'No harm done.' I moved away from the window, smoothing the folds of my skirt with an absent gesture. 'Like you said, it's only a reeling ... nothing more.'
'A sort of deep sadness, was it?'
'Yes.' I held back a shiver of remembrance. 'Do you know the cause of it?'
Geoff shook his dark head, frowning. 'No. It's a woman's sadness, I should think. Only women seem able to sense it, and it's always in that same spot—just there in front of the window. But I've never been able to pin down the source of it. Nothing in the family history to account for it. No one died in this room, that we know of, or flung themselves out the window, or anything like that.'
'I don't think it's really connected with the room,' I said slowly. He gave me an odd look, and I flushed a little, lowering my head self-consciously. 'Sorry,' I said, 'it's just an impression I got. It seemed to me that she—if it was a she—saw something through this window. Something out there ..." I nodded toward the smooth, level expanse of freshly green lawn that stretched out to meet the high churchyard wall with its overhanging trees. Everything was pristine and still and innocent—even the shadows lay quiet and unmoving on the grass. 'She saw something terrible. Something that broke her heart. And it's left an imprint, here in this room.'
'It's possible, I suppose.' Geoff was still looking at me strangely, with that odd blend of concern and wariness. 'Look, maybe we should finish the tour another day.'
'Heavens, no. I'm fine,' I assured him again, smiling up at him. It was a genuine smile this time. Silly to let one incident darken my entire day. 'What's next on the agenda?"
'The library,' he replied, relaxing. 'Or is that too boring for you?'
'Not at all. I love libraries. I shall probably want to steal some of your books, though, so be forewarned. You don't have any first editions of Dickens, do you?'
'Not Dickens, no.' He grinned.
'Oh, Lord.' I rolled my eyes heavenward. 'I knew it. It's going to be one of those disgustingly marvelous collections of rare works of literature, all hand bound in matching leather covers, isn't it?'
'Something like that,' he said, smiling at my groan, 'but if it makes you feel any better, all the truly rare and valuable volumes have been moved over to my side of the house. Can't trust the tourists with them, can I?'
'It's the only thing I begrudge the rich,' I said, as I followed him back down the damp-smelling staircase to the ground floor.
'What's that?'
'Their ability to buy books that the rest of us can never hope to own.'
Geoff sympathized. 'Well, if you want to borrow any of mine, just let me know.'
I sighed. 'It's not the same'
We had come to a stop in the wide front passage, with the Great Hall behind us, and my worst fears were confirmed as Geoff swung open the door to reveal floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves filled with books of every possible size and shape and age. The shelves covered all four walls of the square room, broken in three places by tall, narrow windows with stained-glass inserts above and upholstered seats below, liberally adorned with loose cushions—the sort of window seats that every book lover dreams of, visualizes, yearns for....
I stepped forward into the room, wonder-struck, inhaling the rich smell of oiled leather bindings and ancient paper and polished wood.
'How absolutely lovely,' I said.
'Yes,' Geoff agreed. 'You have my father to thank for this. He loved books—spent his whole life collecting them, having them restored. The original library for the house was a cramped little room off the south passage, near the old kitchen. Too small for my father. He built this one from the walls out, you know. The former owners used it as a sort of gamesroom—billiards, and all that—and before that I think it was a storage room. Dad thought it was perfect for the library.'
'He was right. Wherever did he find those shelves?'
'Country house in West Sussex. The place was being torn down, and the builders agreed to sell the shelving to Dad for a modest fortune.'
'Worth every penny,' I justified his father's action. 'They're just beautiful. All you're missing is the sliding ladder on the brass rail.'
'Aha.' Geoff smiled. 'You haven't looked closely enough.' He pointed to the far corner. 'Dad always believed in doing things down to the last detail.'
There, in truth, was the ladder, reaching up to the top shelf and fixed to glide on casters round a polished brass rail. It was too much like a film set to be true, really, and I was just about to voice my delight when another object in the corner caught my attention, and I froze, my throat working convulsively.
'Richard,' I whispered, my voice oddly slurred and indistinct.
'I beg your pardon?' Geoff moved forward, into my line of vision, but I went on staring up and over his shoulder at the great dark portrait hanging on the wall opposite. A portrait of a tall man with knowing eyes and an arrogant smile, a dark man dressed in black with a cape flung over one shoulder while in the other hand he clasped a gleaming sword....
I licked my lips and tried again, forming the words more carefully. 'That picture ...,' I began, nodding my head toward it.
He turned and looked. 'Oh, that. We've dubbed him The Playboy. He came with the house. That might be old Arthur de Mornay himself, or perhaps even his father. The resemblance is really quite remarkable, don't you think?'