Page 2

July 17, 1925

I sit alone, outside the train depot in Eureka Springs, waiting for a car. A Duesenberg, according to the ticketing clerk, who phoned Marguerite’s housekeeper on my behalf.

Rain sheets down, dripping off the awning and cooling the stolid air. This early in the morning, it’s enough to send a chill through my thin summer frock and make me wish I’d packed a wrap. An hour or so later, the car—a fine thing painted a rich, deep green, with spoked tires and bronze fittings—splashes down the street and pulls to the curb. A tall, lanky man unfolds from the driver’s seat, his flatcap pulled low over his eyes. He’s dressed simply, in trousers with suspenders, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. “You Miss Halloran?”

I rise, lifting my suitcase. “Yes, I am.”

“Well, come along, then.”

I scurry to the car, shielding my head with my free hand. My leather shoes soak through immediately when I step off the curb. The man takes my suitcase and places it in the back seat, next to a box of groceries. I notice the slight limp in his gait as he walks around the car, and wonder briefly whether he’s a veteran. It’s certainly possible. Many came home wounded from the war.

“You’ll be riding up front. With me,” he says curtly. He opens the side door for me, and I slide in, uncomfortably wet. “You’re lucky I had to go to town for the groceries this morning. The roads are likely to wash out with the storm. Should have let us know you were coming. Miss Thorne doesn’t take kindly to unannounced visitors.”

“I’m sorry. I really don’t mean to be a bother.” I turn to him, smiling tightly. “I appreciate the courtesy you’ve shown me, Mr. ...”

“Beckett. Just Beckett.”

“I assume you’re Aunt Marguerite’s chauffeur?”

“Her gardener. Among other things.”

“I see. Well, I’m Sadie. Just Sadie. Very pleased to meet you.”

He merely grunts and pulls onto the street, windshield wiper slapping steadily back and forth. So much for Southern hospitality.

As we pass the hotels, restaurants, and spas lining Main Street, I remember the last time Mama and I came here, when I was twelve. Marguerite seemed so young then, her auburn hair faintly streaked with gray and her skin freckled from a recent European holiday. Her daring Paul Poiret ensemble turned heads up and down the boulevard. She’d spoiled me with sweet pastries and cocoa as she and Mama sipped aperitifs on a sun-drenched balcony and talked about things I found boring at the time but wish I could remember now.

As the car sweeps up the steep hillside leading to Blackberry Grange, I wonder just how much she’s changed. If she’ll even recognize me.

“Has Aunt Marguerite found a companion yet?” I ask the question directly, as “Just Beckett” seems to be a man with little patience for social graces. “My cousin mentioned she’s in need of one.”

“No. And she won’t, most likely. She’s already been through three nurses and two maids this year.”

“Why is that?”

“You haven’t kept in touch with your aunt, have you, Miss Halloran?”

I flinch at his judgmental tone. I turn my head to look out at the trees whipping in the wind, their leaves an incandescent, bright green against the gray sky. “I regret I haven’t.”

“You’ll soon see for yourself why we can’t keep staff.” He retreats into stony silence as he shifts gears and maneuvers the curving road, his long-fingered hands flexing on the steering wheel.

The rain slows to a soft patter, and then ceases altogether, the sun breaking through the clouds. When the turreted roof of Blackberry Grange appears, I sigh in relief, eager to be free of the car and its surly driver. As Beckett brings the Duesenberg around in a slow circle before the elevated veranda, I take in the house with eager eyes. It’s smaller than I remember, but still larger than any other house in our family by far. While the yellow clapboards and intricate abacus-chain millwork bear signs of genteel decay, the house, at least from the outside, wears its years with grace. The neatly manicured front gardens, dotted with evergreen topiaries, a trimmed lawn, and an espaliered blackberry thicket, show evidence of Beckett’s diligent hand. I glance at him and consider complimenting his work but have the feeling my words would be met with icy disregard.

A short, solidly built woman comes out onto the porch, dressed in a modest gray frock. She waves as I step from the car, opening my own door this time. “Hello!” I walk confidently up the front steps and extend my hand. “I’m Sadie Halloran. Miss Thorne’s great-niece.”

The woman takes my hand briefly, then drops it, patting at her wren-brown hair nervously. “I’m Melva Percy. Miss Thorne’s maid. I’m so sorry. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have laid something out ...”

“I understand. It was rude of me to just turn up. Please don’t make a fuss on my account.”

As Melva leads me into the house, I wonder how long it’s been since the last maid left. Though the house is neat enough, there’s a faint veil of dust over everything. Memories wrap themselves around me as I enter the front parlor. Mama trailing down the hall from the library, a stack of books in hand. My brothers and I chasing fireflies through the yard. Marguerite and Louise dancing a soft-shoe routine before the piano. Coming here feels like being embraced by time—a halcyon time, before my life became what it is now, colored by loss after loss.

I turn in a circle, admiring the plasterwork cornices, the flocked-velvet wallpaper—a sun-bleached shade of bronze shot through with green, like aged copper. Portraits of my great-grandparents hang from the picture rail. Bram Thorne glares down at me stoically, next to his young French bride, Adeline. I see something of myself in her long, straight nose and downturned mouth.

“Would you like tea? Or perhaps coffee, miss?” Melva stands in the arched doorway separating the parlor from the entry hall, wringing her hands.

“Coffee sounds lovely.”

She nods and leaves me. I remove my lace gloves and walk slowly through the room, gazing upon the array of old photographs arranged on the mantelpiece and sideboards. There’s a portrait of my aunt Grace as a baby dressed in a ruffled gown, and another next to it, picturing her children, my towheaded cousins—cheeky Louise and Pauline—perched on a Shetland pony with their brother, Beau, holding the reins. Beau had died, taken by the Spanish flu, just like my little brother, Henry, pictured as a baby on a gilt-edge cabinet card. This room is a paean to loss. A family tomb full of bittersweet memories.

In the largest photograph, given a place of honor atop the tall parlor grand, my grandmother Florence stands in a church doorway, dressed in her wedding gown, flanked by a young Marguerite and their middle sister, Claire. Claire had also died young—in her early twenties—of the measles. My great-grandmother Adeline spent a year in a sanitorium after her death, stricken by the loss.

She wasn’t the only one who had fragile nerves. Madness ran in our family, right alongside our proclivity toward liquor and a tragically young demise.

“I blame Florence, you know. For all of it.”

I startle at the sound of a familiar alto voice and turn to see Marguerite at the foot of the stairs, dressed in a sheer emerald-green peignoir with not a stitch of clothing beneath it. I throttle my gasp before it leaves my throat. She eyes me suspiciously. “Who are you? The new help?”

“No. I . . . I’m Sadie.”

“Sadie.” Confusion laces her brows together. “Sadie.”

“Laura’s girl? Laura and Duke.”

“Oh yes. Duke. The Irish boy.”

I smile, my breath coming out in a rush. “Yes. The Irish boy. I’m his daughter. Don’t you remember me? I suppose it’s been a while.” I pick up a fringed shawl hanging from the piano bench and approach my aunt slowly. “Here, let me cover your shoulders with this.”

“Laura and Duke’s girl. Laura ... she had such a beautiful voice. It’s awfully drafty for June, isn’t it?” Marguerite shakes her head, white hair falling about her shoulders in a tangled mess. Why has no one bothered to brush it? Or dress her properly?

“It’s July, but it’s been raining,” I say gently, averting my eyes as I wrap the shawl around her. “Your maid is bringing coffee. Will you come sit with me? I’ve been looking forward to our visit.”

I lead her to the sofa. She lowers herself gracefully, fanning out the flimsy peignoir as if it’s an ermine cloak. She crosses her ankles primly, knees together. Despite Marguerite’s scandalous attire, all the etiquette my great-grandmother instilled in her youngest daughter remains apparent.

“How have you been, Auntie?”

“I’ve been well. I’ve just returned from Venice.”

There’s not a chance in hell Marguerite has just returned from Italy. “Venice? You’re sure?”

“Yes, my dear. I go every year. Pia has an apartment near Campo Santa Margherita.” She winks. “That’s the saint I’m named for.”

I squeeze her hand. “Saint Margaret. The willful and rebellious one.” Although I know my saints well, I have no earthly idea who Pia is.

“Springtime is the best time to go to Venice. Summer brings miasma. Cholera. All that water.”

“I’ve never been.”

“That’s a shame. You should see it while you’re young.”

When Melva comes with the coffee service and sees Marguerite’s state of undress, her eyes widen. “Miss Thorne! My goodness.” Teacups rattle together as she nearly drops her tray.

“Here, let me help you.” I rush to the maid’s aid, taking the heavy-laden tray from her. “Why isn’t she dressed?” I whisper.

“I dressed her just this morning, miss. I promise. She takes everything right off again. She greeted the iceman last week, naked as a babe.”

“Shhh,” I say. “You’ll upset her.” I place the tray on the coffee table in front of Marguerite.

“You know, there’s not a thing at all wrong with my hearing.” Marguerite reaches for the silver coffeepot and daintily pours two cups, then adds cream and a single sugar cube to hers. “I don’t know why everyone is always in such a dither over me,” she says, tossing back her head. “I can manage my wardrobe quite well. And everything else, for that matter.”

I take my place next to her and flavor my coffee with cream and sugar. “We’re only concerned for you. Louise told me about your fall.”

“The cat got wrapped around my ankles and I tripped. You can see for yourself I’m fine.”

I look around for a cat but see no evidence of one. Melva meets my eyes, gives a slight shake of her head. “I’d better put the groceries away,” she says, edging for the doorway. “Will you need anything else, Miss Halloran?”

“No, thank you.”

“That one isn’t very bright. But she’s capable,” Marguerite says conspiratorially after Melva leaves. “The last maid didn’t change my bedclothes for a month.”

I can’t help the grimace that passes over my face. “I might stay on with you, for a while, if that’s all right. Help you manage your staff and your social calendar.”

Marguerite’s eyes light up. “You’d do that?”

“Of course.”

“But a pretty girl like you should be at parties. Courting with callers.”

“I’m through with all of that. I’m ready for a quieter life, Aunt Marg.”

“That’s too bad. I was in my prime at your age. Oh, the stories I could tell you!”

“I can’t wait to hear all your stories,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I feel like I’ve missed out on so much of your life.” And I have. Despite the short summer weekends I spent here as a child, my mother hadn’t visited in years, even though she and Marguerite got along miles better than she and my grandmother, who never had anything good to say about anyone. But now, in this moment, sitting in this room, with the clouds clearing and cheerful sparks of sunlight shimmering through the lace curtains, I’m struck with a powerful feeling of belonging. This is where I’m meant to be. It was right of me to come here.

After a few moments of quiet conversation, Marguerite suddenly stands, sending her coffee tumbling. It sloshes over my already-wet shoes and across the rug at my feet. Her eyes are fixed, staring straight ahead. “Do you see him?” she says, lifting her hand to point at the stairs leading to the second floor.

“What?” I glance at the staircase. There’s nothing there.

“That beast.”

“What beast?” A chill walks between my shoulder blades. Even though I can’t see a thing beyond the finely crafted banister and newel posts, an eerie sense of foreboding permeates the room, raising the hair on the back of my neck.

Aunt Marguerite pinches her eyes shut. “Oh, why won’t he leave me be?”

“There’s no one there, Auntie,” I say, trying my best to calm her.

“He is there. Watching us.” Marguerite stomps her foot like a child. “Go away!”

I take her by the arm, try to draw her back to the sofa. “There now, let’s sit back down. We were having such a nice chat.”

“I can’t take this anymore.” She wrenches free of my grasp with shocking strength and darts into the hall, shedding the shawl-covered peignoir as she flees. Panic floods my limbs as I follow her at a trot, unsure what to do.

Melva rushes out of the kitchen to meet me, eyes darting to the discarded clothing. “Oh, lord help us. We have to catch her before she gets outside. Harriet! Come quickly!”

A clatter of footsteps sounds from above and another woman in a maid’s uniform appears on the stairs, this one at least a decade younger than Melva and dark skinned, her hair tightly marcelled away from her face. “Where did she go?”

“I ... I’m not sure.” Now I’m the one wringing my hands helplessly.

“We’ll find her.” Harriet smiles tightly, and rushes down the hall. Melva and I trail her.

We find Marguerite in the rear gardens, huddled under a wisteria bower. Just a few yards away, the grounds fall off—a sheer drop of rocky bluff into the valley below. I shudder at what might have happened if we’d tarried longer. “Melva, go get a wrapper, please,” Harriet directs, doing her best to shield my aunt’s nakedness from view with her body.

I sink down to the ground next to them, feeling helpless. “Is she like this often?” I whisper to Harriet. “She said something about seeing a beast.”

“Yes. That’s one of her recurring hallucinations. These delusions come on quickly, without warning. They’re very real to her, and they’re dangerous.”

“I can see that.”

Harriet turns back to Marguerite, murmuring softly as she draws a stoppered syringe and a vial of liquid from her apron pocket. She pierces the top of the vial and fills the syringe with the contents, squirting a small drop of liquid from the tip. My eyes widen. A memory of the injections I received at Elm Ridge rolls through me—the awful sedatives that made my mouth feel like cotton and my muscles weak as jelly.

“Don’t worry,” Harriet says, reading my expression. “I know what I’m doing. This will only make her sleepy. Calm her.” She carefully inserts the needle in Marguerite’s shoulder, whispering soothing words as she depresses the plunger. Soon, Marguerite whimpers, then stills, her eyelids falling to half-mast.

“I’m not really a maid,” Harriet says. “As you might have gathered.”

Melva returns with a cotton wrapper, Beckett in tow. He turns his back as we dress Marguerite, who’s gone as limp and docile as a newborn kitten. “I’ll carry her inside,” Beckett says gruffly, bending to pick up my aunt. “This can’t keep happening, Harriet. She’s going to fall off that bluff one day.”

“I know,” Harriet says. “I’m doing the best I can, but she really needs to be in a nursing home. One with round-the-clock care.”

“You know as well as I that she won’t leave this house unless it’s feetfirst,” Beckett says, his tone softening as he looks down at my great-aunt. “This is her home.”

I hesitate before speaking. Seeing the severity of Marguerite’s condition for myself has lessened my earlier confidence in being able to care for her. Her turnabout in moods is shocking. Still, as I consider the frail, childlike form of my once vibrant aunt, I’m moved to compassion. “I’m going to stay with her,” I say, steeling my spine. “That’s why I’ve come. To help take care of her. She needs a companion. It should be someone in the family.”

Beckett shakes his head. “I don’t think you—”

My temper flares. “I can do this. I can.”

Harriet frowns thoughtfully, brown eyes creasing with concern. “That’s very noble of you. But you do realize she won’t get better. Only worse. This was one of her tamer episodes. She’s been violent with me. She may be with you as well.”

“Will you show me what to do to help her when she’s like this?”

“Yes, miss,” Harriet says, “and I’ve promised to stay on with her indefinitely.” She coolly assesses me. “I’m a nurse. I had my training in Philadelphia, but I married an Arkansas man, and well ... the only work a colored woman can get down here is domestic work. But I don’t scrub toilets, and I don’t take kindly to disrespect.” She smiles tightly. “Just so you understand.”

“I do.”

“Good. I’ll do all I can to help you, but you should know this isn’t going to be easy. Caring for someone with dementia wears on a person’s nerves. Miss Thorne’s mind is failing, but her body is still quite young. She’s spry. Wily. You need to be prepared for long, sleepless nights and very little time for yourself.”

“And there’s no one who can help at night?”

“No.” Harriet sighs. “Your aunt has a reputation for being difficult. I’m the first who’s lasted with her for more than a month. The white nurses can get work anywhere. They don’t need or want a patient like Miss Thorne.”

“Well, that settles it. I’m staying. I may not be a nurse, but I’m family. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Beckett and Harriet exchange a look. “Miss Halloran, this isn’t ...” Beckett begins again.

I frown at him. “I said, I’m staying.”