Page 31

September 18, 1925

The morning after my meeting with Blanche, I find Marguerite’s bed empty, covers knotted and twisted, as if she wrestled someone—or something—in her sleep. Thunder crashes, shaking the house. The light patter of rain that began late last night has become a deluge, water sheeting sideways against the clapboards, the sky an ominous shade of green. I frantically search the rooms upstairs and down for Marguerite as the lights flicker, threatening to plunge the house into darkness.

I quickly amass as many oil lamps as I can find, and place them on the dining room table, just in case we need them. If we lose power on this hillside, it might be weeks before it’s restored. The roads have already washed out—Harriet phoned to say she couldn’t get to us shortly before I discovered Marguerite missing.

Beckett meets me in the hall, dressed in his rain slicker and hat, his face solemn. “I’ll search the grounds. She might have gotten outside.”

“Did you hear anything last night?”

“No, not a thing. But this noise could drown out anything.” Thunder rumbles through the house again, shaking the floor. He gives me a tight smile. “We’ll find her, Sadie. Try not to worry.”

“Be careful.”

He squeezes my shoulder and goes out the front door, letting in the roar of the rain.

After I’ve finished my fruitless search of the second floor, I go to the library and then up to the tower room, hoping to find Marguerite in her favored hideaway. It’s empty, but the canvas with the likeness of the young girl is uncovered, and a palette with fresh paint lies on the floor, next to a low-burning kerosene lamp and a tumbler of brushes soaking in turpentine. She’s been here. Recently. And somehow, she’d found turpentine, even though I’d taken on the task of cleaning her brushes to keep all of us safe. Lightning flickers all around me, the sound of rain deafening on the ceiling. At any moment, I imagine it shattering in the howling wind, glass raining down and cutting me to shreds where I stand.

“Marguerite!” I shout, desperate. I turn in a circle, looking for anything that she might hide behind or inside.

I hear a low moan. I whirl around, my ears straining. “Aunt Marg?”

I rush to the window seat, remove the cushion, and raise the lid to reveal a storage area beneath. I find old books and papers stacked inside, spotted with mildew, but no Marguerite. A dull thumping comes from the staircase. There must be another hidden room. One I don’t know about.

Sure enough, when I make my way back down the treacherously steep steps, I notice a small door in the stairwell wall, its exterior hasp latched. Lightning flashes, illuminating the space just enough that I can see to pry it open. I spy Marguerite inside, slumped on the floor of the windowless, small room. I go back for the lamp and crawl inside.

Once inside, I can stand, just barely, my head brushing the top of the sloped ceiling. It’s a storage closet. Half-finished canvases lean against the walls, landscapes and portraits of unknown people. I rush to Marguerite’s side. To my relief, she blinks at me drowsily and pushes herself up from the floor. The lamplight reveals a thread of dried blood trailing from her left temple to her chin.

“What happened? How did you get trapped in here?”

“I ... I don’t know. I was working and needed something from this room. I can’t remember what it was. I heard a noise on the stairs. Scratching. I was worried it was those people again—the ones living in the walls. I went to see what it was, and the door slammed shut behind me and wouldn’t open. I hit my head trying to get out.”

Scratching. The same noise I heard on my first night in this house. I shudder.

“Let’s get you out of here. Beckett and I have been worried sick. He’s outside in this weather, looking for you. You shouldn’t be up here without one of us.” I don’t mean to scold, but my fatigue and fear have stolen the better part of my patience. There are so many ways Marguerite’s actions might have resulted in tragedy. Even though her injuries don’t appear serious, she could have a concussion. I think of the tumbler of turpentine next to the kerosene lamp. She could have easily knocked over the lamp and set the house ablaze again. She seems unaware of her limitations and how dangerous her delusions can be. It frustrates and frightens me.

“Here,” I say, moving to a crouch, “put your arm around my neck. I’ll help you up. Watch your head.”

I lift her to her feet as she clings to me, guiding her slowly and carefully toward the door, and down onto the narrow landing, the lamp lighting our way. She stands still for a moment once we’re out of the cubby, placing a hand on her head. “I’m so dizzy,” she says.

“I’m not surprised. I’ll telephone Dr. Gallagher, but he may not be able to make it up the hill in this storm. Harriet called earlier. She said the roads were all washed out.”

“Oh my.”

“Yes. It’s very important for you to stay close to me just in case we lose power. No more wandering off.”

“I’m sorry, Sadie.” She begins to cry, tears spilling down her face.

“It’s all right.” I soften my tone, urging her on with gentle words as we navigate the last few steps into the library. Beckett is there, to my great relief, building a fire in the hearth, his hair and clothing soaked. At the sight of us, he hurries to help, taking on Marguerite’s weight as we ease her onto the sofa. I kneel and remove her shoes, massaging her feet to warm them, then cover her lap with a quilt.

“She may have a concussion,” I say. “She hit her head pretty hard.”

“Where was she?” Beckett asks, his forehead creasing with concern.

“In a closet, off the tower stairs. She had another delusion about the strangers in the house.”

A hard clap of thunder crashes overhead. The lights flicker, once, twice, then blink out.

“I’ll fetch more lamps,” I say. “You need to go dry off, Beck. You’re half-drowned.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll stay with Marguerite until you’re back.”

I walk quickly to the dining room. The rain drums like fists on the roof, and then the sound becomes sharper still, like rocks fired from a slingshot. Hail. Fear floods through me. The last time I experienced a storm like this was in 1920, when a rash of them broke out across the Midwest on Palm Sunday. We were spared a tornado, but the hail and wind were harrowing. Now, perched as we are on the top of this bluff, I worry that we won’t be so fortunate.

I hurry back to the library, two lamps clutched in my arms. Beckett takes them from me and places them on the side tables near the sofa, removing their glass chimneys and lighting the wicks with a match. Marguerite watches him, her eyes heavy. I nudge her with my knee. “You can’t go to sleep, Aunt Marg. It’s not safe.”

“I’ll go change clothes and make some coffee. Should I call Doc Gallagher?” Beckett asks.

“You might. I’m worried. Even if he can’t come, he might tell us what we should do.” He squeezes my shoulder, and I place my hand on his, grateful for his calming presence.

Marguerite stares vacantly at the fire. “I remember now, why I went in there. I was looking for my penny.”

“Your penny?” It’s the second time I’ve heard Marguerite mention a lost penny. I wonder what could be so special about a single coin, worth very little, that could have her so fixated on finding it.

“Yes. Her portrait. Penny was beautiful. Did you know her?”

Realization dawns on me. Penny was a person. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“That’s too bad,” Marguerite says.

“Tell me about her.”

“She was tall. Willowy. She had the most beautiful voice. I used to go to Our Lady of Sorrows in secret to watch her sing in the choir. She was in the novitiate. I talked her out of taking her final vows.” Marguerite chuckles. “She was so lovely. So sweet.”

Penny must have been another of Marguerite’s lovers. This one young and a novice nun. Had Marguerite seduced her away from her order? The thought makes me slightly uneasy.

“I started painting Penny months ago, but I put her portrait in that room, and I can’t remember why. Something happened ...” Marguerite shakes her head, the heels of her hands digging into her forehead. “Oh, why can’t I remember anything?”

I coax Marguerite’s hands into mine to keep her from hurting herself. “Try to keep still, Aunt Marg. I’m sure you’ll remember where her portrait is. I can help you look for it once you’re feeling better.”

Her agitation eases and I shift our conversation to more pleasant things—Louise’s children, Beckett’s plans to build a greenhouse, and her painting of Hugh, which is nearly finished.

“Tell me more about Hugh,” I ask. “I remember you saying he was your first love. How old were you when the two of you met?” I’ve started asking Marguerite more questions lately—especially about the past. Not only to satisfy my curiosity, but to exercise her mind, to keep her thoughts agile. I’ve learned that boredom brings about agitation in Marguerite. Frustration.

“I was eleven when we first met. That’s when the Nolans came to work for us. We were fast friends almost immediately. I didn’t have any friends until Hugh, you see, only my sisters. We had a governess, so we didn’t go to school. When Hugh came, my world opened a little more. We both loved horses ...”

“Yes, you told me. You’d ride Pepper together.”

“Yes, Pepper.” Marguerite smiles. “I was quite the equestrienne. I won several ribbons riding Pepper. Show jumping. That’s what we did best.”

“What else drew you to Hugh?”

“He was fun. Ever smiling and happy. My homelife was lonely and depressing, before Hugh came. Papa was often at Annie Chambers’s brothel, and Maman was miserable because of it. Her misery carried over onto us, and Florence’s demands didn’t help matters. She was always ordering Claire and me around.” Marguerite frowns, her good mood souring.

Thankfully, Beckett returns, carrying a tray with coffee and scones. He’s dressed in clean clothes, his hair attractively mussed. He sets the tray in front of us, and I pour a cup for Marguerite and myself, flavoring hers with cream.

“I phoned Doc Gallagher,” he says, sitting in the chair closest to me. “He can’t come until tomorrow morning, but said he’d ride his mule here if he had to. He said we should keep Marguerite as calm as possible and watch her closely. If she starts having seizures, he wants us to call him immediately.”

I look over at Marguerite, whose eyes have grown heavy. She seems likely to fall asleep at any moment, even with the strong coffee. I wonder how long she’s been up, or if she even really slept at all last night. “ Should she sleep?”

“He said she could.” Beckett leans forward and lowers his voice. “But we’ll need to wake her every few hours to make sure she doesn’t slip into a coma.”

“All right. We’ll take shifts.” I rise, stretching. “I’m going to get a washcloth to clean her face.”

I see Beckett’s eyes trace my body, then flick away. I tip his chin up, forcing him to look at me. “I don’t know what I would do without you, truly,” I say, letting my thumb brush his lower lip. “And I promise, when we do have time to be alone together again, I’ll make it worth the wait.”

He closes his eyes, a faint smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “I’ll hold you to it.”

I take a lingering look at him, over my shoulder, then make my way to the downstairs powder room. The rains have slackened a bit, but the light outside the windows still holds a sickly, green tinge. I warm a cloth under running water, then wring it out. I study myself in the mirror. I look tired. Haggard. My overlong hair has escaped the coronet braid I’ve been wearing of late, unruly waves sticking out here and there. There’s an unidentifiable stain on my Peter Pan collar. I look a sight worse than I did a year ago, when my face was plump with steak dinners and I dressed to the nines on Ted’s money. He’d kept me in the latest fashions while I otherwise lived in squalor. I think of all those beautiful, beaded dresses I abandoned at the boardinghouse, and how, by this time, Mrs. Dunlop and the other women living there surely have picked through my belongings like vultures. And why shouldn’t they? I have no use for fine dresses anymore.

I’m on my way back to the library when I hear the radio kick on in the parlor. It screeches, then settles on a channel. “Beckett! The current’s back on!” I call. But then I notice that none of the lights are on. I switched them all on when I was searching for Marguerite before we lost power.

Something isn’t right about this.

My skin prickles as I turn and head for the parlor. The music from the radio grows in intensity, then fades, as if the electricity is ebbing and flowing. As soon as I near the front staircase, the radio abruptly clicks off, its lighted dials going dark.

I stand there, stock-still, listening to the wind howl like an ungodly beast. That same uncanny feeling crawls over me. The sense that I’m being watched. The radio suddenly clicks on again, music surging and filling the room, horns and strings screeching. I drop the washcloth and clap my hands over my ears.

The next moment, the room abruptly falls silent again. Whether this is a trick of electricity or something else, the utter randomness of the radio along with the somber moan of the wind have me unsettled. I bend to retrieve the washcloth and hurry down the hall, my heartbeat surging. I’m almost to the library when someone—or something—shoves me hard from behind, sending me toppling to the floor. I catch myself with my hands. Blows strike my back, as if someone is kicking me. I gasp, try to cry out for help, but my voice comes out as only a panicked whimper. And that’s when I know. It’s him. Weston. I can feel his anger all around me, just as if he were here in the flesh. I try to claw myself forward, to where daylight leaks through the bottom of the library doors, my fingers scrabbling to find purchase on the wooden floor as my ankles are lifted and I’m pulled backward on my belly, my skirt riding up. I panic, flailing against the air, against his unseen hands, until finally a ragged scream leaves my throat.

Beckett comes rushing down the hall, his eyes wide as he sees me lying there, my clothing in disarray. He kneels, helps me up. I collapse against his chest, sobbing. “It was him,” I say, clutching his shirt. “Weston. He ... he ... the radio, and then he ...”

“Shh, you’re all right. I’ve got you.” Beckett holds me tightly. “You’re safe.”

But am I? Are any of us? I think of Marguerite trapped in that tiny closet. It might have been an accident, her getting locked inside, but it might not have been. I shudder to think what might have happened if I hadn’t found her. I got a taste of Weston’s jealous, vengeful nature in that other world—his world—when I mistakenly allowed myself to fall for his charms. Now that he knows I’ve rejected him again, he could be capable of anything.

Beckett leads me back to the library, where he covers my shoulders with a blanket and presses a cup of coffee into my hand. I look over at my aunt. She’s sound asleep on the sofa, oblivious to what just happened, her lips softly parted. I begin to shake, all over, as fear settles into my bones. Despite Beckett’s calming words and promises of safety, I have a feeling nothing can protect me from Weston’s wrathful jealousy, and that our troubles are only beginning.