Page 24

September 2, 1925

I sit on the end of Marguerite’s bed and watch her work, her brush swirling over the canvas. Hugh’s features emerge more with each day. He’s tawny haired with warm brown eyes, a dimple in his left cheek. She’s painted him astride the same dapple horse she rode through the Brookside gardens, his posture confident, his smile easy.

“We used to ride this horse together. Pepper.” Marguerite pauses to mix a brilliant shade of crimson with white. “Hugh loved horses, and so did I. That’s how it all started when we were children. With the horses.” She chuckles. “When we got older, he would lift me up on Pepper’s back and sit behind me. We had a place we’d go to, by the creek. He wove an arbor for us to hide in, made of willow. It was only natural that we fell in love. He was my dearest friend.” She dips her brush into the paint, adding a slight blush of pink to the boy’s high cheekbones. “I often wonder how different my life would have been, had I married Hugh.”

“Why didn’t you? What happened?”

“Florence happened.”

Marguerite had hinted at a betrayal by my grandmother, on the ill-fated night we’d shared the brandy, but she hadn’t specified what it was. The more I discover about my grandmother, Aunt Claire, and Marguerite, the more intrigued I become. “What did she do?”

Marguerite pauses, turns to look at me, her eyes sharp. “Two years after she married James, I saw her with Weston, at a hotel in Kansas City. They were still carrying on. He was courting Claire at the time, and she knew all about the affair as well. Florence thought I told her about Weston, that I betrayed her confidence, but I didn’t—Claire just knew. She was very intuitive. I threatened to tell James, but I never did. He might have divorced Florence and it would have ruined her. In society. Financially. She married James for his money, and Papa had encouraged her, because he was in debt up to his eyebrows, with his gambling and whoring and Maman’s reckless spending. I just wanted Florence to stop using James. Using everyone. I worried about the girls. Grace, and later ... Laura. They deserved a happy family.” Marguerite’s eyes fill. “So, in retaliation for my threats and my perceived betrayal, she went to our father and told him about me and Hugh. She implied he had raped me. Weston backed her story. Said he’d seen me in a state of ravishment, with a torn dress and leaves in my hair.”

I sit there, in stunned silence, not knowing what to say. I remember the vision in the gardens, on the day Weston shared his manuscript with Claire and Marguerite interrupted them, her hair tangled with leaves and a rip in her skirt. Florence knows about you and your stable boy. She told me. But don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret. All of us deserve to be happy, after all. Don’t we?

A chill runs through me. Weston’s words had been a threat. A warning.

“Papa fired Hugh’s father and told him if his filthy mick son ever came near me again, he’d have him locked up for life. They left, and I never saw Hugh again.”

“Never?”

Marguerite shakes her head. “No.”

“Did you try to find him?”

“Yes. I even went to Ireland, when I was older, to see if he’d gone back there. I found his uncle—he owned a saddlery in Tipperary. He was friendly enough until he found out who I was. After that, he wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

“Goodness. Aunt Marg ... I’m so sorry.” The scene in the gallery I witnessed between Iris and my aunt now makes perfect sense. The scene in the gardens, too—the vision I’d seen of Weston, Claire, and Marguerite. Florence had destroyed any hope Marguerite had of being with Hugh. All the long years of estrangement between my grandmother and Marguerite make sense now—much more than when my mother excused their schism as a mere difference in temperament.

Marguerite lays her brush down, wiping her hands on a scrap of muslin. “If I’d been braver, I would have stood up to my father. Told him the truth. It’s unlikely he would’ve listened, or believed me, but I might have spared Hugh and his family their humiliation.” She glances at the painting. “There are lots of things I’ve forgotten. Forgiven. But I’ll never forget how Florence wronged me.” Marguerite rises, stretching, hands braced on her lower back. “I feel like going to town today. I need more turpentine. Let’s have Beckett bring the car.”

The ride into town is a tense one. I can’t stop thinking about my conversation with Marguerite. About Florence’s betrayal and Weston’s manipulations. It has me seeing him in a different light—one I’m not entirely fond of. But can I trust Marguerite’s recollection of events? Her memory is hardly reliable; her moments of lucidity wax and wane unpredictably.

At Marguerite’s urging, I sit up front, next to Beckett. I feign indifference at his nearness and turn my head to gaze out at the late-summer landscape as my thoughts spiral, the trees rushing by in a green blur, the wind ruffling my hair.

Soon, summer will give way to autumn, and then winter will come to Blackberry Grange. I dread the short days and long nights. I inspect my hands, once soft and unblemished. Callouses and blisters now mar my skin. I hardly look like the lady I was raised to be. But I left all pretense of being a lady behind me long ago, even before I gave myself to Ted.

I compare my lovers, Ted and Weston—one alive in the real world, and the other in existence somewhere beyond the temporal plane. I find myself wondering what Weston does, in his other world, when I’m not with him. Is he writing, as he claims, or is he with someone else, in the past? His manipulations with Claire and Florence, if true, give more credence to Beckett’s concerns about Sybil. About me. Weston claims to have loved Claire, but Claire remained unmarried until her death. Did he string her along for years, baiting her with false promises while he kept company with my married grandmother all the while? Can I trust Weston with my own heart?

Ted and Weston share many similarities. Passionate. Possessive. Dominant. And perhaps ... duplicitous. I remember how vehemently I swore off men when Ted broke my heart. Part of me wonders whether my affair with Weston is my way of getting back at Ted for moving on ... or for avoiding my grief over my mother, and how closely her loss and the end of my affair with Ted are tethered to my broken heart. What Weston offers me is familiar. But familiarity isn’t always good. The familiar can be dangerous.

I shrug off my conflicted thoughts as Beckett parks the car along Spring Street in front of a coffee shop. He opens my door, then Marguerite’s.

“I’ll go up to the hardware store for the turpentine, then come right back,” he says, avoiding my gaze. The tension between us is palpable. He’s been acting strangely around me lately, and things have devolved between us once more. While my coolness toward him is calculated, his is guileless. It makes me wonder whether my actions in the other world are spilling over into this one again, despite my precautions.

“Take your time at the store, dear,” Marguerite says to Beckett, patting his arm. She turns to me. “I want to talk to you about something, Sadie. Let’s have coffee. They have wonderful lemon cake here, too.”

“Sounds lovely,” I say.

We enter the cozy café, the scent of freshly ground coffee beans warm and welcoming. Marguerite chooses a table by the window. A waiter comes, takes our order, and a few moments later, we’re sipping the most delicious coffee I’ve had the pleasure of tasting.

Marguerite blows across her coffee to cool it. “They roast their own beans here. Good, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

Marguerite takes a tiny sip from her cup, then pushes it to the side, studying me hawkishly. “Now, I won’t mince words with you, dear. What’s happened between you and Beckett?”

“Nothing.”

“Nonsense. The two of you were getting along just fine. Now you’re nervous as cats around one another.”

“I’m not sure where I stand with him. That’s all. Sometimes I think we’ve reached an accord, and ...”

“And?”

“Sometimes I think we only tolerate one another’s presence, for your sake.”

“Oh, I can assure you that’s not the case. I’ve known Beckett a long time. I realize he can come off as brusque, but he’s fond of you. He just doesn’t know how to put it forward.” Marguerite assesses me with cool eyes. “You care for him, too, Sadie. I can feel it.”

I press my lips together, flummoxed by her directness. “I ... I’m not sure that I see him in the way you hope, Aunt Marg. Beckett has his charms, certainly. But there’s someone else.”

“Nonsense. You’ve had no suitors coming to the house that I’ve seen.”

“We’re corresponding by ... mail.” Heat climbs my neck, reddening my ears.

“Oh? By mail, is it?” Marguerite’s eyes narrow. “I saw you the other night, out my window. You were wandering around the gardens without a stitch on, my girl. Beckett found you near the bluff. Brought you inside, covered you up, put you to bed. Do you remember that?”

“What?” The heat beneath my skin flares, burning me from the inside. That would explain his mood—the awkwardness between us. I’ve tried to avoid this happening again, by locking the attic door, by going to Weston during only the latest hours of night, but it seems I can do little to control my actions in this world when I’m in his—a sobering thought.

“The other girl ... oh, what was her name ... she used to do the same thing.”

“Sybil?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

How many nights has he witnessed me walking about in a trance? Did I act out the things Weston and I did together, while I was sleepwalking? The thought is so disturbing it makes my stomach turn. No wonder Beckett can’t look me in the eye.

“Florence was just the same.” Marguerite sighs, takes a sip of her coffee. “She was like a wanton thrall, sneaking out to the labyrinth every night to meet Weston. Did you know she spent a year in a madhouse because of him?”

“I ... I’m ...” Shock thrums through me. A madhouse? My grandmother was in a madhouse? I’d heard Great-Grandmother Adeline had gone to a sanitorium after Claire’s death, but my own grandmother had never had any issues with her nerves that I knew of. But neither had I, until Da died. I’m not sure I believe Marguerite, but the conviction in her eyes is needle sharp. She’s fully lucid today, and convincing.

“I can see you don’t believe me.” Marguerite arches a brow. “But I know what you’re doing. Oh, there’s no doubt he has you charmed, just like he charmed my sisters. Sybil, too. He was made that way—his very nature colored with seductive intent, down to his name.” Marguerite chuckles. “ Weston Chase. Like something out of a tawdry romance. He’s a hunter, my dear. He chases . You fell right into his snare. But there’s a price to his pleasures. A price you’ll never be able to pay. I don’t know where you’re hiding his portrait. But when I find it, I’m going to destroy it once and for all.”

I can’t sleep. As the hours tick on toward morning, I pace the attic floor, wrapping my robe tightly around me. I feel Weston’s eyes on me, even though I can’t see him. I’m afraid. I wasn’t before. But I am now. I remember his jealousy over Beckett. How close we came to the edge of that Scottish cliff, the wind lashing my body as he stood over me. From the west-facing window, I look down at the bluff Sybil fell from. Was she on that same Scottish cliff, somewhere in time, with Weston, when she fell from the very real bluff below? When he pushed her from it? Beckett found me there, too. Brought me inside. Kept me safe. But what if it happens again?

They say if you die in your dreams, you die in real life.

I’m no longer willing to cede control of my body, to consciously give myself over to a dangerous situation. I’ve realized I’m not really in love with Weston. I’m addicted to him.

When morning breaks, I take the portrait from beneath the bed and uncover it. Weston’s eyes bore into mine, seething with the promise of passion. I waver, the temptation to fall back into his world—into his arms—strong. But at what cost? I’ve already lost my dignity. My self-respect. What will be next? My frail sanity, already tested and found to be lacking? My life? No. It’s time to face reality. To give all my attention to the living. Those who care about me: Marguerite. Beckett.

I take the portrait from the attic and make my way to the edge of the bluff. I waver again, briefly, and then pitch the painting over. I watch it tumble through the air, hear the distant shatter as it hits the rocky ground far below. Tears prickle behind my eyes. It feels wrong to destroy the portrait. Cruel, even. As I turn to go, an icy-cold wind buffets me, chilling me to the bone despite the day’s warmth. I almost swear I can hear Weston’s laughter on the wind.