Spotlight & Giveaway: Mrs. Rochester’s Ghost by Lindsay Marcott

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Lindsay Marcott’s new release: Mrs. Rochester’s Ghost

In a modern and twisty retelling of Jane Eyre, a young woman must question everything she thinks she knows about love, loyalty, and murder.

Jane has lost everything: job, mother, relationship, even her home. A friend calls to offer an unusual deal—a cottage above the crashing surf of Big Sur on the estate of his employer, Evan Rochester. In return, Jane will tutor his teenage daughter. She accepts.

But nothing is quite as it seems at the Rochester estate. Though he’s been accused of murdering his glamorous and troubled wife, Evan Rochester insists she drowned herself. Jane is skeptical, but she still finds herself falling for the brilliant and secretive entrepreneur and growing close to his daughter.

And yet her deepening feelings for Evan can’t disguise dark suspicions aroused when a ghostly presence repeatedly appears in the night’s mist and fog. Jane embarks on an intense search for answers and uncovers evidence that soon puts Evan’s innocence into question. She’s determined to discover what really happened that fateful night, but what will the truth cost her?

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from Mrs. Rochester’s Ghost 

I pulled into the drive. The front door flew open, and Otis burst out, wearing a monkish brown robe and pajama pants.

I staggered, travel-buzzed, from the car. He caught me up in a bear hug. “Janie, I’m so glad to see you—you can’t even imagine!”

“Me too.” So glad that tears welled in my eyes. “You haven’t changed a bit!” He hadn’t: his face was still like the Raisin Bran sun logo, round with spiky pale hair and crockery-blue eyes behind gold glasses.

“Neither have you. Except you’re too skinny. This air will give you back your appetite. It’s very bracing.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” I pulled my summer-weight sweater closer around me. “What a gorgeous house!”

“Isn’t it? You know the architect Jasper Malloy?”

“Of course, great midcentury architect. He designed it?”

“Yeah, for himself, in 1962. And also died here twelve years later. There was a story it was haunted by him, so for a long time, nobody would touch it. It was a wreck when Evan bought it.” Otis flipped up the Nissan’s hatchback and swung out my suitcase.

“Is he here? Mr. Rochester?”

“Ev? Nah, away as usual. And Sophia’s asleep. At least I think so. It’s hard to tell—she keeps her music going twenty-four seven. But hey, you must be beat. Let me get you to your place.”

I grabbed my carry-on and followed as he rolled my bag to a descending set of wooden stairs. The ocean now boomed like it was inches under our feet. The steps were slick with moss. I clung to the railing. Any visions of luxury I’d had from the sight of the main house were dashed by the cabin at the bottom of the steps. Unpainted redwood surrounded by run-wild bushes. A peaked wooden roof. The remnants of a chimney.

He pushed the door open. A standing lamp illuminated one large room, simply furnished with rustic-looking pieces painted in faded primary colors. A bricked-over fireplace, the wall blackened around it. A very darkened gilt-framed mirror above it. A frayed braided rug over most of the planked floor. Opposite the fireplace, a pair of sliding glass doors slightly askew on their runners.

Otis ticked his spectacles higher on his nose. “So . . . there’s a kitchenette through the folding doors. I left some stuff for breakfast in the fridge. The connectivity is okay, not great, worse with the cell. If it goes out entirely and you really need it, you can go up to the house—it’s heavy-boosted up there. Oh, and you can drink the tap water, by the way. It’s from a well, and it’s delicious.”

I nodded, stifling a yawn.

“And you’ve got your own terrace. The view of the cove like I sent you.”

I glanced at the glass doors. “No curtains?”

“I could tack some up, if you want. But there’s nothing really out there.”

I went over and peered out into the blackness. I could hear but not see the pounding water. “So that’s where it happened? With Beatrice McAdams?”

“Where she drowned herself, yeah. Last December. Wearing a party dress. Crazy, huh?”

A cocktail dress and high heels. I remembered being captivated by that detail in the nonstop media coverage at the time.

Otis gave a little clap of his hands. “Hey, I’ll let you crash. That bed’s pretty comfy, I tested it out myself.” He bounced a little on the balls of his slipper-clad feet, that way he’d always done. “I’m so truly glad you’re here, Janie. You made the right decision. You’ll see.”

It didn’t seem like the right decision. I managed a smile. “I really have missed you, O.”

“Yeah, me too. Like crazy. And now we’ll have each other’s backs. Watching out for each other, just like we always did back when we worked at the Clown, right?”

“You bet.”

We hugged again, and he left. I listened to his footsteps receding outside. A lonely sound.

I pulled out my phone. Just one bar, which quickly sputtered out like an extinguished candle.

There was an old black desk phone squatting on top of a dresser. I picked up the receiver. It was dead.

Who would I call at this time of night anyway?

I carted my carry-on bag with my toiletries into the primitive bathroom. The tap went on with a put-upon groan, then released alternating gushes of freezing and scalding water. I scrubbed my face free of travel grime. Brushed my teeth.

Trudged wearily back to the main room and began to unpack. There was a midget closet with peeling flowered wallpaper and a musty, old-maiden-aunt smell. A small bureau with drawers that stuck. I pried open the top drawer. It was crammed with fashion magazines: Harper’s Bazaar, Marie Claire.

I opened one—a Vanity Fair from 2013—to a page marked with a turned-down corner. Full-page ad for Lancôme. The model was Beatrice McAdams at the height of her career. An exquisite silvery creature with hazy green eyes.

All the magazines in the drawer appeared to have folded-down corners. I flipped to a few more of the marked pages. Each featured photos of Beatrice in her heyday.

I tossed the magazines into a heap on the floor. Restocked the drawers with my undies, shorts, and tops.

I peeled off my travel-rumpled clothes. Pulled on a nightshirt. Filmy white linen newly bought for what I’d imagined would be balmy California nights. It floated sensuously to my knees.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the gilt mirror above the fireplace. A small pale girl in a thin white shift.

Not a beauty. Just pretty enough.

I leaned closer to the mirror’s speckled glass.

Something moved in the reflection behind me.

I gave a violent start.

A figure, hovering just outside the glass doors. Hazy, white. Incorporeal.

My heart began to pound. “Mom?” The word escaped my lips involuntarily.

Whoever, whatever, it was receded into the dark.

I stood paralyzed a moment. Then, with determination, I turned and strode to the doors. Cupped my face on the glass and peered out.

Moonlight flitted in scrappy patterns between the branches of a tree limb swaying in the breeze. I gave a quick laugh. Just like me to conjure my mother’s ghost out of a flutter of moonbeam.

I unbolted the door, jiggled it open on its uneven track, and stepped out into the brisk air.

The sea was a black expanse with white foamings of phosphorescence where the waves tossed. The faint outline of a cliff descended on the left, the silhouette of a cypress on its crest—like a mad woman with her hair blown sideways.

The surf now sounded like a war. Booming cannons. Clashing artillery.

And suddenly my skin prickled.

The kind of prickle that crawls up from the top of your spine and over your scalp when you’re absolutely sure you’re being watched.

I scuttered back inside. Heaved the glass door shut and locked the bolt. Then went to the front door. There was a keyhole, the skull-shaped kind for a large old-fashioned key.

I had no key. I felt a spurt of panic.

Stop it! I was spooking myself. My exhausted state. The disorienting effect of strange new surroundings.

I just needed to get some sleep.

I crawled into bed between fresh sheets and the plaid blanket. I thought again of that hazy shape in the mirror, and another fancy floated into my mind.

A mad woman in a cocktail dress.

Beatrice.

And then I drifted into unconsciousness.

Excerpt. ©Lindsay Marcott. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 
 

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Meet the Author:

Lindsay Marcott is the author of The Producer’s Daughter and six previous novels written as Lindsay Maracotta. Her books have been translated into eleven languages and adapted for cable. She also wrote for the Emmy-nominated HBO series The Hitchhiker and co-produced a number of films. She lives on the coast of California. You can contact the author on her website at https://www.lindsaymarcott.com/