Page 16

Interlude

Weston

It is nighttime. The gardens are illuminated, a soft summer breeze filtering through the air. A thread of orchestral music streams toward Sadie from the gazebo where she saw Weston and Claire, now lit with waxed paper lanterns and candelabra. There are others there—guests of this party—attired in evening wear, the men in cutaway coats and white cravats knotted at the neck, their high-waisted trousers accentuating the length of their legs, the women in full, bustled skirts. Weston appears at Sadie’s side, dashing in his formal dress, his wild, dark hair framing his face in waves.

“What year is it?” Sadie asks, enraptured.

“1874. The year I first met the Thorne family.”

“What’s happening? What is this party?”

“Florence’s coming-out ball. The night it all began.”

Sadie sees Florence now—the golden penumbra of curls gathered atop her head, her white gown ethereal, her waist impossibly tiny. She flits among her guests, graceful as a butterfly, kissing them on both cheeks in greeting. Claire and Marguerite stand nearby. Marguerite wears a demure pink ballgown, her long, auburn hair spilling down her back.

Claire turns as they approach, her blue eyes widening. She nudges Marguerite, whose face pales, her mouth dropping open.

“Can they see me?” Sadie asks.

“No, darling.” A flicker of irritation crosses Weston’s face. “Only me, remember? You’re merely an errant breeze. A trick of the light.”

Sadie watches, motionless, as Weston leaves her side and approaches Florence. He touches her lightly on the elbow, turning her. Even from across the lawn, Sadie can see the scarlet flush climb her young grandmother’s bosom, her easy confidence gone in an instant. Weston bends over her hand and kisses it. Florence closes her eyes as his lips graze her skin, her mouth parting softly in surprise.

The strings strike up a waltz. Weston leads Florence inside the gazebo, and they begin to dance, Florence limp in his arms as he clutches her possessively. They twirl in circles as everyone watches, as the women whisper behind their fans and the young men glare in envy. Sadie feels her own jealousy climbing as Weston consumes Florence with his gaze, wolfish and hungry and ever so dangerous. What she would give for him to look at her like that ... to be ravished by those stormy eyes.

“Who is he?” someone asks, nearby.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Never seen him before.”

Sadie spies Marguerite and Claire huddled together, furtively whispering, yet Marguerite’s demeanor is far from quiet. “It’s him. I’m sure of it,” Sadie hears Marguerite rasp as she draws nearer to them on soundless feet.

“Don’t be silly. It can’t be.”

Marguerite bats the air with a lace fan, her face aflame with anger. “It is , Claire. I should know.”

“Well, whoever he is, he’s holding her much too closely.” Claire’s eyes flit nervously from the dancers to Marguerite, to the star-scattered sky. “Papa should do something, or people will talk.”

Sadie inches closer to her youthful great-aunts, her shoulder brushing the hedge of roses lining the allée. A scarlet petal drops to the ground. Marguerite’s head turns, her eyes landing on Sadie for the briefest second—then falling away. Despite Weston’s assurances of her invisibility, Sadie has the distinct feeling that Marguerite can feel her, that she can sense her presence somehow, although Claire seems none the wiser.

“What if James sees them?” Claire says. “What if he decides not to propose tonight? He’s already asked for Papa’s blessing. Tonight was supposed to be the night.”

“I know.” Marguerite frowns. “James isn’t here yet, thank goodness. But people will gossip, and he’ll hear it. If Papa won’t do anything about this, I must.” She marches past Sadie, her curls bouncing in time with her steps. Inside the gazebo, she taps Weston on the shoulder, and he slows the dance, Florence still in his arms, a look of rapturous adoration on her face. Reluctantly, Florence glides to the edge of the gazebo, ceding her partner to her youngest sister.

Marguerite’s green eyes harden as Weston takes her in his arms and guides her along the dance floor, their movements more a battle than a waltz.

I always take the lead. Sadie can’t help but recall Marguerite’s words the night they drank brandy and danced in the parlor.

Suddenly the music changes tempo, becoming sluggish and muted. The crowd goes silent, the other dancers stilling as Marguerite pulls Weston away, everything frozen but the two of them. They disappear into the shadowed gardens, beyond the party’s bright lights. Sadie sets off at a run after them.

She finds them sitting on a bench near the labyrinth, side by side. Marguerite’s hand passes lightly over Weston’s face, tangles in his hair. There isn’t anything romantic about her caress; instead, curiosity is etched across her young face. Weston looks up as Sadie approaches. Their eyes meet for a moment, and then he turns back to Marguerite, whispers something to her that Sadie can’t hear.

They rise, Weston helping her to her feet. He bows to Marguerite, and she nods with an enigmatic smile, as if they’ve come to a tacit truce. He watches as Marguerite flounces away. The string quartet starts up again, the laughter of the crowd carrying over the gardens.

“What just happened?” Sadie asks.

“I’ve brought you here tonight to show you where it all began, and to start over again. To do my part to make things right, as much as I can. It was a mistake for Florence and me to get involved. For me to ever think our love could justify all the pain it caused. So Marguerite and I came to an understanding.”

“An understanding? About what?”

“Florence. My being here. Your grandfather will arrive at any moment. He’ll propose, they’ll marry, and she’ll forget she ever met me.”

“And what about Claire? I thought you loved her, too. I saw the two of you, in the gazebo last time. You told Marguerite you wanted to marry Claire. You’re giving her up, too, that easily?”

“I’ll always love Florence. Claire. They’re a part of my past. But I don’t want to live in the past anymore, Sadie.”

Weston lifts Sadie’s chin, his eyes drinking her in. “The simple truth is, I’ve found someone far more special. Someone who understands what it’s like to risk everything for love.”

Sadie’s pulse flutters, falters as Weston clasps her around the waist, drawing her close, his lips a hairbreadth away from her own. “Who?”

“ You , Sadie. Dance with me.”