happen.”
“He didn’t do it alone.”
“No.” Her lips curved as she reached for the door. “I did one hell of a job.” She opened the door. “See for yourself.”
One hell of a job, Rebecca thought. Beautiful wide planked floors gleamed gold with polish and sunlight. Silk-covered walls, elegantly trimmed. Antiques, both delicate and majestic, were placed in a perfect harmony that looked too natural to have been planned.
She turned into the doorway of the front parlor, with its curvy double-backed settee and Adam fireplace. Atop its carved pine mantel were gorgeous twin vases holding tall spires of larkspur and freesia and flanking silver-framed tintypes.
“You expect to hear the swish of hooped skirts,” Rebecca murmured.
“That was the idea. All of the furnishings, all of the color schemes, are from the Civil War era. Even the bathrooms and kitchen reflect the feeling—even if they are modernized for comfort and convenience.”
“You must have worked like fiends.”
“I guess we did,” Regan said reflectively. “Mostly it didn’t seem like work at all. That’s the way it is, I suppose, when you’re dazzled by that first explosion of love.”
“Explosion?” Rebecca smiled as she turned back. “Sounds scary—and violent.”
“It was. There’s very little calm before or after the storm when you’re dealing with a MacKade.”
“And apparently that’s just the way you like it.”
“Apparently it is. Who’d have thought?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I always imagined you’d end up with some sophisticated, streamlined sort of man who played squash to keep in shape. Glad I was wrong.”
“So am I,” Regan said heartily, then shook her head. “Squash?”
“Or polo. Maybe a rousing game of tennis.” Rebecca’s laugh gurgled out. “Well, Regan, you were always so…tidy and chic.” She lifted a brow and gestured to indicate the knife pleat in Regan’s navy trousers, the polished buttons on the double-breasted blazer. “Still are.”
“I’m sure you mean that in the most flattering way,” Regan said dryly.
“Absolutely. I used to think, if I could just wear the kind of clothes you did—do—get my hair to swing just that way, I wouldn’t feel like such a nerd.”
“You were not a nerd.”
“I could have given lessons in the art. But—” she ran a hand down the side of her unconstructed jacket “—I’m learning to disguise it.”
“I thought I heard voices.”
Rebecca looked toward the stairs and saw a small, slim blonde with a baby snuggled into a sack strapped over her breasts. Rebecca’s first impression was of quiet competence. Perhaps it was the hands, she mused, one lying neatly on the polished rail, the other gently cupping the baby’s bottom.
“I wondered if you were upstairs.” Regan walked over to get a peek at the sleeping baby. “Cassie, you’ve been changing linens with the baby again.”
“I like to get it done early. And Ally was fussy. This must be your friend.”
“Rebecca Knight, girl genius,” Regan said, with an affection that made Rebecca grin, rather than wince. “Cassandra MacKade, irreplaceable manager of the MacKade Inn.”
“I’m so glad to meet you.” Cassie took her hand off the rail to offer it.
“I’ve been looking forward to coming here for weeks. This must be quite a job, managing all this.”
“It hardly ever feels like one. You’ll want to look around.”
“I’m dying to.”
“I’ll just finish upstairs. Give me a call if you need anything. There’s coffee fresh in the kitchen, and muffins.”
“Of course there is.” Regan laughed and brushed a hand over Ally’s dark hair. “Take a break, Cassie, and join the tour. Rebecca wants stories.”
“Well…” Cassie glanced upstairs, obviously worrying over unmade beds.
“I’d really appreciate it,” Rebecca put in. “Regan tells me you’ve had some experiences I’d be interested in hearing about. You actually saw a ghost.”
“I…” Cassie flushed. It wasn’t something she told many people about—not because it was odd, but because it was intimate.
“I’m hoping to document and record episodes while I’m here,” Rebecca said, prompting her.
“Yes, Regan told me.” So Cassie took a deep breath. “I saw the man Abigail Barlow was in love with. He spoke to me.”
Fascinating, was all Rebecca could think as they wandered through the inn, with Cassie telling her story in a calm, quiet voice. She learned of heartbreak and murder, love lost and lives ruined. She felt chills bubble along her skin at the descriptions of spirits wandering. But she felt no deep stirring of connectedness. An interest, yes, and a full-blooded curiosity, but no sense of intimacy. She’d hoped for it.
She could admit to herself later, as she wandered alone toward the woods, that she had hoped for a personal experience, a viewing or at least a sensing of some unexplainable phenomenon. Her interest in the paranormal had grown over the years, along with her frustration at having no intimate touch with it. Except in dreams—and Rebecca knew they were merely the work of the subconscious, sometimes fraught with symbolism, sometimes as simple as a thought—she’d never been touched by the otherworldly.
Though the house had unquestionably been lovely, though it had brought back echoes of a lost past, she had seen only the beauty of it. Whatever walked there had not spoken to her.
She still had hope. Her equipment would be in by the end of the day, and Cassie had assured her she was welcome to set up in a bedroom, at least for a few days. As the anniversary of the battle drew nearer, the inn would be full with reservations already booked.
But she had some time.
When she stepped into the woods, Rebecca felt a chill, but it was only from the thick shade. Here, she knew, two young boys had fought, essentially killing each other. Others had sensed their lingering presence, heard the clash of bayonets, the cries of pain and shock. But she didn’t.
She heard the call of birds, the rustle of squirrels scrambling for nuts to hoard, the faint buzz of insects. The day was too still for the air to stir the leaves, and the leaves themselves were a deep green, not even hinting of the autumn that would come within a month.
Following Cassie’s competent directions, she found the stand of rocks where the two corporals were reputed to have met. Sitting down on one, she took out her notebook and began to write what she would transpose onto a computer disk later.
There have been only mild, and perhaps self-induced, sensations of déjà vu. Nothing
