Page 17

July 24, 1925

I wake in a sweat, body feverish with want. With desire. The memory of Weston’s kiss—his hands on me, sliding over my skin, tangling in my hair, the scent of crushed jasmine beneath my body. I sit up in bed, wondering how I got back to the attic, but not caring as I relish in the memory of what we did together beneath the stars ... the way he made me feel.

My body is a drum, beating with longing.

I rise, the sun a hushed veil of silken pink outside the window. I shed my chemise, pour cool water from the ewer into the basin, sponge my heated skin with a cloth.

I gaze at myself in the mirror, skin flushed, pupils large and dark. Lips bruised and bitten. Did everything I experienced really happen? Somewhere in the past, did Weston and I truly enjoy a night of passion together? It seems mad. A hedonistic dream. One I want to have over and over, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m a little afraid. I’ve taken a ghost as my lover, after all, not a man of flesh and blood. I briefly think of Sybil, and her unfortunate fate. But even Beckett isn’t certain whether she jumped, fell, or was pushed. It might have been a tragic accident. It must have been.

I dress, humming softly to myself as I pull on my stockings, choose my outfit, and brush my hair. It’s strange for the mundane world to keep running as usual, after what I experienced last night. When I go downstairs, I find Marguerite waiting for me at the dining room table, fully dressed. She smiles up at me, eyes bright. “Ah, there you are, dear.”

“You’re already up! Did Melva help you get dressed?”

“Of course not. I’m capable of dressing myself.”

I sit at the table, unfolding the morning paper, although I’m distracted by amorous thoughts, imagining myself tangled up in Weston’s arms, his lips tracing a line down my ...

“Miss Halloran.”

Beckett’s voice startles me. I look up to see him holding a telegram, his face freshly shaved, the lingering scent of his aftershave crisp and pleasant, though a tinge of green faintly stains the skin around his fingernails. He’s already been working. I wonder whether the man ever sleeps. “This came for you.”

I take the envelope from him and open it. Inside, there are only three lines.

Rosalie and I are coming on August 8th. Disappointed. F.

Felix. Louise must have told him I came here. I shove the telegram to the side. “I suppose my brother and his wife are paying us a visit soon. Weekend after next.” To scold me, more than likely, although hopefully with my allowance in hand.

“Oh, how lovely!” Marguerite exclaims. “Are they bringing the boys?”

“I’d expect,” I said. “Louise and Pauline may come for a visit, too, for Labor Day weekend. I forgot to tell you.” The thought of my family descending on us, at any time, is less than pleasant. “Louise mentioned they’d like to visit when we spoke last night.”

“Louise reminds me so much of Florence,” Marguerite says. “And it’s not just her looks. She’s always in everyone’s business. Meddling.”

“You’re certainly right about that,” I say, smirking.

Melva brings out breakfast, setting a steaming bowl of cornmeal porridge before me.

“This looks delicious,” I say, stirring butter and maple syrup into the warm cereal.

“You’re in high spirits this morning, Miss Halloran,” Beckett says, taking the chair next to mine. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not at all,” I say archly. “But I’m feeling delightful all the same.”

He raises an eyebrow.

I hurry through breakfast, relieved when Harriet arrives to take Marguerite off my hands. After they’ve gone outside for their morning constitutional, I rush to the tower room, where my lover awaits me in another time. Weston crushes me against him, and soon we are flesh to flesh in a room draped in scarlet, aching and soaring and consuming one another like fire set to tinder, like the sweetest addiction I’ve ever known. This is all I need. He is all I need.

Time seems to accelerate in the real world when I’m in the past with Weston—something I’ve become aware of since our affair began, nearly two weeks ago. I carefully plan our liaisons between midnight and dawn, so that I won’t chance waking Marguerite when I leave the attic. I’m barely getting any sleep as a result. I’ve learned to steal sleep during the day instead, when the rest of the staff is here and Marguerite takes her post-lunch nap. It isn’t enough, though, and it’s taking a toll. I’m becoming more forgetful. Moody and churlish.

But how can I resist what Weston offers? It isn’t just our lovemaking, although it fulfills my need for passion and tenderness. It’s the excitement of journeying to places I’ve never been before. I’d never be able to afford a grand suite in Paris or a holiday in the Tuscan countryside, where my only responsibility is to loll about in a villa with a glass of Chianti. Fifteen dollars a month won’t get a girl very far. But with Weston, the whole world is open to me.

It all seems like madness in the light of day. But it’s a madness I welcome. Tonight, we’re in Rome, in an apartment overlooking the Spanish Steps. The bells of Trinità dei Monti ring vespers as Weston slides my gown down over my shoulders, pressing kisses between my shoulder blades and along my spine. He knows, instinctively, how I want to be touched, how I enjoy relinquishing myself completely. He dominates me, devours me, and I’m all too willing to be the tinder for his fire.

I can see why he had such a hold over my grandmother. Over Claire. It’s intoxicating to be so desired. To be the object of his ardent admiration.

I turn in his arms, and he sets me on the wide windowsill. I wrap my legs around him as he takes me, not caring that anyone on the plaza below might see us. In this world, where no one knows me, and will never see me again, I am free. Without reservations.

Suddenly, I’m very cold, as if I’ve been standing in a drenching rain. I cling to Weston, seeking his warmth, but he pushes me away abruptly. “You must go,” he says. I try to kiss him, but he rebuffs me, his eyes narrowing. “Leave, Sadie.”

“Miss Halloran. Sadie!”

Rome fades away, the Spanish Steps crumbling, the stars falling from the evening sky. I blink—once, twice. I’m no longer with Weston. Instead, Beckett is holding me, his chest bare, his mouth set in a hard line. Thunder crackles overhead as rain sheets down, soaking my hair, a shirt flung over my naked shoulders. Beckett’s shirt. I’m outside, without a stitch on apart from his shirt. Oh God. Shame and embarrassment flood through me.

“Come on. Let’s get you inside,” Beckett says gently. “You were sleepwalking again.”

He guides me across the lawn and up the steps. The house is watchful. Wary. Once inside, I grasp the same velvet shawl I wrapped Marguerite in the day I arrived and cover my bare breasts. I let Beckett’s wet shirt drop to the floor. He averts his eyes as I wrap the shawl around myself as best I can, my face on fire, even as my body shivers from the cold, drenching rain. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I hope I didn’t ... I hope I didn’t do anything improper.”

“It wasn’t for lack of trying.” Beckett frowns. “You thought I was him. You called me by his name. Tried to kiss me.”

“I ... I must have been dreaming.”

“Yes. You were.” He picks his wet shirt up from the floor and turns away, his shoulders falling. “I’ll stoke the water heater. Run you a bath.”

“You don’t have to do that.” I stand there, awkwardly bouncing on my heels.

“Do you want a hot toddy?”

“No. It’ll only make me tired.”

“Yes, but you need to sleep. You’re exhausted, Sadie. I’ll stay in the house with Marguerite until Harriet and Melva get here. I can’t do any work in this rain, anyhow.”

I don’t have the wherewithal to argue, so I accept the hot toddy when he brings it to me and let him lead me to the steaming bath. I’m shaky, out of sorts. After he leaves, I cast off the shawl and sink into the enamel tub. The water surrounds me, warming my skin. I’m horrified that Beckett saw me naked—that I was acting out my liaison with Weston in the real world. Did I really throw myself at Beckett, as he implied?

After my bath, I dry off and dress in the modest cotton nightgown Beckett placed on the hook by the door. I pad shyly into the hall. Beckett is there, sitting in a chair with yesterday’s paper. He looks up at me, his eyes touched with sadness.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” I say.

“I was afraid you might fall asleep in the tub.”

“You’re too kind.” I bite my lip, study my bare feet. “Beckett ... please don’t tell anyone about this. I’ll get hold of myself. I will. I just need some sleep.”

He closes the paper and stands. “Sadie ... you should consider what we talked about.”

“You mean my leaving, don’t you?”

“It’s the only way you’ll be safe. That man—that entity. Marguerite says he’s attached to the painting.” He sighs. “Sybil ... wandered the property. Just like you. She wouldn’t listen to my concerns. She became angry. Hostile.”

I stiffen. “And you think the same thing will happen to me?”

“Yes. I do.” His tone gentles. “Can’t you see why I’m worried?”

I consider his words. His concern for me. Beckett isn’t prone to hysterics or exaggeration.

I think about what I’m doing with Weston, and how my actions are carrying over into the real world. But while Beckett thinks I’m being reckless and that Weston is dangerous, what he and I have together seems so real. So good. I’ve not seen an iota of malice, or violence, or anything to fear from Weston. Nothing at all about him frightens me, apart from the fact that he’s a ghost. We’ve had eight encounters since that first night of passion in the Brookside gardens, and after each one, I’ve only felt more alive. Happier than I’ve ever been.

I lay my hand on Beckett’s arm. “Thank you. For taking care of me tonight. For your concerns. But I’m just fine, I promise you.”

He sighs. “Go get some rest. Don’t worry about Marguerite. Sleep as long as you can. I’ll have Melva wake you before dinner.”

I feel Beckett’s eyes on me as I walk down the long hallway to the attic stairs. I must be more careful. More diligent about hiding my nocturnal affairs from him. I fall into bed, my body heavy with exhaustion, and allow sleep to overtake me.