Page 25

September 5, 1925

If I thought disposing of Weston’s portrait would bring me peace, I was wrong. My body still craves him like a drug—like an opium-eater craves their next dose. I need and want him as much as I fear the consequences of my desire. My ambivalence is maddening.

But I hardly have time to worry over carnal matters. Caring for Marguerite and the house now takes all I can give. Blackberry Grange seems to be crumbling in concert with Marguerite’s decline. Mold grows in the corners of ceilings, where it wasn’t before. The dust and cobwebs seem to multiply before my eyes.

I’m mopping the kitchen floor when I hear the doorbell ring. I glance at the clock. Perhaps it’s the milkman, or the iceman, come with their deliveries. I comb over the days, which have all blended together in a blur, alike as they are for me. It’s Saturday. Not Monday or Tuesday, when our deliveries usually arrive. Perhaps it’s Georgia Merritt, or one of the other neighbors, come to call.

I place the mop in the pail, pat my mussed hair, and smooth my stained apron over my dress before going to the door and opening it. Louise stands there, blinking at me, dressed in airy summer lawn, her younger sister, Pauline, at her side, dour as usual. “Sadie, my goodness! Look at you.”

“Louise. This is a surprise.”

“I told you we were coming for a visit weeks ago, over the telephone. Don’t you remember?”

Oh yes. The call where she gloated over telling me about Ted and his new mistress. She did mention visiting around Labor Day, but I’d forgotten entirely.

“Didn’t you get my telegram?” she asks, whisking into the house and removing her gloves, plain Pauline at her heels like a loyal mutt. “I sent it on Tuesday. To remind you of our arrival. I asked you to send Aunt Marg’s driver to the station to fetch us. We had to hire a cab instead.”

I think of the unopened mail sitting on the tray in the parlor—a task I’d meant to get to but had also forgotten. “I must have overlooked it.”

“Oh well. We’re here now, aren’t we? Children!” Louise calls over her shoulder. A tumult of footsteps clatters across the porch, then three bright-blond heads emerge, pushing past Pauline as they run into the house. Dottie, Philip, and Katie, if I’ve remembered correctly. They spread out, shrieking, everywhere all at once. A crash comes from the parlor, and I wince, thinking of Marguerite’s priceless Ming vase.

“Louise ...” I begin, but she’s already off, sweeping through the rooms, peeking behind doors, running her hands over everything.

“I’d forgotten how simply gorgeous this house is!” she coos.

“I’ll see if I can find something to eat for you all. You must be famished.” Another loud bang echoes from down the hall, followed by a childish giggle. “Shouldn’t you watch over them?”

Louise laughs. “Oh, they won’t hurt anything.”

I blink at her, incredulous, pasting a smile on my face. “Well. I’ll go see what I can rustle up.”

“Don’t you have a maid to do that? Or a cook?” Pauline asks.

“Our maid quit us last month. She had a death in the family. We haven’t found a replacement yet.”

Pauline sniffs and sits in Marguerite’s armchair, crossing her arms.

“I’ll just ... go make us some tea. Be back in a jiffy.”

I fill the kettle and place it on the stove, stoking the embers, my irritation rising along with the heat. My cousins and I have always had a contentious relationship, and I very much suspect Louise’s motives in coming here are similar to my brother’s. Everyone wants a piece of my aunt. They’re eager to get their hooks in now, before Marguerite passes away. Until she fell ill, she’d only ever been a name on a guest list for family weddings or a scandalous topic of conversation. While I’ll admit my own motives for coming here were in line with theirs, to some degree, at least at first, a fierce protectiveness has replaced my earlier designs. My great-aunt is still very much alive. She is a person with memories, feelings, and intrinsic worth, deserving of respect and dignity. This house, and whatever else Marguerite’s estate entails, should go to whomever Marguerite wishes. I need to find that deed—and a will, if it exists—and soon.

From the kitchen, I can hear Harriet and Marguerite outside in the gardens. I look through the window, watching as Marguerite bends to sniff a rose and says something to Harriet, who laughs. I’m bringing the tea service to the parlor when they come in. “Aunt Marg, we have company,” I call. “Louise and Pauline came with the children.”

“Who?” she responds, squinting at Pauline as they meet us in the parlor.

“Grace’s girls,” I say, motioning to my younger cousin, “Pauline and Louise, who must have gone ... somewhere.”

“Hello, Aunt Marg.” Pauline rises and kisses Marguerite on both cheeks, then assesses Harriet coolly. “So you do have help.”

Harriet’s eyes dart to mine.

“She’s not a maid, Pauline,” I say. “She’s Aunt Marg’s nurse. Harriet Boyd.”

“I see.” Pauline smiles smugly, returning to the chair.

“That’s Aunt Marg’s chair, Pauline. Could you choose another seat, please?”

I place the tea service on the coffee table as Pauline vacates the chair with a dramatic sigh. Harriet helps Marguerite get settled, then hastily departs as Louise bustles in, clutching two children. The smallest, Katie, follows with a bedraggled palm frond in her hand, dirt smeared over her dress.

“I’m so sorry. She knocked over one of your palms,” Louise says. “There’s a mess in the hall.”

That would explain the crash I heard.

“How are you, Auntie?” Louise trills, letting go of the children and bending to kiss Marguerite on the cheek before perching on the edge of the sofa next to Pauline. The children paw at the tea biscuits, sending crumbs scattering all over the Turkish rug. I hide my clenched teeth behind a smile.

A look of confusion darts over Marguerite’s face. “Who are all of you again?”

“Oh.” Louise pats at the lace collar adorning her dress. “I’m Louise. Your great-niece? Grace’s daughter. This is my sister, Pauline. And these are my children.” She plunks Katie, naughty thing, on her knee. “Katie is my youngest. Dottie and Philip are the twins.”

Philip suddenly screeches and makes a beeline for the stairs. I run after him, anticipating the havoc he’ll wreak unattended. I grasp him around the waist as he reaches the second-floor landing, and haul him, kicking and screaming, back to his mother. “Goodness, Louise. How on earth do you manage the three of them?”

“Oh, I don’t, darling.” She takes a dainty sip of her tea. “That’s what Greta is for. Our nanny. She couldn’t come with us and I’m worn through because of it.”

More’s the pity. “How long do you intend to stay?”

“Until Monday. Labor Day. We’re taking the afternoon train back.”

I nearly fall to the floor. Three whole days of this chaos.

“Did you get a hotel?”

“Of course not. Aunt Marg has plenty of room here, don’t you, Auntie?”

“Yes, dear. I’ll have Melva make up the spare bedrooms.”

“We don’t have Melva anymore, Aunt Marg,” I say, doing my best to hold my smile. “Remember?”

“Oh, that’s right.” Marguerite tut-tuts. “My head isn’t on straight these days.”

I sigh. “I’ll air out the spare bedrooms, after dinner.”

“You seem out of sorts, Sadie,” Pauline says, peering at me with her beady eyes. “What’s the matter?”

If one more person asks me what’s wrong or why I’m out of sorts, I’ll burst. Instead, I school my face into what I hope is a pleasant expression. “Oh, nothing’s the matter. It’s so lovely you’re all here. Truly. How’s your tea, Pauline?”

“I usually drink orange pekoe, but this will do,” she says, lifting her cup of Lipton and eyeing it with suspicion. “And Louise prefers Earl Grey, don’t you, sister?”

“Yes, but I’m not picky. You’re being rude, Pauline,” she scolds in a stage whisper.

Katie soon falls asleep on her mother’s lap while the twins sit at her feet and gamely shred the palm frond. The clock ticks on as our conversation devolves into chatter about the weather until the tea has gone cold and my patience is worn as thin as my pocketbook. Louise tries to liven things up with society gossip from Kansas City about people I barely know and Marguerite can’t remember. It’s at times like this that I realize just how little I have in common with my cousins. At a loss for anything else to talk about, I switch on the radio, and we all listen to a program about the benefits of daily calisthenics. Harriet comes to take Marguerite’s blood pressure, then leaves for the evening, giving me a sympathetic look on her way out. As the minutes march toward dusk, Marguerite dozes off, head tilted backward, mouth agape. The children run about, then settle, then run around again. All I can think about is the work ahead of me.

When Beckett comes in after his chores and sees us all gathered in the parlor, he hastily doffs his cap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know we had visitors.”

Louise’s head whips toward him, a vixenish smile tracing her lips. “Who’s this, Sadie?”

“Oh. This is Beckett—Mr. Hill. Aunt Marg’s gardener and chauffeur.” My eyes catch Beckett’s and hold for the briefest moment. “And currently, our cook. He’s very good.”

“What a relief! I’ve been wondering who would make dinner. You must be a better cook than our Sadie,” Louise says. “She could burn water.”

“Very funny, Louise,” I say, rolling my eyes.

Little Katie wakes, her blond curls falling in her face.

“And who might you be?” Beckett asks.

“Katie,” she says, grinning, until she looks down and sees the shredded palm frond on the floor and immediately starts crying. “My flower!”

“I have a set of wooden blocks, in my cottage. I can bring them if you’d like,” Beckett offers.

“Would you?” Louise says, relief flooding her features. “I’m at my wit’s end with these children.”

Beckett returns a few minutes later with the blocks. The children gather around him, clambering over his lap as he laughs and shows them how to build a house, and then a bridge. Marguerite wakes with a startled snore and looks around in confusion at the people who have become strangers once more. I go to her, take her hand, and explain who they all are again. Together, we watch the children play with Beckett, and suddenly, this unexpected family gathering doesn’t seem so bad, after all.

“I’d better start dinner,” Beckett says, gently setting Katie on the floor. She pushes out her lower lip in a pout. “We’ll play later. I promise.”

I follow Beckett into the kitchen, where he washes his hands and then begins peeling potatoes.

“Can I help you? With dinner?” I smile at him. “I mean to prove Louise wrong.”

“If you like.” He pushes a handful of potatoes toward me, and I fetch a paring knife from the cupboard and begin peeling them.

“I’m sorry to spring all of this on you,” I say. “I didn’t know they were coming.”

“Your family has a habit of showing up unannounced, don’t they?” He tosses me that wry grin of his, and a frisson of delight runs through me. It’s good to talk to him again. I’ve missed our banter.

“Louise claims she telegrammed to tell us she was coming. But I didn’t see it.”

He places the potatoes into a pot, running water over them, his forearms flexing as he works. I remember what it felt like to have those arms wrapped around me that morning in the rain, wearing nothing but his shirt. I’d been soaked to the bone, but his scent and warmth had enveloped me. Sheltered me from shame.

“Beckett ... shouldn’t we talk? About what’s happened between us?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“We can’t keep ignoring one another. Even Marguerite’s noticed the tension between us.”

He sighs, leaning against the countertop. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what to say. You started sleepwalking again. Slipping away, like before. You’ve thrown yourself at me, several times. You might not remember it, but you did, thinking I was him.” He clears his throat and studies his boots, his ears growing red. “Marguerite doesn’t want me to, but I’m going to have to build a fence. You almost fell from the bluff the other night.”

My words rush out, filling the awkward silence. “Marguerite told me. I’m sorry for anything I might have done, in that state. You’ve been keeping me safe. Protecting my dignity. Thank you for watching out for me.”

“Any decent man would do the same.”

“Well, I haven’t known very many decent men in my life, I’m afraid.” I wipe my hands on my apron, suddenly shy. “I’ve not had the best history, Beckett. I tend to attract men who are less than ... honorable. I don’t know why. But you should know I’m in my right mind again, and I’ve gotten rid of that painting.”

“What?” He lifts his head.

“Weston’s portrait. I tossed it over the bluff. You were right. I was beguiled, just like Sybil. Aunt Marg warned me, too. Told me what I had with him wasn’t real. That it was dangerous, and I believe her. I believe both of you.” I shake my head. “I was foolish. Reckless.”

“Sadie ... you don’t have to ... you don’t owe me any explanation.”

“But I do. Because I’ve come to realize I care a great deal about what you think of me, Beckett. You’re a good man. I’ve watched you, with Marguerite and just now, with my little cousins. I’m so sorry I ever doubted you.”

I rush from the kitchen before he can respond, before he sees the unexpected tears brimming in my eyes. I don’t stop until I’ve reached my attic room, where the horrific sight of Weston’s portrait greets me, propped proudly atop my dresser, unblemished, his sardonic smile mocking me.