Secrets of Rose Briar Hall

by Kelsey James

Genres: 20th Century Romance; Historical Thrillers; Gothic; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

In this Gilded Age gothic homage to “Gaslight” starring Ingrid Bergman, a wealthy young newlywed in early 20th century New York is isolated within her opulent, yet ominously empty mansion by a charismatic and controlling new husband who plots to undermine her sanity…

1908, Long Island: For Millie Turner, the young and beautiful wife of a powerful New York stockbroker, Rose Briar Hall—a gleaming edifice of white marble on the North Shore—is more than a home. Every lavish detail speaks of Charles Turner’s status and wealth, and its stylish interior is testament to Millie’s sophistication. All that’s left is to prove her worthiness to be his bride. What better way than to throw a grand party for New York’s social elite?
 
After painstaking planning, the night of the event arrives and all is perfection—until Millie wakes to a cold, eerily quiet house, and a gray cloud where her memory should be. Can it be true that she has been in and out of consciousness for weeks, ever since the party took a terrifying turn? Millie recalls nothing. But her friends have shunned her, and it soon becomes clear that if she can't find out what really happened that night, much more than her reputation will be at risk . . .
 
As the house that promised so much happiness begins to feel more like a prison, Millie wonders whether a woman alone, even a wealthy one, can ever be entirely safe. And if she succeeds in finding the truth, will it bring relief, or shake her marriage, and her life, to the core?

 

Release date: June 25, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

The striped bass flopped about helplessly in the boat, its belly flashing in the sun. I flinched as the fisherman sliced below its gills in a swift, sure motion and carved off bloody filets of flesh. On our dock, his partner spoke animatedly with the chef and gestured at his catches. In October, it was getting cold to be going out on the water, and our own yacht was tucked cozily in the boathouse, but the fishermen were still at it. What an awful fuss went into feeding us, and the kitchen would be in an absolute uproar right now in preparation for our big dinner tomorrow.

The sand and rock crunched under my feet as I walked down the beach, letting the wind whip my hair and the salt prickle my skin. I liked to come down here to clear my head, but it wasn’t working this morning. My mind was full of the party. I was determined it would be an event to remember.

Once, I would have laughed at myself for getting worked up over something so frivolous, but I knew how much it meant to Charles. Somehow we’d become the most talked-about couple in New York after our lavish wedding the year before, and now I had to prove that I was up to the task of being Mrs. Charles Turner; that my taste was sophisticated enough, my house grand enough, my pockets deep enough.

I gazed up the sloping lawn toward Rose Briar Hall, and it was something to behold, with its fresh white limestone façade and its commanding position overlooking the bay. The manor’s gabled roofs, balustraded parapets, series of window bays, and decorative friezes made it look like one of the great aristocratic houses of England, plucked up and transported to Long Island’s North Shore. We’d only just finished it, and I knew Charles would have preferred us to build in Tuxedo or Newport, but Long Island felt like virgin land society hadn’t conquered yet. Here we could set the trend instead of following it too late. I hoped he would come to see it that way.

I spent the rest of the day overseeing preparations, and later that night I struggled to fall asleep; unsurprising, given how nervous I was. I dreamed of a gale and watched in horror as our guests emerged from their snug cars and carriages into the freezing rain and howling wind. Inside, the lights buzzed strangely, and then the generator suddenly failed, casting us all in blackness. A glow emanated from Charles, beautiful and transfixing, while I grew invisible and weightless, drifting above the room like a ghost. Fear gripped me, and I knew there was some sort of danger brewing and that I had to warn my friends. But I couldn’t find my voice.

When I finally awoke, my nightgown was drenched in sweat, and my bedclothes were twisted into a great heap at the foot of the bed. I pressed the button in the wall to call for my maid, my heart thumping, and trembled as I poured myself a glass of water.

Outside, it was a gorgeous fall day. The sky was clear and blue, and the morning sunshine was so bright it hurt my eyes, after my restless sleep. The trees were a riot of reds and oranges and yellows, and the abundant maples carpeted the ground with gold. I should have breathed a sigh of relief, but I remained deeply unsettled. The dream felt like a bad omen.

Downstairs, I found Charles preparing to go out shooting. He looked marvelous in his tweed Norfolk jacket, his frame tall and lean and graceful, and he was pulsing with energy. That was Charles for you: always the well-groomed gentleman on the outside, but underneath there was a streak of wildness to him; he was a man who followed his impulses. I always felt so small standing beside him. I was especially petite, but it was more than that; I was often so overwhelmed by him that I felt dwarfed by his presence.

He took one look at me and rushed over to take my hands in his. “Millie, dear. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you all right?” His green eyes were soft.

I was still shaken, and I clung to him. “I had an awful nightmare, that’s all. I’m just so worried about this evening. I want it to be everything you’ve hoped for.”

He stroked my cheek, then my neck, and my skin tingled under his fingertips. “Don’t be a silly goose.”

I should have been excited. I’d planned every last detail of the event. Our menu that evening would include triplets of oysters, caviar, turtle soup, fresh fish, stuffed young turkey with cranberry sauce, leg of mutton, and prime rib. Every wood surface gleamed, thanks to the ministrations of a small army of maids, and it wasn’t hyperbole to say that the house positively sparkled: the chandeliers, the crystal glasses, the mirrors, the gleaming mullioned windows, which sunshine poured through. For some reason it brought to mind the fancy-dress ball at Sherry’s where I’d first met Charles, of the lights shining on the gilded walls and the twinkle of jewels. I’d dressed as the Greek goddess Persephone, and when Charles had shown up as Hades, it had seemed like fate.

“I’m going to wear the Bonaparte earrings tonight,” I told him, still a little breathless from his touch. He’d given me the precious ruby and diamond pair as an engagement present, and they’d once belonged to Napoleon’s wife, Joséphine, or at least so the dealer claimed. Charles had told me that together we’d be the envy of everyone in the city, and he’d kissed me, the type of kiss that was bold even for a newly engaged couple. I may have been inexperienced, but with him I’d understood what desire was.

We’d been married within a month.

“I hoped you would. They can be your good-luck charm,” he said, his mustache twitching as he smiled. “Not that you need it. You’ve outdone yourself. It’s going to be splendid.”

The compliment made me flush with pleasure. The house was good enough for us, his expression seemed to say: we who deserved the best of everything, who needed a house as glamorous and illustrious as we were.

He took a step back to assess me. “And you’re splendid, too. Evanson is going to be green with envy. All that money and somehow he ended up with a woman who looks just like Ajax.”

I couldn’t help laughing. Charles knew just how to lighten my mood. Ajax was Charles’s favorite horse growing up, and the ancient thoroughbred still moldered in our stables in the city. “Don’t be cruel.”

“How am I cruel? I adore Ajax. Do you suppose Mrs. Evanson is fond of apples?”

“There is to be apple tart among the desserts.”

“See? You think of everything. Nothing could possibly go wrong.”

He kissed me, a long kiss that made me wonder if he meant to delay his outing, never mind that we had guests in the house. It was the sort of reckless thing he might do. But he did let me go, reluctantly.

The dream lingered in my mind for the rest of the day. A few of our guests not fortunate enough to have a nearby estate were staying at our house for the weekend, and while the men were out shooting, it fell to me to entertain the women. Rebecca Wainwright was older and a terrible bore: straight-spined, proper, and a teetotaler. I liked Gertrude Underhill even less. She’d had her sights set on Charles before I did, and resented that he’d chosen me over her. She still flirted with him shamelessly, especially now that her own husband was engaged in a well-publicized affair with a Ziegfeld Follies dancer. There were rumors swirling that they might divorce. I hadn’t wanted to invite her at all, only Charles insisted, saying it would look petty if I didn’t.

At least my dear Arabella was there, too. Arabella was fiercely loyal, and faster than most of my friends—she cared less about decorum and was more fun than the rest of them put together. With her dark hair—almost black—and dark eyes, her arresting beauty made Gertrude look limp and pale in comparison. Gertrude was a listless, colorless little thing with blond hair and blond eyelashes, and a delicate disposition that meant she always had a head cold. I always thought her little illnesses were just an excuse for her to complain and to draw sympathy and attention toward herself.

“Look how much progress you have made on the house!” Gertrude declared, as we sat down for tea, and I was surprised at the compliment and prepared to be pleasant to her in return. “Why, it looks nearly complete. You’ll have to have us over again once you’ve finished decorating.”

I sucked in my breath. I was finished, of course. I’d taken special pride in the drawing room where we sat. Its palette of cream and gold was elegant and understated, and it was swathed in soft velvet, from the sofas to the flocked wallpaper, providing reprieve from the dark woods and imposing stone found elsewhere in the house. Overhead, a crystal and bronze chandelier glittered. The oil paintings I’d chosen provided a vibrant and moody contrast, and the stained-glass Tiffany windows—selected with the help of Louis Tiffany himself, whose estate was near our own—lent the space the reverence of a cathedral.

I made no reply, but Mrs. Wainwright had heard.

“Is the work still in progress, then?”

My lips thinned. There was no possible way to reply that wasn’t embarrassing.

Luckily, Arabella came to the rescue. “Well, of course Charles is such a great collector, he is always looking for new pieces to add.”

I exhaled and gave her a grateful look.

But Gertrude was determined. “Naturally, it takes years to really round out an art collection. A house doesn’t feel established until it has been in a family for at least a generation, I always say.”

She emphasized the word “established,” to remind me that my house—and my money—were new. It didn’t matter to her that I had spent months selecting the antique table clocks, French armchairs, Qing dynasty vases, and Flemish tapestries. I’d put so much care into everything, building this house from nothing, and in the space of a breath she’d tried to tear it all down. I seethed, my dislike for her growing sharper every moment, blossoming into hate.

I sipped my tea to avoid answering her. I listened to the dogs baying and the guns firing in the distance and watched the weather. I had difficulty concentrating on the conversation as the ladies moved on to other topics, and then I worried my mood might ruin the weekend even if the weather did not. I did my best to pull my attention back to them, to talk of dresses and gossip and decorating.

No storm materialized. That evening, everything looked magnificent: fires roared in the grand fireplaces—one nearly tall enough to stand in—and fresh flowers adorned the tables. Electric lights shined everywhere, and as our guests pulled up in the circular drive, I knew the house would be radiant against the night sky. Even the elaborate greenhouse on the West Lawn was lit up, and I could easily picture it, a jewel box in the dark.

Charles and I looked wonderful, too: grand enough for the house we’d built. I wore a new dress made by Madame Paquin in Paris, a delicate, flimsy, cream and pink evening gown of French silk that fell off of the shoulders, complementing my pale skin and dark hair. I had a small, full mouth, pert nose, and dark brown eyes, and at my debut, society had described me as a classic beauty. Charles once said I reminded him of the heroine in a romantic poem. But it was hard for anyone to stand out next to Charles. With his patrician features—straight nose, strong bones, almost feminine lips, and those striking green eyes—he was the kind of handsome that didn’t just turn heads, it dropped jaws.

I hadn’t been able to find my engagement earrings, which worried me, but I tried to push it out of my mind.

Everything should have been perfect.

And yet, as I sat in the drawing room in tense anticipation, I couldn’t shake a terrible sense of foreboding. I’d never believed in premonitions, but in some dark corner of my mind, I knew that something terrible was about to happen.

I blinked, and the room before me appeared blurry and distorted, as if I were still dreaming. Such strange nightmares I’d had, too. In most of them I’d found myself trapped—in a great underground cavern, in a train car speeding out of control, and worst of all underwater, choking on the briny waters of the Long Island Sound.

But I was awake now. My head ached, and my mouth was dry as a bone. I searched my nightstand for water and gulped it greedily. My stomach twisted with hunger. I stood up, and the room tilted; my legs shook beneath me. I steadied myself on the wall and crept over to my sitting area, hoping to find a breakfast tray.

There was none.

I collapsed on my silk chaise and looked around, my vision clearing. Patterns of roses decorated the wallpaper and the cream pillows, looking oddly forlorn this morning, and I wondered why. My spacious room was French in style, normally cheerful and bright, with its white decorative plasterwork on the ceiling and fireplace, gilded cream wood furniture, and pink drapery around the canopy bed and windows. Something about the room felt different.

The fire blazed fiercely in the grate, but even so, I shivered. The heat wasn’t on, I realized. We’d designed the house with every modern convenience—central heating, electricity—but the house was cold.

And dark. That was why the decor looked wrong. The lights were off, and the sunlight filtering through the windowpanes was weak.

Odder still, the windowpanes were covered in frost. I rose carefully, still feeling wobbly, and looked outside. Snow had dusted the estate in a layer of white. In the distance, the water of Oyster Bay was dark and choppy.

I frowned. Snow was unusual for October, and the weather had been perfect for the party yesterday.

Hadn’t it been?

I must have drunk too much at dinner, because I could hardly remember the night before. I’d never gotten sick from drinking in the past or lost bits of time from it, as some did, but I must have had more than I realized. It wasn’t like me to lose control like that, but I’d been so nervous. That must be why my head throbbed.

I found the knob for the lights on the wall and spun it, but nothing happened. I sighed in exasperation. There must be some sort of issue with the generator. We’d had dual fixtures installed in many of the rooms, at Charles’s insistence; he was a bit old-fashioned in some ways. So we had gas, too, and I turned the key in the sconce nearest me. It lit, thankfully, the little flame casting strange shadows.

The door behind me creaked open and I jumped. Charles strode in, looking as immaculate as ever. His trousers were perfectly pressed, his mustache neatly combed, and the sight of him still gave me a little swoop in my belly. He was pale, though. His smooth skin and strong-boned handsomeness made me think, not for the first time, of the marble statues of Greek gods in my father’s garden. He wore an overcoat in deference to the cold, but he wasn’t trembling, like me. He’d never minded chilly weather.

“Thank God you’re awake.” He gathered me in his arms, and his closeness warmed me for a moment. The wind snapped the branches of the birch trees outside the window.

“The generator isn’t working. The boiler, too, I think.”

“I know. There’s been a delay in the coal delivery.”

I furrowed my brow. Surely we hadn’t run out of coal since the party yesterday.

“How are you feeling?” His words were soft, and he peered curiously at me. I paused, confused by the question. Was it because he’d seen me drinking too much last night? But somehow I didn’t think that’s what he meant. I shuddered, but not only from the cold this time. The prolonged, eerie dreams, the snow outside, the empty crystal vases that were usually full of roses, his sudden paleness, when at the party he’d still had a slight tan from his days out hunting—all of it suggested that more time had passed than a single day.

A wave of anxiety overcame me. “What happened, Charles?” My voice was faint.

He sighed and seated himself in the wingback chair closest to the fire. I sank back down into the settee.

“You don’t remember?” He studied me with those striking green eyes, his forehead creased in concern.

“No.” I searched my memory, but the last thing I recalled was of the two of us in the drawing room waiting for our guests to arrive. I’d gone to the walnut burr sideboard and poured a glass of sherry, the crystal decanter reflecting in the silvery mirror behind it, and swallowed it in one trembling gulp.

After that, there was nothing.

“The doctor said this might happen. It’s not unusual after a shock.”

“The doctor?”

“Dr. Wendell. There was . . . an incident at the party, Millie, a very upsetting incident, and you had a bit of a fit. You’ve been terribly unwell. You fainted, and you’ve been in and out of consciousness. I’ve been so worried.”

My heart stuttered in my chest. “For how long?” Ice coursed down my spine. And hazy images came to me then, of my maid Briggs spooning soup into my mouth, helping me to the bathroom. I did feel unwell.

“Three weeks.”

I inhaled sharply and squeezed my hands together in my lap.

“My God, Charles. Am I going to be all right?” My voice caught. I was terrified. How could I have been unconscious for three weeks? The party had been late October. That meant it was November, nearly Thanksgiving. My heart pounded and my mouth went dry again. I was still so thirsty. I gulped my water, and my stomach churned uneasily. He nodded.

“Dr. Wendell is optimistic. You were hysterical before the—well. He thinks it was your nerves, and perhaps a sleep disorder of some kind. I told him about the nightmares.”

This reassured me only a little. I’d never heard of a nervous fit causing someone to lose consciousness for such a length of time. I did often have vivid dreams, and I’d told Charles about some of them, but I didn’t understand what they might have to do with my condition. I trembled. I wished my thoughts were clearer, but I was still so tired.

“But I’m going to get better?”

“Yes, there’s every reason to expect it. I’ll have Dr. Wendell come soon, now that you’re awake. He can explain it all better than I can.” He smiled reassuringly. Of course Charles would be here watching over me, waiting for me to awake. He was so good, so loving. He was one of the most renowned stockbrokers in the city and he’d been so busy with work lately, so his presence here when he was surely needed in the office meant a great deal.

“Why did I have a fit? What happened?”

“Dr. Wendell insisted I shouldn’t upset you when you first awoke. I will tell you everything, Millie, but first you must get well.” He took my hands in his, and the affectionate gesture soothed me.

“Surely you can give me some idea. Please.”

Charles shook his head sympathetically. “I know this must be so difficult. Confusing. But your health must be our first concern right now.”

“But—”

He put a finger to my lips, stopping my words. “Patience. Patience, darling. All in due time.”

I wanted to keep arguing, but I didn’t have the strength. And Charles could be so persuasive when he wanted to be. When he pitched prospective clients, it was almost hypnotizing. He sounded so sure, and I wanted to recover.

Just then Briggs sauntered in at her usual snail’s pace and set a tray down with a slight smirk. Briggs had never warmed to me—she was all officiousness and pinched lips—but she had served Charles before he met me and he wouldn’t dream of parting with her. She stared at me with her watery blue eyes and placed her hands on her wide hips. “Will that be all, ma’am?”

“I’ll be requiring a bath soon, if you could draw one.”

“Water will be cold, ma’am.”

I blanched. It hadn’t occurred to me that without the boiler working even the water would be freezing. “Charles, we truly don’t have any coal left?”

He flicked an invisible piece of lint off his trouser leg and stood. His expression was tender and concerned. “Cold baths are therapeutic, I’ve heard,” he said gently. “It might be good for you.”

“For patients in asylums, you mean. What are you saying?” Something truly shocking must have happened at the party, but I couldn’t begin to guess what. I wondered if any of our other guests had been as upset by it as I had. I wished he would explain.

“It will be bracing, after being asleep so long. It might help restore you to your usual self.” He smiled. Charles usually doted on me, too much sometimes, calling me his delicate little blossom and buying me extravagant presents without an occasion. My friends always commented how lucky I was, what a catch Charles was, and I’d always tried hard to be the type of wife who deserved him. Normally he would have presented me with a new bath fragrance from Paris, perhaps even bathed me himself. Waking up from my illness to find a cold house, a cold bath—it was all so strange. It scared me.

“If you truly think it will help.”

“I do. This is all only temporary, Millie. And once you’re feeling up to it, we can pay your parents a visit if you’d like. They’ve been worried.”

I didn’t feel physically ready to see my parents just yet, but I did long to see them. My mother, surely, would know what had happened at my party that upset me so much, and she wasn’t the type who was capable of keeping secrets.

“All right. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

Charles smiled at me, and in an instant his face was transformed. He was dazzling.

“You’re being so brave, my darling.” He chucked my chin and strode out of the room. An ember flew out of the fireplace, past the decorative fan-shaped grate, and sat glowing on the rug. It died out quickly, leaving an ugly black smear.

“Let’s have your bath,” Briggs said, and I didn’t think I was imagining the mean edge to her tone. I did want to bathe, so I acquiesced. Her hands when she helped me into the tub were too firm, and her fingers left red stripes on my skin. The water shocked me to my core. “Leave,” I demanded. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me suffer.

“Mr. Turner says I’m to stay, since you are still so weak, ma’am.” She patted her gray-blond hair, tied neatly into a bun. I would have scowled at her, but my teeth were chattering too hard.

Briggs dumped water on my hair without warning and I shrieked. “Let’s get you cleaned up nice,” she said, and began lathering. I was too feeble to resist. Briggs had never taken this sort of liberty with me before, and her impertinence chilled me almost as much as the bath.

I remembered the nightmare, the one where I’d been drowning, and wondered if this was how it began. I could barely move now, and for a horrifying moment I thought I’d sink under the surface.

My old life seemed to be slipping away from me.

Just like my memory.

After my bath, my veins were still filled with ice. Even the next day, I couldn’t shake my chill. I still felt woozy and a bit nauseated when Dr. Wendell arrived early in the morning.

The doctor sat at my bedside and studied me through gold-rimmed pince-nez glasses perched on the bump in his nose. He was gray haired but not old, forty perhaps. He was very well-dressed for a country doctor, and a gold watch flashed at his waist. He felt my pulse, looked into my eyes, and sat back, apparently satisfied. Charles sat near him, and both of them looked too large for the upholstered King Louis chairs.

“You’ve made excellent progress. I don’t see why you can’t travel.”

“But it’s nothing permanent? I’ll be back to . . . how I was?” I worried perhaps the diagnosis was more serious than they were letting on. I’d heard of such things happening, women with terminal illnesses being lied to so that their final days would be less stressful. Dr. Wendell considered the question and nodded slowly. H. . .