Secrets of Rose Briar Hall, page 1
Outstanding praise for Kelsey James and The Woman in the Castello!
“Kelsey James had me at ‘a film shoot at an Italian castle in the 1960s.’ Like Jess Walter’s Beautiful Ruins, the glamour and heady indulgence of the era take center stage in this captivating, multilayered story that will keep you guessing to the end. Silvia and Gabriella are flawed, fascinating characters who will linger in your mind long after the book is closed.”
—Susan Wiggs, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“From the moment a stunning 1960s Italy kisses your hand and draws you into the opening pages of this novel, you’ll be riveted to The Woman in the Castello. Mysterious, stimulating, intoxicating . . . a dark, rich caffè corretto of a novel.”
—K. D. Alden, author of A Mother’s Promise
“The 1960s in Rome, a crumbling Italian castle on the edge of a volcanic lake, a glamorous aunt she’s never met, and a starring role in a horror movie that begins to feel a bit too real.... Kelsey James’s debut novel is a delicious Gothic filled with atmosphere, twists, romance, and dark secrets. Readers will devour it.”
—Megan Chance, bestselling author of A Splendid Ruin
“An impressive debut by a writer sure to become a favorite of readers. The Woman in the Castello is a tantalizing mixture of romance, mystery, and the Gothic enfolded in a well-crafted plot that pays homage to the long lineage of ghostly tales and romantic suspense.”
—V. S. Alexander, author of The War Girls
“Cinematic and spooky, The Woman in the Castello had me riveted from page one. There is something for everyone in this gripping historical novel that expertly blends a love story with family drama and a twist of suspense. Readers will be swept up in the glamorous—and sometimes grungy—1960s movie scene, and the magnificent setting is sure to inspire many a trip to Italy. A delight for the senses and a truly entertaining story!”
—Nicole Baart, bestselling author of Everything We Didn’t Say
Please turn the page for more extraordinary praise!
More praise for The Woman in the Castello!
“An impromptu movie set in a medieval castel in 1960s Italy provides a fascinating backdrop for this fresh Gothic tale filled with mystery, family secrets, and enexpected romance.”
—Lorena Hughes, author of The Spanish Daughter
“You’ll get lost in the pages of this lush, entertaining story as you follow aspiring actress Silvia Whitford through the dark towers and crumbling staircases of a remote Italian castle, where she uncovers twists and turns around every corner, including shocking family secrets you’ll never see coming.”
—Ellen Marie Wiseman, New York Times bestselling author
“The Woman in the Castello has it all—mystery, romance, and an enchanting cast of characters with a plucky heroine at its heart. Against the richly drawn backdrop of post-war Italy, in a castle brimming with secrets, Kelsey James explores the enduring and sometimes destructive power of love, family, and ambition. A page-turner from start to finish, The Woman in the Castello is a marvelous debut!”
—Amanda Skenandore, author of The Nurse’s Secret
“A young actress desperate for stardom agrees to film a horror movie in her aunt’s crumbling Italian castle. Then the aunt disappears. What secrets lurk in her past—and in the mysterious lake behind the castle? The Woman in the Castello is a thoroughly original blend of mystery, family drama, and sultry romance, all unfolding in the fast-paced world of a Swinging Sixties movie set. A riveting debut from author Kelsey James!”
—Elizabeth Blackwell, bestselling author of Red Mistress
Books by Kelsey James
THE WOMAN IN THE CASTELLO
SECRETS OF ROSE BRIAR HALL
Published by Kensington Publishing Crop.
SECRETS OF ROSE BRIAR HALL
KELSEY JAMES
John Scognamiglio Books
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Discussion Questions
JOHN SCOGNAMIGLIO BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
900 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2024 by Kelsey Blodget
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
The JS and John Scognamiglio Books logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4293-3
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4294-0 (ebook)
First Kensington Trade Paperback Edition: July 2024
For Steve, who makes everything better
CHAPTER 1
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 r
elief, 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.
