Silent Is the House. Barbara Hancock J.

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       Secrets beckon where ghosts walk.

      Angelica Peters has accepted an unexpected invitation to Allen House, the Long Island mansion she would’ve inherited but for a mysterious estrangement. Since her parents’ fatal accident, she’s casting about for a safe harbor, a connection, a family.

      Angelica is uneasy about finally meeting Victoria Allen, the maternal grandmother she’s been forbidden to see all her life. She hardly expects the warm reception she receives—from most of the household. But Owen Ward, who grew up at Allen House and has long been Victoria’s heir, is keeping his distance. Maybe he doesn’t trust Angelica’s motives…or maybe he doesn’t trust himself to be near her. Their attraction is elemental, excruciating, exquisite.

      But thoughts of passion in Owen’s arms become tangled with fear when a ghost haunts Angelica’s every move. Is the specter an echo of the past…or an omen of black deeds yet to come?

      Silent is the House

      Barbara J. Hancock

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Todd

      Table of Contents

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

      Come, the wind may never again

      Blow as now it blows for us;

      And the stars may never again shine as now they shine;

      Long before October returns,

      Seas of blood will have parted us;

      And you must crush the love in your heart, and I the love in mine!

      ~Emily Bronte

      Chapter One

      I pricked my finger on the stickpin. A fat, dark droplet of blood fell on the yellowed ivory vellum. It smudged one corner of the signature on the handwritten invitation. I could imagine an austere woman scratching those few wavering lines with an antique fountain pen. And now the n on her Victoria Allen was drowned in my blood.

      Drowned.

      The sharp pain in my finger was a sudden contrast to the numb I experienced everywhere else. My parents had died in a sailing accident off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard a month ago. I looked at the carnation and the bloody pin through its stem that had bitten me. Every year for twenty-one years, I’d received a pink carnation in October on my birthday. Even as a child, when I would have preferred a fashion doll, the flowers had fascinated me. I kept them all—gone dry to brittle petals in an antique jewelry box.

      And now, this year, something different arrived at the same time, an invitation to return to my mother’s childhood home.

      Allen House.

      A month too late for her to go with me. We’d never been close, but I ached over the injustice. The estrangement had never been discussed. It was like the wind or the sea—ever present. Unconsciously, I lifted my injured finger to my lips, but I wasn’t soothed, because just then my old jewelry box began to play. I jumped, startled, as a tiny ballerina that had been frozen in place for years jerked to life, seemingly spurred awake by the tinny notes of Brahms’s “Lullaby.”

      I suddenly remembered with perfect clarity the day my mother had broken it. The music box had been a gift from my grandmother, too, or so we assumed. Neither it nor the carnations had ever arrived with a card. That year, the box arrived with the carnation, but it hadn’t been new. The sides had already been worn from use. With the passionate obsession of a young seven-year-old girl, I’d played and played the tune. Winding and winding and winding the aged mechanism to see the miniature porcelain doll pirouette. I’d recently become a dancer myself, with weekly lessons and closets stuffed with sparkling tutus. I remembered imagining that my grandmother knew this…and cared.

      After what must have been the millionth turn of the little brass key my mother had snapped. She’d already pleaded a headache. I had selfishly continued to play the box. But I remember my shock when my normally quiet parent had stepped into my room to wrench the little ballerina in the opposite direction until a loud crack ended her dance forever.

      Or so I’d thought.

      I don’t know why my heart lurched painfully in my chest. I don’t know why I looked guiltily around my empty room as if the ballerina might offend my mother even weeks after her death. Maybe I looked for clues as to how the broken, unwound mechanism had suddenly found a second life?

      The day was gloomy and dark. The room was unlit save for a single dim lamp in the corner. I had been sleepless and plagued by nightmares for weeks. I blamed the pregnant silence of shadows in every corner for that aching lethargy.

      It was then that I noticed the dark smear of my blood on the ballerina’s crumpled gown. More than her sudden resurrection, more than the gloom, the blood on the tiny doll’s dress seemed a horror out of proportion to its reality. Her little body locked on pointe for eternity jerked as it moved. I shivered as the damaged mechanism persistently ground out the tortured tune, one laboring plink after another, until I couldn’t bear the tormented dance any longer.

      I put the fresh carnation in the music box with its twenty predecessors and quickly shut the lid…only to have my heart lurch again when the song continued for several more impossible notes.

      The broken music box had always haunted me. It had been a constant reminder of the potential for angry reaction that hid beneath my mother’s placid exterior. There was a raw edge beneath her surface that I grew to fear and was in constant dread of bringing forth through some careless action of my own. I had grown up learning a whole set of unspoken rules about what to do and what not to do. Even as an adult, even when my parents were away, I was as thoughtful as I could be. But now the music played again as if driven to it by some maddening unstoppable force. There was no one for its tune to anger now. The house was silent save for my own pounding heart.

      Finally, finally, the last metallic plinks ended and I was left alone with my throbbing finger and the bitter smell of dried carnations resurrecting the past.

      * * *

      The trip from our house in Bar Harbor, Maine, to Long Island wasn’t a long one, but I’d been tense the whole way. I was still a little breathless when the airport taxi drove me to Allen House. My trip had been uneventful but harried because I was unused to travel and especially to traveling alone. The long driveway, surprisingly pitted and overgrown by hanging trees, jarred my stiffly-held back. The cab driver cursed several branches that