Page 15

Inside, Marguerite is gazing out the window, a faraway look in her eyes as she watches the rain. The radio plays muted jazz. “I like this sort of weather, don’t you?” she asks absently.

“Yes,” I answer, “although too many days in a row make me sad.”

Marguerite turns to look at me. “You should let him in, Sadie.”

“Pardon?”

“Beckett. I see him, watching you.” She smiles. “And I see you tripping all over your words whenever he’s near.”

I laugh. “Don’t be silly.”

“Why is it silly? Because you consider him the help?” She frowns. “If that’s the case, you’re no better than Georgia Merritt. Too high and mighty for your own good.”

I don’t know what to say, because she’s right. I’ve been rude. Snobbish. I’ve been so intent on asserting myself, on proving my independence and self-worth, that I haven’t stopped to consider how callous I’ve been to the man my aunt regards as a son, not a servant.

Marguerite takes a small, tissue-wrapped package from her dress pocket and places it in my hand. “I saw you looking at this.”

I unwrap the package to find the pearl-and-garnet lavalier from the mercantile. I gasp, lifting it. “Golly. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll invite Beckett to dinner again, sometime. It would make me happy to see the two of you learn to get along. Even happier to see the two of you give things a go.” She grins. “We were talking about you last night. The two of you have a lot in common. You can’t see it now, but you’d be a good match.”

So, that explains why she told Beckett more about me. About Ted. She has designs. While I’m none too keen on Marguerite’s attempts at matchmaking, I’m honored that she thinks well enough of me to consider me worthy of her precious Beckett. And I can’t deny that he’s attractive, in a thorny sort of way. We both have our walls. Still, I can’t imagine us ever becoming more than what we are now. He doesn’t trust me, and I feel much the same about him. But it’s vital for me to stay in my aunt’s good graces, and if that involves inviting Beckett to dinner occasionally to appease her, I’ll happily concede.

I wrap the lavalier around my neck and go to the mirror above the mantel, admiring myself. “Thank you, Aunt Marg. I love it.”

“You should wear it with that pink silk frock you wore the other night. The one that shows off your legs.”

Just then, the telephone rings, startling me. I realize it’s the first call Marguerite has received since I arrived. Melva scurries to the dining room to answer it. “Thorne residence.” There’s a pause as she listens to the response. “Certainly, Mrs. Shepherd. She’s here. I’ll fetch her for you.”

My good mood sours. I know only one Mrs. Shepherd. Louise. She must have found out about my coming here. When Melva fetches me, I reluctantly follow her to the telephone, bracing myself for the scolding Louise is sure to give me. I pull in a steadying breath and lift the receiver to my ear. “Hello, Louise.”

“Sadie! Goodness. We’ve all been worried sick about you. Mama has been in a state. She nearly called the police.”

I roll my eyes. Aunt Grace has always been a fabulist and instigator. Louise comes by her histrionics honestly. “Well, I’m alive and well, as you can hear.”

“You’re really there . I never thought ... How is she?”

“She’s grand. We’ve been having a time. I’m going to stay here with her, Louise.”

The line goes quiet for a moment. “Well. Isn’t that something?”

“How are things in Kansas City?”

“Dreadfully hot. And Sadie, I didn’t want to tell you this, but I fear I must ... it’s about Ted.”

I brace myself, knowing my cousin, and how she gloats over the least bit of schadenfreude. “What is it?”

“Toby saw him at the Montpellier Tea Room.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “With another woman.”

My stomach sinks. “It was probably his wife.”

“No. It wasn’t. She was young. Very young.”

“Oh.” I bite my lip to hold back the rising flood of tears. But what else did I expect? Men like Ted are strangers to fidelity. He’d never be satisfied with one woman.

“You’re better off without him, Sadie. I know you don’t think so, but you are.” Louise’s voice grows soft, almost tender. Almost. “Look, Pauline and I were thinking about taking the train down to see Aunt Marg for Labor Day. Now that you’re there, it’s even better. We’ll bring the children. It’ll be like old times.”

“Yes ... sure. I’d like that. I’ll let Aunt Marg know.” I rock back on my heels, clutching my new lavalier until the garnets bite into my palm, my eyes filling. But I won’t give my cousin the pleasure of hearing me cry. “I need to go, Louise. I can’t leave Marguerite alone for very long. Goodbye.”

I replace the receiver, cutting off my cousin’s response, and stand there in stunned silence, tears tracking down my cheeks.

The rain is relentless that night, washing the house in streams of water as thunder crackles overhead. I do my best to sleep after I’ve tucked Marguerite in, but even as exhausted as I am, all I can think of is Ted with his young ingenue. I imagine them doing all the things he used to do with me, and my stomach turns with envy and anger. I finally throw the covers off in frustration and pace the attic floor, fists clenched.

In the wee hours of the morning, after my anger simmers to a low buzz of resentment and I’m able to think straight again, I decide to go to the studio. I need a distraction from my thoughts, and the temptation of wandering into the past with Weston is as irresistible as it is frightening. Part of me still wonders whether what I experienced inside my aunt’s studio was nothing more than an illusion. The only way I’ll know whether it was is by trying to make it happen again. I want to know more. How Weston became enmeshed with my grandmother and her sisters. What happened between him and Claire? They never married—something I know for certain. I grab the chatelaine from my wardrobe, quietly make my way down the hall, past Marguerite’s door, and push the studio key into the lock. The door opens with a satisfying snick. I go inside, my heart beating wildly.

But Weston’s portrait is gone. The easel stands empty. Raw panic rushes through me as I remember my conversation with Beckett about Sybil. He’d burned the painting once. He might have done so again. I imagine the portrait going up in flames, the paint bubbling and melting, destroying Weston’s likeness. Tomorrow morning, I’ll confront Beckett. If he’s done something to the painting, every ounce of my goodwill toward him will disintegrate.

And then ... I have a thought.

Marguerite was concerned about my affinity for Weston’s portrait as well. She was adamant about wanting the painting destroyed the first time I saw it. Might she be responsible for its disappearance?

I leave the studio, locking the door behind me, and rush to the heavy double doors leading to the library. I open them as silently as I can and ease inside. Moonlight spills through the high windows, illuminating the stacks and slipcovered furniture. I make my way down the rickety spiral staircase from the upper gallery to the first floor, then to the shelves hiding the secret passageway. The bookcase swings open with a tired groan, and I climb the narrow, steep steps, squinting to better see in the darkness. I emerge into the glass-ceilinged tower, the heavy patter of rain loud overhead. My heart beats with wild excitement. There are two easels there now.

I uncover the first and find an incomplete painting of a young girl.

But the second is Weston’s portrait, just as I suspected. I reach out to touch the surface. It ripples and shimmers like water, and suddenly I am falling, falling, falling ... like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.