Bran New Death(7)
“And I’ve solved that little problem for you,” he said, rocking back on his heels, then onto his toes.
“When can the hole filler start?”
“Later this morning.”
“That’ll work temporarily, at least, until the next infestation of giant gophers. If this Binny person is behind it, I’ll need to figure out how to stop her. Me staying here might help.” I took a deep breath. “Now I’d like to go inside.”
He nodded and straightened his shoulders. “Okay. I’m ready if you are.”
I tried to judge if that was a “I’m ready for you to shriek and fall into a dead faint” look, or a, “It’s not as bad as it looks from the outside” kind of expression. Nothing to do but enter. We ascended to a flagged terrace, which ran the length of the building, seventy or eighty feet by my rough estimate. McGill (he just didn’t seem like a “Jack” to me, and I already thought of him just as “McGill”) had a big key, which he rattled in the lock, finally unlatching it. He pushed, and the oak, Gothic-arched double doors swung open, the resounding creak like a Foley guy’s version of a haunted castle sound.
“It’s kinda damp and cold, but it’s been modernized, thanks to your uncle Melvyn,” McGill said as I slipped past him. “We’ll have to get the boiler serviced before firing it up. I can get the guy out today to check it for you. It gets kinda cold here at night, even in September.”
He nattered on, his voice echoing as we entered, and the door shutting with a thud that reverberated through the whole castle, but I didn’t hear anything else as I gaped at the place. The great hall was enormous, with ceilings twenty or thirty feet high—I’m a poor judge of those things—and stone walls covered by tapestries that did little to hush the sound of my high heels on the flagstone flooring. I was faced by a grand, two-directional staircase that split, climbing to galleries that overlooked the great hall on both sides. As I slowly turned, I saw that the double doors were topped by a huge, diamond-paned Gothic window. If it had not been covered in dirt and ivy, it would have flooded the hall with light.
I was taken back nine years to my wedding to Miguel, held at a lovely small “castle” much like this, only in Connecticut. I had descended stairs like those to the strains of “Clair de Lune,” and down the aisle to Miguel, where he stood, handsome and dark, before the reverend. As the pianist lingered gently over the last notes, we joined hands.
Tears filled my eyes, and I was lost in time. Two years later, the same music played as his friends carried his casket from the church, and the mingled joy and sadness I feel when I hear it takes me back to that lovely, perfect wedding, and the hauntingly sad finale of our marriage. So much joy for two short years. I hugged myself, willing the tears to dry. Had this place ever held such beauty? Would anyone ever fondly say “Oh yes, the Wynter Castle! We had our wedding there.”
It was possible. Chairs could be set up on either side of the stairway to form an aisle, and the officiant could stand with the beautiful, old, oak double-doors as a backdrop, under an archway of orange blossoms. Or . . . oh! A winter wedding, with a roaring fire in the fireplace that was along one wall, the enormous oak mantel decked in white orchids and crystal candlesticks, and the chairs facing it, instead of the doors. When I came out of my reverie, I had my hands clasped to my bosom, and was staring in rapt joy upward, where I saw, for the first time, the rose window above the winding staircase, as one beam of light blazed scarlet through it.
“You see it, don’t you?” McGill said gently. “You see what this place could be.”
I cleared my throat and asked, “How many rooms are there?”
“Well, the main floor here has the kitchen in the back, a dining room, parlor, a library—it’s in the turret room—along the east side and a long ballroom along the west, with a breakfast room in the other turret room. Upstairs, there are twelve bedchambers, two with attached sitting rooms, and three more rooms that could be converted into bedrooms, including two neat ones in the turret rooms above the breakfast room and library. There are also two big rooms with a bathroom between them. Melvyn had new bathrooms put in the two suites, but that’s as far as he got.”
“So that’s . . . how many?” I did a quick calculation. “Seventeen bedrooms in all?”
“I guess so. Lots of small country inns have less.”
I didn’t answer his suggestion; I had already thought it would make a lovely country inn, but it would need a lot of work, and it was more than I would or could do myself. “You knew my uncle, right?”