of Holt House, however, she couldn’t help but shiver.
“Everything all right?”
“What? Oh. Oh, yes, sorry.” Marguerite looked up from her plate and offered Win a reassuring smile, but she’d been unusually distracted since they’d managed to shoo off the gypsy gaggle from Savannah. Well, that wasn’t really fair. Win didn’t know what the nature of their ‘collective’ was in the old city, but they’d certainly seemed gypsy-like, with their long, unbound hair and flowing robes. Was there some sort of Renaissance Fair occurring nearby that had drawn them to the area? Probably.
But they’d been harmless enough, and had obviously come a long way on the basis of a dream—if that was truly what had drawn them. The pragmatic side of him hadn’t missed the fact that they could be spies for Gibbs, but he really didn’t think so. Gypsy wanderers didn’t seem a likely a cover story for anything the redoubtable Mrs. Gibbs could drum up. The woman was a gossip monger, but she also had a very defined sense of her social standing. As did nearly every established family in the region.
His lips twisted. Even his own.
Still, Marguerite’s pensive face made him nervous. Especially considering how she’d been spending her last several days. “How has your library research been going?”
“Frustrating, actually. I feel like there are enormous holes where there really shouldn’t be, especially when there’s so much other research that’s available on virtually everything else that ever happened in the county.”
Win lifted his brows. That didn’t sound good. “Really?”
She waved a hand. “Crop listings all the way back to the 1700s, land bought and sold, social soirees, crime sprees, family disputes. You wouldn’t believe what people were willing to share in the public record. But nothing on the mysterious die-off at the Holt House, and barely a mention of the passing of Priscilla Holt in 1942. No indication that she’d had a falling out with her husband, her son, or the local gardening club, such that anyone of them might have poisoned her prize gardens.”
“Poison.” That definitely didn’t sound good.
“Well, it makes the most sense, I think. If you don’t go with an actual curse. Someone took issue with Mrs. Holt, and realized the most direct way to get back at her would be to ruin the thing she prized most, her flowers. But that doesn’t explain why other things continued to grow—like weeds, in particular. And it doesn’t explain why no one bothered to renovate the property.” She sighed. “With it being as easy as you said to renovate it now, you’d think someone would have had luck before now.”
He nodded. “And those women today?”
That did make her smile, and the sudden transformation of her face was enough to lighten his spirits as well. “That was something, wasn’t it? You should tell Mr. Holt. It’ll make him happy to hear someone else is rooting for him and his lovely old home.”
“You think? Most older southern gentlemen might take exception to gypsies showing up on their doorstep.”
Marguerite laughed. “But this old southern gentleman believes his house is cursed. So there’s that.”
“There is that,” Win nodded.
Marguerite settled back, and Win knew he should suggest that he return her to Heron’s Point now—now, before the evening wore on and it was far too easy to ask her to spend the night again. He hadn’t seen her in days, though, and the moon was only now beginning to rise. And something about being at Holt House today had left him unsettled in a way that only seemed like it would be resolved with Marguerite by his side…or, preferably, in his arms.
He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to be with her, as it was. He was getting too close to her emotionally, craving her company, and she had no idea about the truth of him, or even the long-ago stain of his family history. When she did—
But she wouldn’t, he resolved for the fifty-seventh time just that day. She couldn’t. It was bad enough knowing the truth himself.
“Care to take a stroll around the gardens�
�before we get you home?” he added the last part more out of a sense of self-preservation than anything else.
To his surprise, she didn’t comment with a suggestion that she stay the night, she merely nodded. He bit back a flurry of concern. Was she secretly relieved that she didn’t have to spend time with him?
“I’d love to see the gardens—especially now, in the moonlight. We’ve spent so much time roaming the Holt House’s grounds, I haven’t really gotten a sense of the gardens here—or the house, really. Other than…well, you do have exquisite balconies.”
“We pride ourselves on our balconies.” Win stood and held out a hand to her, once again feeling instantly better the moment she placed her hand in his.
They walked out onto the grand porch, and down the back stairs to the wide path that led down to the river. Unlike the Holt House in its heyday, the Grand took a far more hands-off approach to the gardens they cultivated, allowing the flowers to grow in wild profusion in their carefully bordered plots, and focusing on wide areas of manicured lawns set off with simple walkway, wired with lights.
The lights shown down on the wildflowers, and Marguerite drew closer to him as they walked hand-in-hand, pointing out the wild variety of blooms now that she’d spent so much time researching the local flora.
“I can’t believe how long everything grows here,” she murmured, leaning down to inhale the fragrance of a particularly vivid blossom. “In Garronia, between the wind and the dry weather, the growing season is short. Most of the year the flowers are trying to deepen their root systems and hang on for dear life.”
“You haven’t told me about your home there,” Win pointed out, happy to hear her talk. “Do you miss it?”
The question seemed to surprise her. “I…don’t,” she said, after a short pause. “I miss my sisters, though Caroline won’t be returning to Garronia anytime soon, I have to think, now that she’s met someone locally. Edeena, on the other hand, won’t leave.” She smiled. “She’s planning on bringing Vince Rallis’s entire family over for the wedding, and secretly hoping they decide to stay.”
Chosen: Gowns & Crowns, Book 7 Page 15
