Inheritance (The Lost Bride Trilogy, #1)(63)

“I can’t place the song.” Closing her eyes to bring it back, Cleo waved a finger. “Da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da.”

“‘There was a young maid dwelling’,” Trey sang in a clear, easy tenor. “‘And every youth cried well-a-day. Her name was Barbara Allen.’”

“That’s it! Plus, he sings.”

“An old folk song. The lyrics change depending, but the tune’s the same.”

“I’ve heard it,” Sonya murmured. “It’s sad.”

“He’s dying, but she turns away. He dies brokenhearted, she dies out of guilt and sorrow. So yeah,” Trey agreed. “Pretty damn sad.”

“I think it’s Astrid.” Cleo added the garlic to the pan where she’d melted butter. “Murdered on her wedding day. Doesn’t get much sadder.”

“I’ve come in here, and all the cabinet doors are open, and one day—maybe it was stuck—but I went out for a walk, unlocked the door, but I couldn’t get back in. Not at first.”

“You didn’t tell me about that one.”

“I forgot. And the night before Cleo came, I heard someone pounding on the front door. It woke me up. When I got up, there was a blizzard. I could hear the wind just howling, and see the snow flying. I thought, someone’s had an accident or needs help. But when I went down, opened the door, no one, and it was a clear night. No howling wind, no flying snow.

“I nearly stepped outside, then I remembered getting stuck out there. So I didn’t.”

“That’s not playful. That’s on the mean side.” Trey exchanged a look with Owen. “That’s something I haven’t heard before.”

“No, me neither.”

“Maybe I pissed them off. I don’t have any experience in this area.”

“But you’re sticking,” Trey pointed out.

“I’m sticking. Sometimes, like that night, I don’t know why. But I want to be here. Another I forgot. I got out of the shower, started to wipe the steam from the mirror, and it was like someone wrote on it. Seven—the number. Seven lost.”

“There were seven brides,” Trey told her.

As she stirred in tomato paste, Cleo glanced back. “Like the musical?”

Owen looked blank; Trey laughed.

“No. Seven lost brides. Astrid was the first. Didn’t you read the book?” he asked Sonya.

“I started it. I read about Astrid and Collin, and about his brother, Connor, and … Arabelle? And Hester Dobbs. I started on Connor and Arabelle’s children.”

“Keep reading.”

“It read like Connor and Arabelle had a good, long life here. A bunch of kids.”

“One of their daughters was the second bride. Don’t sugarcoat it, Trey. Is that vodka?” Frowning, Owen pointed toward the stove. “You’re putting vodka in there?”

“It’s essential for pasta in vodka sauce.”

When Owen got up to take a look, Trey pointed to a stool. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“Do I need to?” Sonya sat, reached down to pet Mookie when he walked to her.

“Her name was Catherine. She married William Cabot. They spent their wedding night at the manor with plans for a honeymoon, early spring, in Europe. She went outside that night, or early that morning. In a blizzard. She froze to death.”

“She went out in her nightgown, just her nightgown,” Sonya murmured, “and bare feet. She—she didn’t feel the cold. She didn’t feel it. There was a woman in a black dress by the seawall. And she walked all that way in the snow, in her bare feet. The woman took her hand—took her ring? Wedding ring? Then she felt the cold. She said something—the woman in the black dress. I couldn’t hear. And Catherine tried to get back, but she was so cold, and she kept falling. Then she didn’t get up again.

“I dreamed it.” Pressing a hand to her bouncing heart, Sonya rubbed it there. “How could I have dreamed it?”

“I’m going to give you creepy on this, Sonya.” Cleo went to her, hugged her hard. “That’s a horrible dream. It’s horrible. Is that what happened?”

“No one could explain why she went out in the storm. But when they found her the next day, she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. They never found it.”

“Hester Dobbs’s curse, according to local legend.” Owen stirred the sauce. “A bride every generation dies—on her wedding day, or within the year. At the manor. I’m not sure about the ring thing.”

“Johanna would be the last? Now there’s me?” On an expelled breath, Sonya picked up her wine again. “Good thing I’m not a bride.”

“I never bought into the legend. Some, like Lillian Crest, died in childbirth. Unfortunately, not that uncommon. Especially back then, and carrying twins. I’d have to refresh my memory,” Trey added. “But I think one, at least, died choking on some food. Also not that uncommon in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. And you had others, like Connor and Arabelle, who lived long lives here.”

“But seven, like on the mirror.”

“Someone wanted you to know.” After another squeeze, Cleo went to get a pot to cook the pasta.

“Collin wanted you here. He wanted to give you this. I knew him all my life. He’d never hurt anyone.”