Page 10

That evening, in the brief interlude between dinner and Harriet’s and Melva’s departure, I return to my aunt’s studio. The painting of Weston remains there, uncovered, his eyes boring into mine from across the small space. I approach cautiously, wary of any sound or movement, yet intrigued by the image all the same. I reach out, gingerly touching the surface with my fingertips. There’s no movement, and no feeling of vertigo overwhelms me. It’s only an arresting image, rendered in two dimensions.

“What are you doing?”

I snatch my hand back, turning at the sound of Marguerite’s voice. She stands in the doorway, her arms crossed, her mouth set in a hard line. “You shouldn’t be in here alone.”

“I’m sorry. The door was unlocked. I was just enjoying your work.”

Marguerite stalks past me and snatches the painting off its easel with surprising strength. “You aren’t to look at this one anymore. I’ll have Beckett get rid of it. He can burn it with the lawn cuttings.”

“No!” I shout. The sound bounces off the walls. Marguerite flinches. My adamance surprises even me. I lower my voice. “Please ... please don’t do that. It would be a shame. It’s such a unique piece.”

“You mean amateur and childish. It was my first portrait.”

“Then it’s ever more special for that reason.” I ease toward Marguerite, my eyes on the painting. She can’t destroy it. I won’t let her. It compels me—intrigues me—not only because of its handsome subject, but because of the uncanny sensations I experienced while looking at it. Was the scene from the past in Kansas City a dream? Or did this painting transport me there? Either way, I mean to find out. I won’t be able to if she destroys it. I gently pry the canvas from Marguerite’s grasp, my heart beating wildly. I set it back on the easel and cover it with the discarded dustcloth. “There. I’ve covered it. I won’t look at it again,” I lie. “Now, let’s go back downstairs. Would you like some chamomile tea before bed?”

Marguerite sighs, shakes her head. “You talk to me like I’m a child. I’m only trying to protect you, Sadie. There’s so much you don’t understand.” The sudden clarity in her words takes me aback. In the past few days, there have been times when Marguerite’s mind is just as solid and lucid as my own. Times when I see a knowing behind her eyes that doesn’t square with her delusions and confusion.

“Well, I’m not a child, either, am I?” I tug on her arm, coaxing her into the hall. “Now, shall we go downstairs and have some tea? I’ve been thinking. We should get a radio.” One of the only things I miss about Mrs. Dunlop’s boardinghouse is the radio in the lounge. I loved gathering with the other tenants on Sunday evenings to listen to news and music on WDAF.

“A radio?”

“Yes. That way we can keep abreast of the news. And listen to music and stories, too. Good ones.”

I lead Marguerite down the stairs, pausing so she can catch her breath on the landing. “Georgia Merritt has a radio,” she says. “A big one, in a cabinet in her parlor. She’s a bit snooty, that one. She reminds me a little of Florence.”

“Is Georgia your neighbor?”

“Yes. Two houses over. The blue steamboat gothic.” Marguerite tosses me a sly smile. “She comes over sometimes, to play mah-jongg and bridge. You’ll meet her. She doesn’t like me, but she pretends to.”

I sigh, thinking of Rosalie, my sister-in-law. “Yes. There are lots of women like that, I’m afraid.”

We make our way to the parlor. As Marguerite arranges herself on the sofa, I wind the Victrola and choose a recording of French standards. I go to the kitchen and ask Melva to put on the kettle before she leaves, then rejoin my aunt, who has her head tilted back, eyes closed, as the music winds through the room.

“This music reminds me of Christine,” she says wistfully. “There was a club we’d go to, in the early aughts, where it was safe for us to be ourselves. France was more accepting of our sort, all the way around, but it was a comfort to be around others like us at the club. Made our world seem a little smaller in the best sort of way. We’d drink absinthe and dance all night.”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“It was. We had some good times together. I came home in 1912—you and your mother visited me here that summer.”

“I remember. You let me have all the warm cocoa I wanted.”

“Yes.” Marguerite smiles sadly. “Christine died the next year. Cancer. It started with a tiny mole on her shoulder. I used to kiss that mole, not knowing it would one day bring her death.”

I’m not sure what to say, and I’m grateful when Melva brings our tea. She hurries out the door a few minutes later, pocketbook latched over her arm, mumbling something about airing out the linens tomorrow. After she leaves, Marguerite pushes the tea to the side. “I’m not in the mood for tea, after all, dear. I need cheering. How about something stronger? There’s a bottle of Calvados in the cupboard under the stairs.”

“Auntie! I’m shocked.”

“You shouldn’t be surprised by anything I do at this point. Now, go get that brandy.”

I find the bottle shoved behind a row of dusty preserves, their contents somewhat suspect, and bring it out, wiping it clean with my handkerchief. It’s old—from 1908—but when I remove the stopper, the unmistakable scent of good, aged brandy floods my nostrils. I find two snifters in the dining room hutch and bring everything back to the parlor.

Marguerite lights up at the sight. “I haven’t had a proper drink in years.”

“Things might get a little wild, then.”

She arches her brow. “They might indeed.”

I pour the brandy, and Marguerite wastes no time in taking her first sip, her eyes shuttering in pleasure. “There’s no better brandy than Calvados. I’ve tried every sort. Hennessy makes the best cognac, though.”

“My da would’ve agreed,” I say, clinking my glass to Marguerite’s. “He loved his Hennessy.”

“I always liked your father.”

“You seem to remember him so well.”

“Well, he was unforgettable. That mop of black hair. Those blue eyes. He took up all the air in the room. Florence didn’t like him. She wanted Laura to marry up. But I saw how he treated her. He was quite the charmer, but he was genuine. Determined to make something of himself.”

“And he did.”

“Yes, only to throw all of it away. What a shame.” She sighs, shakes her head. “I don’t know how Laura survived all that.”

I finish my brandy to soothe the sudden pinch at the back of my throat, and quickly pour another two fingers into my glass. “She was strong because she had to be. For me and my brothers. But it took its toll.” Since Mama’s passing, I’ve often wondered whether Da’s and Henry’s deaths left an indelible mark on her heart, her grief weakening its rhythm.

“Why do you think he did it?”

“I’ve asked myself the same question, many times. He didn’t leave a note. None of us knew why. We had a small loss of fortune after the crash, but Da recovered. There were rumors he’d had some dealings with the Irish mob in Kansas City, but we never saw any evidence of that.”

“Sometimes, it’s better not knowing the reasons why terrible things happen. It hardly changes the outcome.”

If Da had known what the outcome would be—how his death would shatter me—he wouldn’t have done it. I’m sure of it. The summer I spent at Elm Ridge, with its ice-cold baths and bitter tonics, was meant to shock my depressive nerves back into order, but it did little to allay my grief. Da’s death was still an open wound. One that would never heal over completely. “Why don’t we ride with Beckett into town sometime,” I say brightly, hoping to turn the subject. Our conversation is hardly helping Marguerite’s maudlin mood, or mine. “Melva mentioned she was going to send him for groceries later this week. I’d love to take a stroll downtown. Reacquaint myself. Maybe we could have a look at the general store. See if there’s a radio you’d like.”

“All right. I haven’t been to town in months.”

The record runs out, and I go to the Victrola cabinet and select a cheerful ragtime album to lighten the air. The brandy is just beginning to take effect, my limbs loosening as a slight buzz runs through my head. I want to keep the good feeling going, so I fill my glass again.

It isn’t long before Marguerite’s spirits lift, and we’re soon laughing and tapping our toes to the beat of the music. She stands and dances around the room, twirling with surprising grace. “Do you dance, Sadie?”

“Oh, a little,” I say. “Not well.”

“Come on, then. Let’s foxtrot.”

I stand and shake out my skirts. “Shall I be the gent, or shall you?”

“Oh, my darling, I always take the lead.”

Marguerite guides me into the dance, and we giggle as my clumsy feet tangle with hers. I’m at least a head taller than she is, so we make an off pair. “Didn’t Laura send you to cotillion?” she asks.

“Yes, but I’m a hopeless case, as you can see.”

“You really are, dear.” Marguerite sends me into a turn, then draws me back in, her eyes bright and merry. “You’re as boneless as a willow switch. Stiffen up, just a bit, and you’ll be a better partner. The gents like it when you push back on their lead, just a little.”

“I’ve a feeling my dancing days are over with anyone but you.”

“Nonsense. Surely you have suitors.”

“I did. But things didn’t work out well for me.”

“What happened?”

“I was with someone who never really belonged to me. It was good when it was good and it was very bad, all at the same time.”

“Oh. I see.” Marguerite nods sagely. “I’ve had my share of heartache, too, my dear. Regrets. Hugh and I were star-crossed from the start.”

This is the second time she’s mentioned Hugh. “Who was he?”

“My very first love.”

I go to the sofa and sit, propping my hands beneath my chin. “Tell me about him.”

Marguerite sits next to me, picking up her brandy. “Hugh was our groom’s son. My best friend and, as we got older, more. It was no surprise we fell in love. My parents didn’t know about us. Only Florence knew.” Her eyes narrow. “I trusted her with all my secrets in those days. That was a mistake. But you should be able to trust your own sister.”

The agitation in Marguerite’s voice rises with every word. She downs the rest of her brandy and pours more into her glass, filling it almost to the rim, her wrist shaking. The bottle is nearing empty now. When she offers it to me, I set it on the floor by my feet and put the stopper in. The night has taken an abrupt turn—tension crackles in the room, replacing our merriment. We’re on the edge of something dangerous. One of us needs to sober up.

Marguerite rises and begins pacing, muttering to herself, her lace tea gown trailing the floor. She pauses in front of the portrait of my grandmother on her wedding day. “She looks the perfect angel here, doesn’t she?” Her words are scornful. Bitter. “Florence was always Papa’s favorite. She could do no wrong in his eyes. But I knew better. I knew her . I saw everything she did.”

I perch on the edge of my seat, ears pricking. “Do you mean you saw her with Weston?”

Marguerite whirls, her eyes sparking with anger. “How did you know about that?”

“I ... I don’t know. Not for certain. Just a lucky guess, I suppose.”

“She asked me to keep her secrets. And I did. Then she turned on me. Turned on Claire.” Marguerite sets the brandy snifter on the mantel, and liquor sloshes over the side, onto the crocheted runner. “Bitch.”

I flinch at the word. “Aunt Marg ... perhaps we should go to bed.” I approach her carefully, keenly aware of the strength in her arms when she led me through our dance. How easily she lifted Weston’s painting from the easel, even in its heavy frame. I’ve learned how quickly her moods can change. Her good cheer has gone, in an instant, and her sanity now perches on a needle-thin ledge.

She reaches for her snifter, and I gently pry it from her hand, pouring the liquor into the empty grate. “I think you’ve had enough, don’t you?”

“What a waste of good brandy,” she says with a haughty sniff. “I should fire you for that.”

“You can’t fire me, remember? I’m family.”

“ Family. What has my family ever done for me?”

“Let’s go to bed. All of this will seem better in the morning.” I wrap my arm around her waist, trying to lead her to the stairs. She pushes me away, making for the dining room. I rush after her, my mind wheeling with dire scenarios. We’re alone. Anything could happen. I briefly consider leaving her to fetch Beckett, who seems to have a calming effect on her nerves, but I need to learn to handle her on my own. My legs are weak, my head fuzzy. I shouldn’t have been drinking.

Marguerite begins riffling through one of the drawers in the hutch, where the silver is stored. Before I can reach her, she brandishes a carving knife at me, its tip curved and cruelly forked. I flinch, taking a step backward. “Get away from me,” she growls, her eyes lit with a feral madness. “What are you doing in my house?”

My palms begin to sweat as she advances on me, my mouth dry. I think about screaming for help, but who would hear me? Beckett is at least a quarter mile up the hill, in his cottage above the grotto. The next house is even farther. I pull in a shaky breath to steady my voice. “I’m Sadie. Just Sadie. Your great-niece.”

I take another few steps backward, crossing the threshold into the parlor. I’m tempted to turn and run up the stairs, where I might hide until she sobers up and this mood passes. But I’m frightened about what could happen if I do—of Marguerite harming herself. I can’t take that chance.

“Aunt Marg, put down the knife. No one is going to hurt you. Please.”

Tears spill over onto her cheeks, but her eyes are all fire as she glares at me. “Whoever you are, you shouldn’t have come here.”

It’s the second time someone in this household has told me that, and right now I feel very foolish for coming here, indeed. Harriet warned me of Marguerite’s violent outbursts, but the suddenness has me unmoored. If I survive the night, I’ll be packing up every knife and bottle of liquor I find in this house and secreting them well out of her reach. I was foolish to let my guard down.

Marguerite stands her ground, hand clenched around the knife handle. “Leave,” she says menacingly, taking a step closer. I mirror her in reverse, feeling my way toward the stairs. “You need to leave.”

“If you give me the knife, I’ll leave. I promise.”

She stalks closer, sniffling, her eyes meeting mine. Suddenly, I feel a shift. Marguerite gasps, looking at me, then at her hand. She drops the knife, and it goes clattering to the floor. I step forward quickly, snatching it up and hiding it behind my back. She just stands there, stunned, as if she’s woken from a dream. As if she’s been sleepwalking.

“I’m so sorry,” Marguerite sobs, hugging herself. “I’m so sorry.”

I cautiously approach, my knees trembling. “It’s all right. You weren’t yourself, just then.”

“No. No.” She shakes her head. “But I’m getting like this, more and more.”

I edge closer, drawing her in. She clings to me, and I hold the knife well away, arm extended behind me.

“I’m so frightened,” she sobs, wetting my shoulder with her tears.

“Shhh, it’s all right. Everything will be just fine, come morning. Now, let’s go up to bed.”

I lead her upstairs and tuck her in, turning down the lights as I leave her room. Once I reach the attic, I hide the knife beneath my mattress and sit on the edge of the bed, hands trembling as I shuck my shoes off. The day’s heat still festers under the eaves, gathering like a boil beneath my skin. I shed my clothing, stripping down to my chemise and tap pants. One of the many bedrooms below would provide respite from the heat, but the memory of Marguerite brandishing that knife—the wild look in her eyes—keeps me in place.

For a moment, she wanted to kill me.

I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, coming here. That’s obvious now. I should take Beckett’s advice and have him drive me to the station tomorrow. Catch the first train to Kansas City, beg Hank for my old job back at the Pepper Tree. Life won’t be easy, but I could survive on tips and my allowance from Felix. I’ll scrape by, even without Ted. But knowing Mrs. Dunlop’s greed, it’s likely she’s already let out my room, even though I paid for the week.

I settle in bed, turn on my lamp, and try to read. After the first few pages, I give up. None of the words make sense to me. My mind is far too muddled. Just as I lay my head on the pillow to go to sleep, I hear a commotion from downstairs. Something breaks. An enraged cry follows. Marguerite is up again. Panic floods my senses as I war with myself. I should go to her. Try to calm her.

I don’t.

Instead, I creep to the attic door and lock it, ashamed.