Page 33

Interlude

Hugh

It is late in the day—near sunset—the clouds tinted pink. Sadie sits up, getting her bearings. A brisk chill barbs the air. Autumnal gold and scarlet cloaks the trees. As she makes her way through the underbrush, Sadie slowly recognizes the area from her girlhood—when it was the golf course and country club Papa James belonged to. Now, in this time, the road that will one day become Ward Parkway is nothing more than a dirt lane winding alongside Brush Creek, cutting through a swath of picturesque but still wild land, where one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War took place. Her family’s Brookside mansion had served as a field hospital in the aftermath.

The clatter of hoofbeats rings on the packed earthen road. Sadie steps back into the trees as two horses bolt past her. She recognizes Pepper’s Appaloosa coat immediately. Marguerite sits astride him, trailed by Hugh on a bay mare. Marguerite reins in her horse and glances over her shoulder, smiling playfully at Hugh, then steers Pepper onto a path through the woods.

Sadie races to follow as they ride side by side, talking in low voices. She can hear the creek’s muffled rill, Marguerite’s girlish laughter in harmony with the water. Sadie catches up and inches forward, peering through a maple tree’s branches. Marguerite and Hugh sit at the edge of the creek, his arm draped around her waist, her head resting on his shoulder as the horses drink from the creek’s crystal clear waters.

“I don’t want to go. I’ll plead sick,” Marguerite says.

“But you must, Maggie,” Hugh says. “They’ll be suspicious if you beg off.”

“Florence said the same thing.” Marguerite sighs. “Papa won’t let it rest. I’m a burden on his finances. So is Claire. He’s bound to see me betrothed by year’s end.”

“Try not to think about that.” Hugh raises Marguerite’s hand to his lips, presses a kiss to her skin. “Play their game while I figure things out. I’ve been saving everything I can. I almost have enough for a wagon and a team. There’s a group of Irish going to Colorado this spring. We can head out West with them once winter breaks.”

“That long?”

“We can’t make the journey this late in the year. It’s too dangerous.”

“Does your da know your plans?” Marguerite asks.

Hugh shakes his head. “No. Only Mam, and she swears she won’t tell him.” He turns to Marguerite, cupping her face in his hands. “It’s all going to work out, Maggie. You’ll see.”

Sadie turns her head as their affections become more needful and passionate. Hugh stands and leads Marguerite deeper into the forest. The scene flickers, the trees fading, replaced by the Brookside mansion’s gravel drive. It is twilight now, and the front gardens are drenched in a deep, gloaming blue as Marguerite trots past on Pepper, alongside Hugh on his horse. Florence stands in front of the mansion’s raised porch, her arms crossed. She’s dressed in a modest lavender shot silk gown—half-mourning, probably for Papa James’s father, who died in 1878. Her pale hair is gathered becomingly atop her head. Diamonds sparkle at her neck. In her ears. “Where have you been?” she scolds, eyes narrowing as her gaze travels up and down Marguerite’s form. “James will be here with our carriage any minute.”

Marguerite dismounts, and Hugh leads Pepper away, still astride the bay mare. He sends a lingering look over his shoulder at Marguerite. An inexplicable shudder travels through Sadie’s stomach. Something terrible is going to happen tonight.

Florence grasps Marguerite by the arm and marches her inside. “Papa is upset with you. I heard him arguing with Maman earlier. We need to get you into your gown and do something with your hair before he wakes from his nap.”

Marguerite pulls free from Florence’s grasp. “I haven’t been feeling well, Flor. I don’t want to go.”

“You must, you little fool. It won’t be long before everyone knows what you’ve been doing. I’m trying my best to protect you!”

Marguerite flounces past Florence and rushes up the stairs. Sadie trails them as they go to a bedroom she slept in many times when she was little, when Mama and Da went out for the evening and Grandmother tucked her into the plush bed with its pleated, satin tester.

Florence hastily begins helping Marguerite undress, unbuttoning the bodice of her riding habit. “Frank Wornall will be there. One of Colonel Swope’s nephews, too. Either of them would be a good match for you.”

Marguerite steps out of her skirt and petticoats as Florence rushes to the wardrobe, flinging open the mirrored doors. “You must wear your lowest-cut gown, tonight, Marg. The green one. I’ll corset you as tightly as I can.”

“Flor, stop. Please. We have a plan. Hugh and I are going to Colorado, in the spring. We’re joining a wagon train.”

Florence stands very still. “You can’t. Do you know how dangerous that is? You could die, Marg. Indians. Cholera ... any number of things. I won’t let you do that.”

Marguerite’s jaw clenches. “You won’t let me?”

“Someone has to look out for you. You’ve been very lucky. But everyone’s luck runs out eventually.” Florence pulls a green gown trimmed with gold ribbons from the wardrobe. “Here. This one.”

Marguerite crosses her arms, standing there in her corset and drawers, her face aflame. “I told you, I’m not going to the ball.”

Florence tosses the gown onto the bed, squaring up to Marguerite. “Your stubbornness will be your undoing. This thing between you and Hugh must end. I understand how you feel. God knows I do. But you must put your duty to your family first. Before your own happiness.”

“I suppose you know all about that.” Marguerite laughs, shakes her head. She sits on the edge of the bed. “Shall I marry Frank Wornall then, to appease Papa, and keep Hugh as my lover? Will you teach me how to deceive my husband, Flor?”

Florence wilts. “Yes. If that’s what it takes, I will. Right now, you’re blinded by romantic notions. But marriage isn’t about romance. Not at all.”

“It should be. You should marry for love.”

“In a perfect world, yes. Everyone would marry for love. I’d have run away with Weston, if I could have. But I couldn’t. And neither can you, darling. I won’t stand by and let you ruin your life.” Florence gentles her voice. “Now come. Get dressed. You’re going to look ravishing tonight.”

Marguerite rises, reluctantly, and crosses to Florence, who turns her and begins loosening the laces in her corset. “You’re lucky. You can’t see it now, but you are. You’re going to make your husband very happy.”

The sisters fade from view, the darkness closing in around them, the uncomfortable feeling of dread lodging deep in Sadie’s spine.