A row of elms shielded the estate from the road, and the lawn rolled to the edge of the cliff, where a house rose out of the fog like a great white clipper. A hundred feet below, the ocean crashed against the granite coast. The house was called Searidge. Horace Taylor Pratt’s grandson had built it as a summer house in 1843, and Pratt descendants had been living there ever since. Fallon drove slowly across the grounds. He wanted to absorb everything about the house before he drew too close and it overwhelmed him. Searidge stood three stories high, and a fresh coat of white paint made it seem even larger. Pilasters outlined the building in Neoclassical grace. Porticoes, pillars, and circular dormers effected a combination of majesty and simplicity that was a New England ideal. Searidge had grown over the years. Two new wings, a solarium, and a tennis court had been added. But the house still seemed alive to the past. At the front step, two brass hitching posts awaited the master’s carriage.
