The Uninvited. Heather Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ He pointed at it.

      “Who is that?” he asked in a whisper.

      “Oh, that’s the man they called ‘Beast’ Bradley,” she told him. “Brian Bradley. Remember? We talked about him.” She stared at the painting, too. Bradley was a young man in the portrait, with a narrow face, high cheekbones, and dark, brooding eyes. Allison had always thought that although the portrait was certainly flattering, the artist hadn’t liked the man. The cruelty for which he would one day be known seemed painted into the sharpness of his features and the look in his eyes. He was elegantly dressed, in the fashion of his day. And while he was a general in the king’s army, she’d seldom seen him depicted in uniform. She assumed that wearing anything that might be rank and file—even with elevating insignias—would have been, in his eyes, beneath him.

      Todd shivered, still pointing at the portrait.

      “And a ghost will follow you home!” he said, and his words weren’t light. He was truly unnerved.

      “He was a horrible man, but he’s long gone,” Allison said, surprised that the would-be “cool” preteen now seemed more like a scared schoolboy.

      “He isn’t gone,” Todd said. “He…he looked at me.”

      Despite herself, Allison felt a chill. She tried to tell herself the boy was trying to tease her, play off the situation and get her to slip an arm around him.

      But he wasn’t playing any games. He appeared really frightened.

      “It’s the way the portrait’s painted,” Allison assured him, but she found herself staring up at Bradley again. She never came into this room when she was alone, locking up and setting the alarms for the night. She always stood in the doorway, glanced in and moved on. While the house was equipped with a modern alarm system, they were supposed to make sure no visitors tried to stay on to defy the ghosts of the mansion.

      Legend had it that Beast Bradley had thrust his knife straight into the heart of Lucy Tarleton in the grand salon; he’d killed her there while her father had wept for her life and been forced to watch. To add to the cruelty of the act, he’d left Angus Tarleton alive to hold his dying daughter. According to history—in this case, the accounts that were handed down by the survivors—Brian Bradley hadn’t killed Lucy for her patriot escapades. He’d killed her because he’d discovered she was false to him, that she wasn’t in love with him at all.

      Before the arrival of the British, Lucy was about to become betrothed to another patriot, Stewart Douglas, who had fled the city with other American soldiers. It was a sad tale, one Allison would share in a few minutes when she’d gathered her people in the foyer again.

      “Todd, this is a creepy picture of a man who was apparently a monster, which had far more to do with him than with the fact that he was British. Horrendous incidents, beyond any code of warfare, have taken place during just about every conflict in history. But the British weren’t monsters, and neither were the colonists. Most of the evidence we have says that Bradley did behave abominably, and—”

      “How did he die?” Todd asked her.

      “Actually, no one knows, but it’s presumed that he was killed in the fighting soon after the British abandoned the city. Howe was furious with him for his brutal actions in Philadelphia. They argued before the Battle of Saratoga, and he disappeared from history,” Allison said. “A few letters that mention him have been preserved, and some suspect he might have been killed by his own men. Those letters suggest he was a brutal commander, as well. Way, way, way back, he was related to the Royal House of Hanover, and he seemed to think he was entitled to his behavior through the divine right of kings—even though he was certainly not a king and never going to be one.”

      “He’s still here,” Todd whispered. “He’s still here.”

      She did set an arm around his shoulders. Allison was about five-ten in her two-inch Colonial pumps, giving her a bit of height over him. “Todd, that was then, and this is now, and you need to see the rest of the house, learn about the history, and have fun with your family tonight. The historic tavern restaurants, where they serve in Colonial garb and entertain with flutes and old jokes, are really fun. You’ll enjoy that.”

      He shook his head, gazing at the painting as if drawn to it.

      She led him firmly from the study. “What happened to the house after the British left?” he asked.

      “Angus died a year after his daughter. She had a younger sister, Sophia, who married a fine American soldier, Tobias Dandridge, and they inherited the house. It’s now owned by a private corporation called Old Philly History, and there’s still a descendent on the board of governors. The house stayed in the family until 1930, when the owner formed this corporation. That’s why so many of the original family pieces have been preserved.”

      She’d managed to get Todd back into the foyer, and she smiled at him as she related the history of the house she’d just given him.

      “Now, the upstairs. We’ll go up together and I’ll wait in the hall while you look in all the rooms,” Allison said cheerfully. “The master bedroom is at the far end of the house, but the one everyone finds most interesting is Lucy’s room, on the right side of the staircase. She and her sister both had grand rooms with large dressing rooms. There’s a 1700s tub in Lucy’s room, which is authentic to the house.”

      She sent them off and waited, watching Todd. He ignored all the rooms except for Lucy’s.

      He came back to stand by her. “I saw her picture on the wall. Lucy’s picture. You look like her.”

      “I think a lot of women do when they’re dressed like her,” Allison said.

      Todd nodded solemnly. “Maybe. But you mostly.” He studied her for a moment and then whispered, “Someone else died in the study, right?”

      She shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, the family had gone on a ghost tour last night. Though the house itself was closed to these ghost tours, they all walked by it and embellished the tales that went along with it. Personally, she thought the truth was far more haunting than anything they could make up.

      “A lieutenant who fought in the War of 1812 came here when he was wounded, and he died soon after. Another soldier on the Union side in the Civil War also died in that room. And yes, one of the Dandridge girls died there in 1890—she took poison to commit suicide.”

      “And a few years ago, one of you was found dead in the room, right?” Todd asked her, wide-eyed.

      “I’m going to give all this information when the tour gathers again,” she told him.

      “Right?” he persisted. She felt acutely uncomfortable. Every old house had its history. Naturally some of it was sad and even distressing.

      “Angela Wilson did die in that room. She had a heart attack while locking up one night.”

      Todd regarded her solemnly. “She died sitting at Angus Tarleton’s desk, didn’t she?”

      “Yes, Todd, she did. She sat down—she must have been winded. Like I said, she died there of a heart attack.”

      “And somebody else died in the house, too,” Todd said. “A couple of years ago.”

      She inhaled a deep breath. “Yes,” she admitted. СКАЧАТЬ