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.