Page 7 of Three Days to Be Ruined
Griffin grunted. “Don’t bother. We’re coming.”
“Mr. Sandeman, I present the Quinta do Sussurro. If I may say, it’s a mansion that rivals any estate in Europe. Italianate in design, yet softened by local stonework.” Shaw made a sweeping gesture.
Boyd paused outside the courtyard, his eyes trailing over the manicured bushes, lavender tufts, and the impressive facade adorned with arched windows and marble statues. The house lorded over the Douro River as if it owned it—the kind of house he’d once dreamed of possessing. Now it was his. For a moment, he hesitated, almost afraid of dirtying the pristine white Portuguese stones lining the path.
He had to admit, the architect had done a superb job. The sun was setting beyond the hills, painting the vineyards in gold and red. His chest swelled with the sweet scent of the river and a sense of pride he rarely let himself feel.
He doubted Miss Elisabeth Arabella Croft would find fault with it. Her brilliant green eyes would no doubt widen at the display of his wealth. The house was grand enough to impress even her shriveled mother, with all her notions of grandeur. And the local dignitaries? They would flock to his door like dogs sniffing for scraps around a trestle table.
For once, no one could call him uncouth or unrefined.
This was it. The summit of all he had fought for. No more freezing winds off the loch. No more ragged shoes trudging through dirt roads.
He closed his eyes, but the memory clung to him like the dampness that had seeped through the walls of their stone cottage. The howling wind, the barren land refusing to yield. The blight had taken what little they had, and the rest had been fenced off, leaving his family with nothing but stones. He could still see their pale, hollow faces as they boarded the ship to America, leaving him behind.
Boyd opened his eyes and squared his shoulders, imprinting his vision with the luxury before him. He wasn’t in Scotland anymore. That life was buried.
“Note the proportions, Mr. Sandeman,” Shaw continued. “A broad central building, with symmetrical wings extending on either side, crowned by corner towers high enough to catch the river breeze and command views of the valley. The entrance—grand yet restrained—features Doric columns.”
“You’ve put thought into this, Mr. Shaw. I’ll give you that.” Boyd adjusted his collar, his tone even. “Well then, show me this mountain of marble that cost me more than a king’s palace.”
The architect dithered, but led him inside.
“Notice how the skylight floods the grand hall with light, casting a golden glow on the arches. Pure Italianate design—a marvel of symmetry and grace.”
Boyd stepped into the grand hall, waiting for satisfaction to settle over him. The echoes of their footsteps faded, leaving only silence. No crackling fire. No hum of bustling servants. Not even the creak of wood settling. Just... emptiness.
The silence seemed carved from the same marble—cold, slick, and unyielding. It left a raw bite in the air, a snowless winter, grinding between the teeth like the sound of distant shivers.
Boyd clenched his jaw, his chest tightening. Boyd was suddenly fourteen, back in Glasgow, in January. Nights awaiting to stow away on a ship, when the streets lay dead and everything, everything—rats, insects, even the shadows—slept, paralyzed by the cold. Only he remained, his body shaking, his fingers numb inside his coat pockets, the last soul awake.
He shifted his stance, the soles of his boots echoing across the room. The sound was swallowed immediately by the void. His gaze drifted to the polished walls, the untouched furnishings, and the vaulted ceiling above. The house felt like a stage—built for admiration, not for living.
“Not a stitch of wood to warm the place,” Boyd muttered, his arms crossed.
“Ah, yes, the marble. Quite the contrast to, shall we say, more rustic materials. Perhaps the second floor will be more to your liking.”
They ascended the grand staircase, Shaw leading with a practiced air of pride, Boyd trailing with an increasingly sour expression.
“Here is the master bedchamber. Positioned to capture the morning light, as requested.”
Boyd stood in the center of the room, his hands behind his back, inspecting the high ceilings, the chandelier, and theintricate moldings. It was the epitome of modern luxury, just as promised.
Shaw gestured toward the far wall. “And—behold—the marble pool. Heated, an extraordinary feature. The tiles are a nod to Portuguese design.”
Boyd’s mind conjured an image of Beth’s gleaming white skin as she luxuriated in the bath. What sounds would she make while the water lapped at her breasts? But alas, he would not see her in there. Not unless he wanted to put that noose around his neck. Still, the room felt more suited to her than to him.
“Marble again,” Boyd said. “Thought this was supposed to be a place to live, not a blasted museum.”
Shaw clasped his hands, his expression unruffled. “A masterpiece is sometimes... an acquired appreciation. Perhaps the landscape will be more to your liking.”
The architect led him onto the veranda, where terraces blended the natural beauty of the Douro with cultivated gardens. Native plants flowed into the vineyards, seamlessly merging art and nature.
Shaw pointed toward the riverbank. “The property’s crowning piece—a fountain from Dunkeld, Scotland. We restored it.”
Boyd’s gaze fell on the marble bears frozen mid-hunt in the circular pond. In Lochaber, bears had been everywhere: carved into stone, etched into wood, painted on doorways. Guardians. Threats. Allies. Symbols of a land that gave nothing freely.
“The bears symbolize your roots, your heritage.”
