Page 27

September 6, 1925

I wake with a gasp. My head pounds like a drum, and my cheeks are wet with tears, the horror of what I just witnessed imprinted on my retinas. The dream was too real. The sound of Marguerite’s scream. The blood on her dress. The unnatural twist of Claire’s neck, her open eyes—those brilliant blue eyes. An angelic face I’ve only ever seen in photographs and in my visits to the past.

But Claire died of the measles.

Didn’t she?

I wake fully and realize I’m in the library. Beckett must have carried me here last night, after the fire made a mess of my room. Morning sunlight streams through the tall windows. I stretch, stiffly, the sound of conversation filtering to me from down the hall. My cousins. Memories of last night descend—my argument with Pauline. Marguerite standing before Weston’s flaming portrait. Me and Beckett, on the veranda, swaying back and forth in the porch swing. I’d wanted to kiss him.

Outside, there’s a hollow thunk as if something heavy has been dropped on the floor. “I have everything, Pauline. Carry Katie for me, would you?” They’re leaving. Pauline must have told Louise we argued. I could stay here, pretend to be asleep until they’re gone. Or I could go tell them goodbye, as I should.

With a resigned sigh, I go out to the hall, still in my stained apron and housedress. The terra-cotta pot and its uprooted palm lie on the floor, dirt scattered across the floorboards. Louise hadn’t even bothered to clean it up. Pauline greets me stiffly, Katie squirming in her arms, suitcases at her feet. “Beckett is bringing the car. We’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“I’m sorry we had harsh words last night, Pauline.”

She looks down at the top of Katie’s curly head. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have been so crass.”

“You all can stay the rest of the weekend, if you’d like.”

“That’s all right. Louise wants to get home to her nanny, and I didn’t sleep well at all last night.”

“Was your bed not comfortable?”

“It wasn’t the bed. Someone came into my room in the middle of the night. He woke me. Do you have another servant here? A man?”

I freeze in place, goose bumps trailing up my arms. “Yes,” I lie. “He sometimes works nights. A friend of Beckett’s.”

“Well. You should tell him not to come into rooms unannounced. He just stood there, staring at me. I screamed. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me. It gave me quite a fright.”

“Oh,” I say, composing my face. It must have been Pauline I heard screaming in my dream. “That won’t do at all. I’ll speak to him about it.”

I have no doubt that Weston was Pauline’s nocturnal visitor. He’s letting me know he’s still here. Watching.

Louise comes toward us, sunlight filtering through her breezy dress. The twins trail her. Philip shoves crumbling bits of pastry into his mouth, his hands grubby with jam. “Good morning, dear,” Louise says cheerfully. “Before you ask, Aunt Marg is just fine. She’s in the dining room. Beckett laid out breakfast for us.” She leans close to me, her cheek resting on mine. “He and Harriet spoke to me at length this morning,” she whispers. “It’s good that you’re here, Sadie. I mean that. And don’t worry about Pauline. She was completely out of line last night.”

She squeezes my hand and bends to lift her suitcase from the floor. I stand there, speechless, shocked by her goodwill.

“We’ll be off, then,” Louise croons. “Tell cousin Sadie goodbye, children.”

I pat the twins’ heads, and kiss Katie’s chubby cheek, and then they’re gone, leaving blessed silence in their wake. I collapse against the wall, letting out a long breath of relief, then go to the parlor, where Marguerite is sitting at the window, enjoying her coffee in a shaft of sunlight.

Harriet is making notes in her journal at the dining room table. She looks up with a faint smile as I enter. “Morning, Miss Halloran. That bunch was a lot to handle.”

“They really were.”

“I’ll help you clean up that mess in the hall, later.”

“You don’t have to. It’s not your job.”

Harriet smiles. “I know. I’m offering . But I need my coffee first. My youngest kept me up half the night.”

After Harriet excuses herself to the kitchen. Marguerite comes to the table, her eyes lighting on me. “Oh, there you are, Sybil. I was wondering where you’d gone.”

“Sadie, Aunt Marg. I slept in. I have a bit of a headache this morning. Too much wine.”

“Merlot does that to me, too. Papa favored it with dinner.”

She sits next to me, and I take her hands. “I’ve been wondering something. Do you remember how Claire died?”

“Yes,” she says, her brow furrowing. “She caught the measles. She got better, and then she got worse, all of a sudden.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure there wasn’t an accident? She didn’t fall from a cliff? Near the ocean?”

Marguerite’s eyes widen for the briefest second. I catch the look and mark it. “No. Claire was terrified of water. She never even went near the river, much less the ocean.”

“You’re certain?”

“Of course. I’d remember.”

Harriet returns and places a steaming cup of coffee and a packet of soda crackers in front of me. “I heard you say you had too much wine.” She raises a brow, and I know she’s silently judging my overindulgence. “The crackers will calm your stomach.”

After she leaves us again, I clear my throat gently. “You’re absolutely certain something else didn’t happen to Claire?”

“Why are you asking me about this?” Marguerite’s expression hardens.

I grasp at anything to get her to open up, anything to trigger her memories. “I remember something Grandmother told me once. That after Claire died, your mother was so affected she went to an asylum.”

“No. Maman grieved Claire, of course. Any mother would. But Florence was the one who went to the madhouse. I told you about that when we had coffee the other day.”

“You told me she ended up there because of Weston.”

“Yes. It was because of him. Lots of things happened because of Weston.” Her eyes cut sharply into mine. “But there are some things I’ll never tell you, child. I may be losing my mind. But I’ll take some of my secrets to the grave.”

My breath freezes in my chest. Perhaps it’s the way my aunt’s eyes grip mine. Her tone of voice. The way she opens her palms toward me, as if she’s pushing me away. For the past few weeks, so much of what I thought I knew about my family has changed, as if I’ve been looking at them through distorted glass for all these years. Now I see them more clearly. How their well-bred ways were a facade for a well-hidden darkness. Though I don’t want to believe it, there’s a chance my aunt may have murdered her own sister. I think of my dream. The knife at her feet. Her bloodstained dress. My dream may have been just that—a dream. But it had felt far too real, the details much too clear. And after all, she’d come at me with a knife, after an otherwise pleasant night spent drinking and dancing.

If Marguerite had murdered Claire, her estrangement from her family would make more sense. They wouldn’t have wanted her near them, but they also wouldn’t want her to be prosecuted. It would have ruined their good name. Perhaps they’d lied, covering up Claire’s true cause of death with a common illness—something that would be completely plausible. Grandmother told me that only Claire caught the measles, even though Claire still lived at home with the rest of her family in 1881. Even though measles was—and is—highly contagious. Suddenly, it all makes sense. Her cause of death was a lie. Just like my grandmother’s fidelity to my grandfather.

And at the root of it all?

Weston Chase. Somehow.

That evening, I’m not surprised at all when I return to the attic and see Weston’s portrait, completely restored and in pristine condition, the varnish on its surface gleaming in the setting sun as if Marguerite never set it on fire. The cruel twist of Weston’s lips has grown sharper. His steely eyes bore into mine, accusing me. Fear gathers over me, like the dark shadow of some great beast, but I push against it as I touch the canvas and will his world to open to me one last time.