This work is dedicated to my friend Diane to whom I am indebted for her editorial assistance.

Prologue

He cursed his fortune. Rain-drenched and chilled by the howling wind, his hopes were raised yet again. The lightning illuminated an oncoming pickup. Praying to whatever god would listen, he extended his thumb and tried to look as pathetic and nonthreatening as possible. The truck whizzed past him, its tires spraying him with icy water. "Hey you dirty …! I'm lost, man! I'm lost!" His plea fell on deaf ears.

He was alone on the deserted stretch of road, meandering between two nearly impenetrable lines of trees. An argument with a previous rider had resulted in him being dumped unceremoniously into the storm. Another lightning flash lit up the sky, revealing a mansion seated atop the steep hill. It was at once both repelling and inviting. Crafted of grey stone, it resembled a castle with a tall tower reaching out to grasp the sky. A momentary urge to turn and run was suppressed by his urgent need for shelter. The refugee sloshed his way up the muddy hill toward the manor that was both eerily beautiful and terrifying.

He checked various entrances into the mansion; as expected, they were all locked. His glimpses in the windows told him the building was abandoned. All the furniture had been covered, and there were no signs of any recent habitation. He was about to resort to breaking into one of the French windows when the handle of one of them broke off, and it opened with a creak of protest. He launched himself across the threshold, barely avoiding a spill as his foot slipped on a wet patch of stone.

Once inside, the interloper began to explore the deserted manse He'd always been contemptuous of authority and was not in the best of moods. A vase caught his eye. On an instinctual level, he labeled it a symbol of an oppressive authoritarian culture. With one gleeful motion, he hurled it to the floor. Its crash coincided with a peal of thunder. He was about to break something else, but greed and a cold chill overtook him simultaneously. These things were here for the taking. An enterprising person could pawn them for God only knows how much. He shivered and decided to leave such thoughts for a later time. Warmth was a more immediate concern.

He was soon disappointed. The house was steeped in an all-pervading chill. He commandeered some of the furniture covers, wrapping them around himself. The effort warmed him a bit. With a chuckle, he imagined himself draped in fine robes, the lord of the manor. His gaze fell upon a well-stocked bar. A nearly full bottle of brandy beckoned to him. Throwing back his head, he drank deeply, welcoming the sting of the streaming liquid. It gradually saturated his body with euphoric warmth of both body and spirit. Poorly mimicking a posh British accent, he called out," POOLE! We'll be having brandy in the drawing room, and do prepare bedrooms for the weekend's guests!" He chuckled as he recalled the poor, suffering butler. Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde had always been one of his favorite films. He wandered aimlessly a bit more, downing gulps of brandy as he went. Eventually, exhaustion and alcohol overcame him, and he collapsed on a sofa, allowing the nearly empty, but capped bottle to fall to the floor.
While he slept, the storm gradually dissipated and the wind decelerated, the howl decreasing to a low moan. A pulsating, iridescent light flickered in the tower. It hovered there for several minutes then drifted down the stairs, slowly but unerringly toward the sleeping form of the intruder. The effects of the liquor gradually diminished, and he awoke by degrees, dimly aware of the light and the feeling that he was being observed. "Hey, who's there? I got company?" No answer. He made his way toward the landing and called out again, "Hey, who's there? Where's that light coming from?"

He lurched unsteadily forward, attempting to meet the light at the foot of the stairs. "Where did you go? Who's up there?" Maddeningly, it retreated back up. He mounted the steps in slow, but determined pursuit. It paused, bathing him in its intense glow. "There it is again! What the hell is going on?" It diminished again and backed away. He continued to follow the radiance up the stairs and into one of the deserted rooms.

Something swift and indistinct reached out to him from the light. With feline grace, precision and swiftness, it lashed out raking his face with scratches. He screamed, clutched his face and stumbled backward as it attacked again. He backed away nearly bumping into the dark silhouette of a man. A flashlight was trained on his eyes, blinding him. As he tried to croak out a plea for help, the figure drew a club and bludgeoned him viciously across his temple, downing him instantly. As he lay dying, his last sight was the lean, hungry visage of his attacker glaring down at him. He was joined by an attractive middle-aged woman whose sharp, angular features registered approval.

Chapter 1

The white convertible made its way up the hill; the sun had been smiling sweetly down on it. The driver, a young man with wavy brown hair managed to steal the occasional glance at the scenery but had to focus the bulk of his attention on the road. The woman with him, a brunette who was a gorgeous epitome of the girl next door, squinted, trying to get the first glimpse of their destination. She finally pointed triumphantly, displaying the smile that had convinced the driver to propose to her, "Look!" Her husband stole a moment's attention away from the road and gazed up at the house on the hill. She exclaimed, "What a garret!" The mansion, in the light of day, seemed inviting and peaceful. The scent of the last of the wildflowers still lingered in the air as birds chirped peacefully. The woman imagined that some of them were probably nesting in some of the tower's nooks and crannies. She glanced at him, her doe like eyes full of love and adoration.

Her husband smiled, "I keep telling you no one can afford to paint unless he is an heir."

She rested her head on his shoulder, "I think it's incredible you were around for all those years, and I didn't even know you!" Her gentle countenance registered total contentment.

He regarded her fondly, "You wouldn't have liked me then. I was mean and surly." His blue eyes twinkled mischievously, his lean features sporting a crooked grin.

She was uncertain how to interpret this revelation. His tone was ambivalent. She broke the awkward silence with a laugh and replied, "I still can't believe it's really Collinwood!" Her lovely face registered childlike wonder and reflected the sun's warmth.

"Well, if I got the directions right, it is."'

Thick trees once again obscured their view. "You can't even see the house from here. How much land is there?"

"Oh only about 200 acres", he answered. "There … look at it now."

The trees thinned again and they were treated to their first close-up look at Collinwood. The gigantic stone structure dominated the horizon. "Oh … Quentin," her mouth hung open momentarily. The monolith loomed larger and larger until it totally dominated their view. "What do you want to bet I turn into one of those women you see in House & Garden."

"Yeah, I can see it now, Mrs. Quentin Collins in her fashionable jeans sitting at her 18th Century rosewood desk making out menus for the week." Tracy laughed as he continued, "We have a housekeeper, you know."

"Oh great, I'll bet she looks just like Mrs. Danvers!"

"I'm sure she does." Quentin had stopped the car, and they emerged, stretching and flexing tired muscles.

"Well, it solves one problem. She can probably do everything, and I can spend my day arranging flowers all day."

Quentin opened the trunk and retrieved their luggage. Tall and lanky, he easily hefted the weight of their belongings and headed for the front entrance of Collinwood, "And loving me."

"And loving you," Tracy agreed. Quentin, on impulse gently dropped the bags and swept his new bride off her feet. The two laughed as he whisked her over the threshold.

They were interrupted by a sweet, almost singsong voice. "Mr. and Mrs. Collins, welcome to Collinwood. I'm Carlotta Drake." Tracy blushed as Quentin set her on her feet. Carlotta's smile would have seemed warm, except for the fact that her eyes seemed to regard them critically. Tracy momentarily wondered who she was. Quentin had mentioned a housekeeper, but this woman was dressed more appropriately for a dinner party. Her attire was lavish and colorful, not something one might expect a domestic servant to wear. Her eyes were lined heavily with mascara, and makeup was also liberally applied. Rouge accentuated the hollows beneath her prominent cheekbones. It gave the impression of one who was desperately clinging to her youth.

"Thank you, Miss Drake."

"Hello, Carlotta," Tracy offered her hand to the older woman. It was accepted with grace that belied her humble station in the household.

"It's so good to have you here. I do hope everything will be to your liking, Mrs. Collins." She stood aside allowing them to enter. "If you leave your bags there, they will be attended to."' With an air of authority, she gestured for them to follow, and she proceeded to conduct a tour of their new home. The newlyweds had little to say, unaccustomed as they were to such grandeur.

She led them into an ornately furnished drawing room. The high, vaulted ceilings made Tracy feel tiny and insignificant. Priceless heirlooms from every generation of the Collins family filled the spacious chamber. Tracy was awed by a glass case that held ornate figurines of pairs of animals beside an intricately-carved ark. Each creature had been painstakingly and realistically crafted by an artisan. The newlyweds were bowled over by the conspicuous display of unimagined wealth. Tracy wasn't sure, but she thought Carlotta had glanced disapprovingly at her when she had reached out to touch a replica of a clipper ship that was displayed on an antique table. Her gaze fell upon some of the overstuffed chairs and the loveseat. The workmanship was beautiful, but Tracy doubted if she could ever curl up with a book and feel comfortable in this room.

Quentin was busy appraising the sculptures and paintings along the walls. He had created a brief but tense awkward silence earlier when he'd asked about the distant relatives from whom he'd inherited the house. Carlotta would only say that it had been a "deeply tragic time that is best forgotten." Quentin respected her wishes and did not pry into the matter further. "Mrs. Stoddard, before her death, had tea served here every afternoon."

Tracy winced inwardly at the thought of her spilling the contents of a teacup onto the slightly faded, but still colorful, upholstery.

"I'm afraid that's one tradition we won't keep." Quentin's reply provoked a subtle but undeniable expression of disapproval from the older woman. He was sitting at the piano, idly plucking out a melody that was stuck in his head.

Sensing the tension, Tracy jovially added, "Oh no! We can't let the house down! We must call Claire and Alex and invite them to tea in the drawing room with the lord of the manor!"

Tracy asked, "Did you tell the Jenkins we'd be here today?" Carlotta seemed momentarily distracted, engrossed in the ditty Quentin was playing. "Carlotta, did you tell the Jenkins we'd be here today?"

Tracy's repeated query jerked the older woman out of her reverie. "No, I didn't know that's what you wanted. Come; let me show you the rest of the house." With an air of authority, she gestured for them to follow her. "Collinwood was built by Joshua Collins in the late 1700s." Again she was in her element, regaling them with tales about each room of the house, most of them set in the early 19th Century. Neither of the couple asked about recent history again.

Carlotta whisked them into a myriad of rooms, each more resplendent than the last. There was a library whose antique shelves were bursting with tomes that spanned the ages from the earliest days of printing to the present. Tracy wondered about the little girl who'd read the Nancy Drew mysteries in the '50s or more recently, the little boy who'd favored the adventures of Tom Swift. Carlotta's imperious gaze fell upon her, reminding Tracy of the stern librarians of her own childhood. She hastily replaced the books on the shelf and followed her guide and husband out into the corridor.

Carlotta gestured airily, "As a child, I used to hide here. They had so many parties then. All the guests were so elegantly dressed." Her eyes looked off into the distance as she continued, "And the candles were always burning."

"You lived here as a child?" Tracy's question jolted her back into the present.

"Yes, my mother was the housekeeper."

Quentin had wandered away from the tour and was peering up a flight of stairs. "What's up there?"

"Oh, nothing you'd be interested in now."

"Is that the tower I saw from the outside?"

"Yes, it's used for storage now." Quentin paused at the landing as Carlotta and Tracy continued on their way. After a moment Carlotta, glanced back at him. Taking the hint, he followed them through the maze of corridors and into the dining room.

Tracy's jaw hung open. The table looked as if it might be suitable for King Arthur and Queen Guinevere to hold a feast for the knights of the realm. Carlotta droned on, but Tracy was oblivious to her. She could only marvel at the craftsmanship that had gone into creating such a splendid piece of art. The sides were adorned with carvings of angels. "This is too much," she thought. "I can't take my meals on this." The shiny surface cast her reflection almost as vividly as a mirror. Although she was stylishly clad, she felt frumpy in the presence of such splendor. Her gaze fell to the carpet. Cornucopias overflowing with waves of delicacies were on display. Although undeniably very ancient, the fine fibers still retained their vibrant colors. There was only trace evidence of wear apparent anywhere on the rug. She was chilled again at the thought of spilling something, perhaps wine, irrevocably marring the antique artistry.

Carlotta regarded her with an indulgent grin and pointed. "There's a pantry through that door. Recent members of the family often took their meals there." Her demeanor suggested to Tracy that the older woman was equally uncomfortable with the thought of her eating here as well. She glanced at her husband who was displaying no signs of discomfiture. Quite the contrary, Quentin was confidently surveying the room, boldly inspecting its contents. He reached for a fine, delicate crystal decanter. He examined it appreciatively for a moment. Carlotta did not seem to resent his actions. In fact, her manner indicated tacit approval. Quentin replaced the decanter and nodded, signaling to Carlotta that he was ready to continue the tour. Following his cue, she led them along a maze of corridors and up a flight of stairs.

"The master bedroom is this way. It has an excellent view of the front grounds." Tracy doubted she'd remember how make her way to this room again at bedtime. Although the bedroom was finely furnished, Tracy was relieved to discover that it was not nearly as intimidating as the rest of the house. The spreads were obviously expensive, but neither looked as fragile or as irreplaceable as most of the contents of their new home. This room had been outfitted for everyday living. The dresser looked like something one might find in a five-star hotel, not a museum. Tracy could imagine herself storing her clothes in it. The nightstand had the same elegant but inviting look about it. In spite of being fully appointed, the room looked stark and bare. At one time no doubt, photographs of recent members of the family had been on display. Their removal had left a vacuum that was slightly depressing. Tracy made up her mind to fill it with pictures of her own family and Toby, the beloved dog she'd grown up with. She hoped Quentin would also have images of his branch of the Collins family. She made up her mind that they would start making their mark on Collinwood here.

Her resolution was interrupted by Carlotta who ushered them away from their living quarters into another room directly across the hall. If they were impressed with the rest of the house, the gallery bowled them over. It was majestic both in size and furnishings. Huge windows dominated the far wall, giving them a panoramic view of the grounds. Portraits of Collins forebears adorned the other walls. Again, Quentin found himself appraising rather than just appreciating the art in this room. "I have a feeling my ancestors wouldn't have bought my work."

"Quentin's paintings are very abstract."

Carlotta's eyebrows arched, "You're a painter? How interesting." Quentin stopped at the portrait of a lovely blonde woman. She was exquisitely beautiful with perfect features that looked as if they had been etched from marble. Her eyes seemed to compel him to stare into them, pale blue, almost hypnotic. Now that he'd noticed this piece, it seemed to dominate the room, looking down upon them like a sentinel. Tracy also admired the beauty of the subject but thought her expression suggested a coldness or perhaps even cruelty.

"Is she one of the family?"

Carlotta nodded in answer to Quentin's query. "Yes she is. Her name is Angelique Collins. She died in 1810."

Awed, Tracy remarked, "She's beautiful". She turned her attention away from the portrait to look out the window. "Carlotta, I think this is my favorite room. The view is incredible!"

"I've prepared a salad for supper. Shall I serve it here?"

"Oh yes, would you?" Carlotta nodded to her and left the room. The sun had decided to peek out again and favored the lawn and trees with golden light. The leaves twinkled as if stars had landed upon them. Quentin abandoned the image of Angelique and joined Tracy at the window. His gaze was drawn to a squirrel scampering up the tree. A smile was aborted when it disappeared from sight. It did not scurry behind a branch nor did it race away faster than his eye could follow. It simply was not there. The brilliant colors had also diminished to near monochrome. The tree, devoid of leaves, was damp and slick in the heavy drizzle. His mind's eye was diverted by something swinging above his line of sight. He gasped. It was the form of a woman suspended from a rope, gently swaying in the heavy breeze. Her long, ankle-length dress suggested a bygone day.

Dimly, he was aware that Tracy was speaking. "It's almost like living in a museum. Isn't it?" Mildly concerned, Tracy reached out to touch her husband's arm. "Quentin." Immediately the scene shifted, and the squirrel was again playing on the lower branches, its brown fur appearing yellowish in the brilliant light. "Darling, what's wrong? What are you thinking about?"

He blinked several times before deciding how to answer her. "What? Oh I don't know ... just daydreaming, I guess." He put his arm around her, and they enjoyed the spectacular sight silently until Carlotta returned with the tray.

The day had been long and exhausting, so they decided to turn in early. Although the bed was ornate and a work of art, Tracy secretly wished she could have their old bed back. This mattress was a bit too firm and stiff for her to be totally comfortable. "I still think we're very naughty. We should have at least called the Jenkins'."

"They'll understand", Quentin answered, buttoning his pajamas and preparing to join her in bed. "Are you going to be happy here?"

She cuddled close to him, "Yes, if you are." She kissed him goodnight and hoped he'd take the hint. She was already nodding off, despite the unyielding mattress. Her eyelids grew heavy.

"I don't know why, but I almost feel like I've come home."

"That's good", she mumbled and rolled over. This time he got the message and let her drift off into a deep slumber. Quentin felt at ease in the total silence of his castle. The open window let in only a slight, inaudible breeze, and the curtains were subject to only the tiniest flutters. By degrees, his feelings of contentment gave way to sleep.

Gradually, the wind picked up. By 2:00 a.m., the drapes were doing a ghostly dance, swaying in and out, powered by the accelerating wind. The moans and howls brought Quentin back to consciousness. He listened to the wind, feeling as if it were summoning him. It was a moonless night, so Tracy was invisible to him. The only evidence of her presence was the sound of her regular breaths. He closed his eyes for a few minutes to allow sleep to overtake him again. When it didn't happen, he opened his eyes again, unperturbed. He was relishing the oddly familiar sensation of being in this house, his house. No, his mansion!

Suddenly a soft glow illuminated the phantom cloth swaying in the wind. It undulated, increasing and decreasing slightly in intensity. He frowned, more than a little curious. Slowly, so as not to wake Tracy, he got out of bed and made his way to the window. The light emanated from the tower. He was puzzled. It was too pervasive to be candlelight. Yet its dimness belied an electrical source. The light was adequate enough for him to make his way out of the room without stumbling yet not intense enough for him to perceive color.
The tower door was open, allowing the light to guide him up the stairs. Unbeknownst to Quentin, he was being observed. The tall, lithe, hawk-faced man gripped his club tightly. His eyes were narrow slits, blazing with hatred. He resisted the urge to follow Quentin up the tower stairs. Instead he stood, immobile, unsure about what he'd do when Quentin re-emerged from the tower.

Tracy lay alone, half awake. She reached out for Quentin and was mildly dismayed to discover that he was not there. Unwilling to get up to investigate, she chose to turn over and allow herself to fall back into sweet sleep.

Quentin was dimly aware that he was being kissed on the cheek. "Quentin." He rolled over, face down on the pillow, attempting to thwart any more displays of affection from Tracy. Undeterred, she resorted to shaking him gently. "Come on. Are you going to sleep away your first day here?" He rolled over, slightly shaken and confused. He blinked several times, momentarily confused and unsure of where he was. Tracy was a bit hurt by the fact that he did not greet her with his customary easy smile. It was almost as if he didn't recognize her. "Good morning!" She exhaled a small sigh of relief when this elicited a smile from him.

"Hi. Wake me in two hours. I'm beat." He yawned and started to turn over. Tracy stopped the maneuver with a kiss.

"Serves you right for wandering around last night without me," she chided gently.

"You imagined it."

Her eyes narrowed, trying to decide if he was being truthful. "We haven't been married that long. I know when you're not in my bed."

"Well, I was. I was dreaming strange dreams all night."

"I won't fight with you. Ever. Now get up." She turned on her heel and left. Quentin lay there for several long minutes vainly trying to remember his "dreams." They were on the periphery of his consciousness. Unlike most dreams, the indistinct images did not fade, and yet they remained there, frustratingly beyond his reach. Finally, he gave up and obediently arose to face the new day.