I found a dozen versions of the tale, but all agreed on the cause of death. Heartbreak had led poor Grace Louth to suicide. Judging by all the spooky stories I’d read over the years, that seemed to be how lots of ladies kicked the bucket back in the day. At least that’s what people liked to believe. Driven insane by betrayal, girls got gussied up in their wedding dresses and threw themselves into rivers. Afterward, they’d curse the houses where they’d suffered so horribly. It was a simple tale readers could all wrap our heads around. No one ever asked what had really happened, of course. The truth always got buried along with the girls.
Grace’s story took an unusual turn following her fatal plunge. Shortly after her death, a sharp-eyed mourner noticed something odd about the mural in her bedroom. In the summer, weeks before she’d died, Grace’s father had hired an artist to decorate the walls with a pastoral scene. That’s how the mural in my bedroom had been painted. Apparently, when the artist had finished, Frederick Louth had found the nighttime scene a bit odd, but the artist’s work was so lovely, he hadn’t complained. Long after the artist had finished, and days after Frederick Louth’s only daughter had died, a guest pointed to a small figure in the otherwise deserted landscape. It was a portrait of Grace. Dressed in a white gown, she was running down the hill toward the river, her long blond hair streaming behind her. No one doubted that the mural showed the girl on the night she died.
Some said the portrait, painted weeks before Grace’s death, had been a prophecy of the tragedy yet to come. Others swore up and down that the girl didn’t show up on the wall until after Grace died. Many attempts were made to locate the artist, but the person appeared to have vanished into thin air. Over the days that followed, the manor’s servants became convinced that Grace’s restless spirit remained in Louth Manor. They claimed she would emerge from the painting after dark and roam the halls. Then, late one night, Frederick Louth was found dead in the rose room. The doctors said he’d suffered a heart attack trying to pry the plaster off the walls.
Aside from the mural, which I’d seen for myself, there was one more thing that made Grace’s story different. Photographic evidence. On the day of Grace’s funeral, a newspaper sent a photographer to capture the manor. There was no one home at the time the picture was taken—the residents and staff were all at church. And yet there seemed to be a fuzzy figure standing behind the rose room windows. When I squinted, it almost looked like a young woman in a wedding dress.
Is this the ghost of mad Grace Louth? asked the caption. That’s when I put down the phone and stopped reading. Mad. The word hadn’t left my head since James had used it. I liked it. It was such a shame, I thought, that the term had gone out of fashion. I couldn’t think of another that fit me so perfectly.
I was mad that everyone had called me unhinged. I was mad I’d been told I couldn’t trust my own eyes. I was mad that I’d ever questioned myself. I was mad that they might have gotten away with it all. But I wasn’t crazy. And I was convinced that Lark and Grace hadn’t been, either.
I slid off the bed and found Grace’s portrait on the wall. I stood there and studied it. I still could have sworn she looked thrilled. I didn’t know her real story. And no one knew mine. But I suddenly didn’t feel quite so alone. There were three of us now.
Three mad girls.
Around six that evening, I heard a knock. My eyes moved to the door, and I watched the handle twist back and forth in vain. I knew the door wouldn’t open. I’d locked it and wedged a chair under the knob.
“It’s Miriam,” the housekeeper called through the wood. “I came to see if you’d like some dinner.”
I looked out the windows. It was dark outside. The croissant at the café was the last thing I’d eaten. I’d been so immersed in Grace Louth’s legend that I hadn’t realized I was famished.
“Give me a sec to get dressed, and I’ll be right down!” I shouted. There were only three people who could have rifled through my stuff while I was in Louth that afternoon. Miriam was my top suspect. Number two on the list was her son. The Reinharts weren’t to be trusted, and I didn’t want Miriam to hear me removing the barricade from my door.
* * *
—
Downstairs the kitchen was lit by the flames from the fireplace. Miriam had taken the seat closest to the stove. Sam sat silently at the head of the table. The browned carcass of a chicken claimed center stage.
“Where’s my uncle?” I asked as I pulled out a chair.
“He and his business partner had a meeting in the city,” Miriam informed me. “They said they would be back later.”
“His business partner?” It was the first I’d heard that such a person existed.
“A man named Gavin Turner,” Miriam said, passing me a bowl of roasted potatoes. “He’s an investor in the inn. James made him a partner not long after the fire.”
“Why would James need investors?” I asked. My mother always said her brother hadn’t been born with a head for business. But he had been born rich, and so had Sarah. After she’d died, he’d left the city with a sizable fortune.
Sam regarded me with a bemused expression as I served myself some of the chicken. “We don’t know. We’re just your uncle’s servants,” he said bluntly.
It was such a strange thing to say. James had some notable faults, but snobbery had never been one of them. I almost wondered if we were talking about the same person. I realized I must have rubbed Sam the wrong way that afternoon. Maybe he’d heard me on my call with my mother. Or maybe he just didn’t care for outsiders.
“How was your first day in Louth?” Miriam asked, to change the subject. “Did you do anything interesting?”
“Well, let’s see,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect. “I got snubbed by a lady at the bakery, had two people warn me that Louth isn’t a good place for me, got scared by some guys in a pickup who wanted to either help me or murder me. I also found out that the manor might be cursed and that the ghost of Grace Louth killed a man in my room. So, yeah, I’d say it was a pretty interesting day.”
Miriam and Sam shared a look. I suppose they’d been expecting typical chitchat. They would learn soon enough that there was nothing typical about me.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me that the manor’s so famous?” I pressed them. “No wonder Lark was fascinated by Grace Louth.”
Neither of the Reinharts uttered a word. Miriam kept her lips primly sealed, and Sam glowered at me as if I’d gone somewhere I didn’t belong.
“Sorry, but we’ve been asked not to speak about what happened to Lark or her mother,” he said. “James doesn’t want any more gossip, and we don’t want to lose our jobs.”