The House on Blackberry Hill (Jewell Cove 1)

It really had been neglected. For a moment she felt almost sorry for the old home. It was a shame that something that had once been so grand and beautiful had fallen into such a state.

The boards of the stairs creaked wearily beneath her feet as she climbed the three steps to the covered porch and took a key from her purse. Walking carefully, Abby silently prayed that the floor was termite-free and structurally sound before fitting the key into the lock and pushing the solid wood door open with the groan of long-unused hinges. Hesitantly Abby stepped inside, searching along the wall for a switch in the dim light. She found it and flipped it on. Thank goodness the arrangements to have the power switched on before her arrival had been a success.

The place was strangely silent and her shoes made hollow sounds on the hardwood floors as she went farther inside. She shivered. With the house shut up and all the curtains closed, it reminded her of a tomb.

The first thing she needed to do was get some natural light into the dreary rooms. The dim glow of the wall sconces barely penetrated the dust and stale air. She entered the room on her right—what appeared to be a formal dining room—and went directly to the window, spreading the heavy brocade curtains wide and tying them back with silky tassels. Sunlight spilled in through the gap and she went to the next window, and the next, until the room was flooded with warmth even through the dusty windows.

Turning around to finally get a good look at the room, Abby gasped. The antique dining table and chairs, which she’d only seen in outline, were now clearly visible and utterly magnificent, ornately carved, and even under the layer of dust she could see they had to be real mahogany. The table could easily seat a dozen. A set like this would have cost a fortune. Worth even more now if it was as old as she suspected.

Who on earth were the Fosters? And why had this all been kept a secret from her side of the family? At times her grandmother had barely made ends meet.

A fireplace with a white mantel graced one end of the room, but the mantel was empty except for a single, framed portrait. Abby went closer, her fingers gliding over the silver frame as she examined the face behind the glass. The woman was beautiful, perhaps in her twenties, with long dark hair and full lips. Her dress appeared to be chiffon, cut in a vee at her throat, a necklace of oval stones at her neck. Even in the black-and-white photograph her skin seemed to glow as she sat in a wing chair with a baby dressed in unending ruffles cradled in her arms.

Abby turned the frame over and slid the old photo out, careful to keep her fingers on the edge of the paper. There was nothing written on the back, no indication of who the woman was or when it was taken. Disappointed, she put the picture back inside and placed it precisely in its spot on the mantel. Was this Marian? Perhaps Marian’s mother, Edith? Abby frowned, feeling a brief surge of anger at being left in the dark about her own family. She and her grandmother had been very, very close. How could Gram have failed to mention something as big as a family mansion to her only granddaughter?

Shaking off her melancholy, Abby turned her attention to the rest of the room. A gilt-edged mirror hung above the fireplace and it reflected an unlit chandelier over the table. For a brief moment she imagined the clinking sounds of silver on china and crystal. She’d figured out that the Fosters had been well off when she’d seen the value of the estate. But this … this was living on a grand scale.

Eager to explore now, she made her way back to the wide hall. There was another chandelier here, prettier than the last. It would be gorgeous all lit up, but on closer examination she saw that the lights within were oil and that it hadn’t been wired for electricity. It seemed a shame to waste its beauty simply because it was stuck in the past.

Across the wide hall she found what could only be called a drawing room. She opened the curtains in this room too, feeling an irrepressible need to let light into all the dark corners. There seemed to be an odd feeling about the house. Something heavy and dark, like a terrible secret.

It was just her overactive imagination, she chided herself. She turned her attention to the fireplace, identical to the one in the dining room, idly wondering if each room had one and if they still worked. It probably wouldn’t be safe to light a fire anyway. Birds or bats or something likely lived in the chimneys, she thought, shivering. She hated bats.

Abby returned her attention to the space around her. It was too formal for a parlor or mere sitting room, and the warm yellow walls were in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. The furniture was old and frayed around the edges but she could tell it had been opulent in its day. An upright piano was pushed against one wall and she went over and lifted the cover, her fingers pushing a few keys as she played an arpeggio. A tinny, twangy sound erupted from the instrument, in need of a good tuning. She shut the cover again with a shudder as the dissonant notes echoed uncomfortably through the air.

According to the records, Marian had put in central heating in the sixties, and the house had been completely rewired only twenty years ago. As Abby’s gaze took in the scarred floors and dingy rugs, not to mention the faded and chipped paint, she was at least thankful for that. Maybe the mansion had been grand in its day, but right now it looked as if it had been forgotten. Discarded. It would take a lot of work and a lot of Marian’s money, she thought with dismay, to get it into marketable shape. It was worse than she’d feared. It didn’t just need tidying up. It needed fixing.

Abby went back to the main hall. Past a small powder room was a kitchen with modern appliances—modern compared to the rest of the house, at least. There was a four-burner stove and a refrigerator that sat quietly. The fridge and stove were the only concessions to modernity. There was no microwave, no dishwasher. The tile floor was faded and the walls were painted a very dated—and dowdy—avocado green.

Uck. Aunt Marian had apparently been old-school.

Next to the kitchen was a door leading to what Abby could only surmise was the basement. Abby put her hand on the latch but then drew it back as a cold feeling skittered down her spine. She’d leave exploring for another time. She had visions of the basement in Gram’s old house—stone walls, damp and cold, and the dreaded spiders. She hated them with a passion, even more than she hated bats. When she was a child, going down in the basement for a simple jar of jelly had felt like a penance.

The uneasy feeling she’d had touching the door was even stronger as she crossed the hall, pausing to look up the grand staircase. She shivered, cold again, as her gaze settled on the upper landing. Abby knew she was being ridiculous, but something about the staircase unnerved her and made the little hairs on the back of her neck rise with apprehension. She shook her head and tried to laugh, the sound mocking in the silence. This was foolish. There was nothing there. Maybe the queer sensation was simply because the house was so huge and, well, quiet. Everything echoed, even the sound of her breathing. It wasn’t the sort of house meant for one person. It was meant for parties and socializing, with men in dashing suits and women in long dresses. For the popping of champagne bottles and maids in white aprons serving canapés off silver platters.

Shaking off the heavy feeling, she entered the room beside the stairs, her uneasiness evaporating as her mouth dropped open in wonderment and delight.

Tattered or not, the old room was gorgeous. There were solid mahogany cases on each wall crammed full of old books, their spines faded and dusty. Their dark width was broken only by the dirt-smudged windows looking out over the vast gardens and peeking into what had to be an added-on sun porch at the back of the house. The drapes were faded and dirty but had once been a marvelous wine-and-tan-striped brocade.

She stepped into the center of the room, completely enchanted. In addition to the bookcases there was a gorgeous rolltop desk and a sewing table next to a pair of stuffed armchairs. And yes, another fireplace, backing on the same wall as the one in the drawing room. The walls that were visible were goldeny yellow, like burnt sugar. The color set off wide white trim and wainscot. The dark cherry hardwood floor was utterly stunning—or had been. It was quite scarred after years of use. But in its heyday …

It was the first room she’d visited that felt anything like a home. She could imagine herself curled up in one of those chairs with a Jane Austen novel and a pot of tea, a fire blazing in the fireplace …

She turned herself around in a circle, gave a huge, contented sigh, and choked on a puff of dust stirred up by her movement.

The romanticism of the moment was shattered by the harsh sound of her coughing as she doubled over, effectively raising an even bigger cloud. She was a fool to let herself be seduced, even for a moment.

The coughing fit eased and she gasped for air, holding herself very, very still to keep from disturbing more dust. She wasn’t sure how long this place had been locked up, but Marian’s lawyer had mentioned something about a few years. Considering the grime and neglect she’d witnessed just on the first floor, she’d guess it was closer to “several” rather than “a few.”

But despite the dirt and grime, the library was glorious. She could almost smell the redolent tang of cigar smoke, the bite of brandy mingled with the scent of leather and paper and ink. She closed her eyes, imagining for a moment what it must have been like during the glory days. Another time and place.

She opened her eyes, watched a mouse scurry into the corner and raised an eyebrow. Rodents and God knew what else were not romantic. The mouse disappeared behind a wing chair and she sighed. In reality she knew that this was just a room. What she needed to do was stop daydreaming and find the name of the nearest pest control company. So much for being in and out of Jewell Cove within a few days. Her first order of business was going to be looking into contractors. And to do that she was going to need either the yellow pages or an Internet connection—neither of which could be found at her current location.

A crash followed by the sound of muffled yet spectacular swearing from the front of the house propelled Abby out of her thoughts and sent her rushing to the front door with her heart pounding. Judging by the frustrated, not pained, language—which she had to admit was really quite inventive—coming from the porch she figured whatever was happening outside wasn’t an emergency, and at a particularly creative curse couldn’t help but choke back a giggle. Still chuckling, she threw open the door.

The man on her veranda was big and he was burly, with blazing black eyes and matching hair a touch too long as it curled around his collar. He looked like a lumberjack, if that lumberjack happened to be on the cover of Sexy Outdoorsman magazine. His jeans were faded but clean, and he wore a white button-down shirt rolled up over tanned and muscled forearms. His very civilized attire seemed slightly out of place against his rugged good looks. Abby wasn’t much into facial hair, but a day’s growth of stubble framed his jaw and the total package was so completely masculine and sexy that something hot and forbidden wound its way through her abdomen. She scrambled to put together a coherent thought but couldn’t seem to make the connection between her brain and her tongue.