She’d bought a house because she felt sorry for it. A house no one had lived in for thirty years, a house that had changed ownership eight times in those three decades. Why in god’s name did she think she’d have better luck? She’d made three major decisions in her life: her marriage, her escape, and this house, and didn’t this one have all the elements of that first, disastrous choice? It was foolish, impulsive, recklessly optimistic, emotional, all the things that had trapped her in violence and despair for a decade, and only two years after she’d left Alain she was doing it again—

She closed her eyes and focused on the feeling of the coach side under her hand. Smooth. Cold. A little damp, the morning frost melting under her fingers. The sound of the stones under feet, crunchy. Too quiet, indicating the drive needed fresh gravel. She already knew that—she had eyes, after all—but the reminder soothed her. Fresh gravel for the drive. That was an achievable goal. That was something she could do.

She’d have better luck because she couldn’t afford not to. Maybe the decision had been emotional, but the book idea was solid—she’d sold it to a publisher, after all. This wasn’t like her marriage. This was her, standing on her own. Betting on herself, just as she had when she’d run from Alain and weathered the resulting scandal. She’d survived that, and she was better off for it. This would be the same.

Besides, this time the damage was sitting in plain sight. If you knew where the rot was, you could simply step around it.

“Ma’am? You all right?” Her coachman—really just a boy—looked worried.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “There’s nowhere to stable the horses here. You’d better drive back to the house and collect me in a couple of hours.”

He looked doubtfully at the mansion, seeming to debate whether to speak again. “Ma’am,” he said again, his conscience apparently winning out over what must have been very brief training, “I don’t know if you’ve heard the stories, but everyone round here knows the place is haunted.”

It seemed everyone she met, round here or not, had heard those stories. She thought about the cold door and the way Liefdehuis always seemed just outside the sunshine. Of course, it was obvious now that the thick trees pressing up against the house were blocking the sun and creating the unwholesome atmosphere of damp—those trees would have to be cut down, immediately—but to a bunch of villagers inclined to superstition, a ghost would be a natural explanation. She mustered a smile. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Please return at…”—she paused to look at her watch—“half past eleven.”