Page 34

September 20, 1925

Harriet returns to work the next day. She hands me a basket of freshly baked bread and strawberry jam when she comes in. I’m so relieved to see her I set the basket on the kitchen table and hug her, catching her off guard. Tears brim in my eyes. All my emotions are too close to the surface these days. Loneliness. Worry. Frustration. Helplessness and fear of the unknown in a constant, unending loop. The dread I felt after witnessing the scene from Marguerite’s past has followed me into the present. Everything feels dire, as if I’m teetering on the edge of disaster.

Harriet pats me on the back awkwardly and pulls away, forehead wrinkling in concern. “What’s this about? Has something happened?”

I nod, wiping my eyes. “Marguerite wandered off again during the storm. She got trapped inside a closet and hit her head. She’s okay ... Dr. Gallagher came to call on her yesterday, but things are getting worse. He says we should begin to prepare for the end.”

“He’s not wrong.” Harriet sighs, pulls off her coat, and hangs it on a peg by the door. “I’ve seen the same progression with other patients. Is she eating?”

“Like a bird,” I say. “I have to remind her constantly.”

Her brown eyes are soft, sympathetic. “Are you eating? Sleeping?”

“Barely.”

“Well. I’m here now.” She squeezes my shoulder. “You need to get out of this house. Do something fun. There’s a dance at the Crescent tonight. You should go with Beckett. I’ll stay here with Marguerite and spend the night.”

“Really? You’d do that?” The thought of a night out—a night of dancing and pleasure—almost makes me drunk with relief.

“Yes.” She arches a brow, smiling knowingly. “You’re going to have a life, after your aunt is gone, Miss Halloran. Right now, it might seem like this is all there is. I know the kind of fatigue you’re feeling. I cared for my daddy before he passed. But there are thousands of tomorrows yet to come. For you.”

Beckett comes in just then, his eyes flitting to me, to the sudden flood of tears running down my face. “What’s wrong?”

“You just need to take this girl dancing tonight, Mr. Hill,” Harriet says with a sly grin. “Give her a reason to dress up. Get pretty.”

Beckett clears his throat, looking at me shyly. “I’d like that. Would you like that, Sadie?”

“Yes. I would,” I say, laughing through my tears.

“Well. Now that that’s settled, I’d better get to work.” Harriet grins at us and pushes through to the dining room.

Beckett takes my hand. I turn to him, pressing my forehead to his. “Harriet’s playing the matchmaker, too, isn’t she?”

He smiles, brushing away my tears with his thumbs. “She is.”

“I think we deserve a night out. What do you say?”

He answers me with a kiss, surprising me with his forwardness, and I melt into the sweet, earthy reality of him. A reality I never want to let go of again.

Beckett hands me out of the Duesenberg, my heart lighter than it has felt in weeks. The iridescent jet beads on my hem sway back and forth as we walk into the hotel ballroom, the bright, vibrant sounds of a five-piece jazz band flooding the lofty space decorated with bouquets of chrysanthemums, cornstalks, and sunflowers to convey the harvest theme. We’re dressed to the nines, the both of us. It felt good to get ready for a night out again—to primp and paint my face. I’ve even rouged my knees for the first time in months and pressed the sides of my hair with Marguerite’s marcel iron, pinning it back into a faux bob. Beckett looks dapper in his well-tailored suit, his chestnut waves parted in the middle and combed with pomade. He draws me forward, into the crowd, pressing me to him as we sway together to the music, our bodies aligned perfectly for dancing. We’re a handsome couple, drawing admiring glances from the locals.

Before I know it, we’re kissing, feverish and hungry, and the rest of the crowd seems to fade away. When we pull apart, breathless, Beckett closes his eyes, leaning into me again. “God, Sadie, you’re something else.”

“Say, you kids need to get a room!” someone says, followed by a shrill wolf whistle. “Who’s this sweet thing, Beck?”

“Larry,” Beckett says, his voice flat. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.” His arms lock around me possessively as the short young man with greasy blond hair looks me up and down.

“I ain’t on your route no more. After that old dame you work for opened the door naked as a jaybird, I asked Hal to change me to a town route.” Larry laughs, showing a set of crooked, yellow teeth. “Won’t ever get that image out of my mind. Holy hell.”

I feel Beckett tense. He doesn’t like this man, and neither do I. He’s crass. Loud. And he just insulted my aunt.

“Well, who’s the doll, Beck?” Larry leers at me. “Ain’t from around here. I can see that much.”

“I’m Sadie Halloran,” I say, my eyes sliding over his shabby suit. “Marguerite Thorne’s great-niece. You must be her former iceman.” I say the word with as much disdain for his station as I can muster.

Surprise lights his eyes. “Golly, Beck. You got high hopes, I see.”

“That’s enough, Larry.”

“Sure, sure.” He winks at me. “You ever want a man who can show you a real good time, sugar, you just let me know. Maybe I’ll ask Hal to change my route again.”

“I’m plenty happy right here,” I say, smiling up at Beckett.

“Lucky dog.” Larry laughs, shaking his head. “Guess if a cripple can bed a dame like you, there’s hope for me, after all.”

Anger courses through me. I slap the man, hard, before I can stop myself, my palm hot as fire. My handprint blooms in red relief against his cheek. He glowers, takes a step toward me. “You little ...”

Beckett pushes me behind him, widening his stance. We’re drawing stares from the other dancers now. “Back off, Larry. You’ve had too much to drink.”

He shakes his finger at Beckett. “I’ll remember this. Mark my words. I will. We’ll settle up later.”

“Sure,” Beckett says, laughing. “Sure we will.”

The man stalks off, muttering beneath his breath.

“You didn’t have to do that, Sadie,” Beckett says, pulling me back into his arms. “Larry’s just a kid. He’s too big for his britches and doesn’t mean half of what he says.”

“Well, I couldn’t let him insult you like that.”

Beckett nuzzles my hair. “It’s not the first time someone has called me a cripple. It won’t be the last.”

A full-figured woman steps to the front of the band, her beaded silver dress gorgeous against her deep-brown skin. The music slows as she begins to croon with a soulful alto voice. Beckett and I rock together, my heartbeat settling into its usual rhythm. I kiss his neck, where his pulse beats softly. “What do you say we get out of here while the night’s still young?” I say.

“I’d like that.”

I lead him out of the hotel, and we drive away with the top down, letting the night air cool our skin. “There’s a spring here, nearby, isn’t there?” I let my hand stray to his knee. “Somewhere we can be alone?”

He glances over at me, that sly smile lifting his cheekbones. “Yes. There’s a spring nearby. But I know a better place, not too far from here.”

We drive up and over hillsides, along gravel and dirt roads so deeply furrowed I worry we might bust a tire, trees hanging low overhead. Beckett pulls off the road, the Duesenberg’s headlamps lighting up a wall of rock covered with moss and lichen. Trickling rivulets of water flow down its face, like black tears. “There’s a hot spring behind that bluff. We’ll have to squeeze through a cleft in the rock, but no one will see us there.”

He cuts off the engine and leads me through the underbrush, with only the full moon’s light as our guide. We find the narrow cleft of rock, and Beckett eases through sideways, reaching out a hand to help me through. “Watch your step. The rocks are slippery.”

Once through, my eyes widen in wonder. The night sky stretches above us, twinkling with stars, above a steaming pond edged all around with limestone. It’s like being at the bottom of a marvelous natural bowl, carved by the gods.

“I’ve come here to bathe since I was a child. My brother and I discovered this spring when we were little. The warm water soothes my back.” Beckett lets go of my hand and removes his sport coat, laying it on a low, flat rock. “You can sit here, if you’d like.”

I remove my shoes and roll my stockings off, letting my feet dangle in the deliciously warm water as Beckett shucks his clothes until he’s down to his drawers. My eyes trace his muscled chest, the line of tawny hair leading to his waistband. With a sly grin, he turns and strips all the way, giving me a full-on view of his chiseled backside.

“And here I thought you were shy, Mr. Hill,” I tease, leaning back on my hands and watching him.

He walks forward, hands trailing through the water, sending starlight shimmering in waves across the surface. “You should join me.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

I stand and undress slowly as he watches, taking my time, letting moonlight bathe every inch of me. Even though he’s likely seen all of me before, when I was sleepwalking, tonight I’m under no delusion. Tonight, my body is a gift meant only for him. A shiver of anticipation trembles through my body as I descend into the steaming water, clad only in the pearl-and-garnet lavalier. I walk carefully along the silty bottom until I reach him in the middle of the spring, where the water laps at my waist. Heat rolls through me, uncoiling my muscles, quickening my pulse. Beckett’s eyes darken with desire as he takes me in.

I kiss him, wrapping a leg around his thigh, feeling the bloom of want at my core as I press myself against him. He’s ready, his body well primed to claim mine, but I’m determined to take my time. I don’t want either one of us to forget this. We have this night, this luxurious, beautiful span of time alone beneath the stars, without responsibility or care. I don’t intend to take a moment of it for granted.

I take his hand, show him how to touch me, how to please me. After falling apart with eager abandon, I lead him to the shallows and show him all I’m capable of, what I’ve learned about a man’s body. When I look up at him, drunk on my own power over his pleasure, he cups my face in his hands, his breath coming in sharp pants. “Sadie ... I can’t ... much longer.”

I claim his lips with my own, pushing him back onto the rocky shore and rising over him like a siren emerging from the water. He arches up to meet me, to fill me, and I cry out, triumphant as we move together, our rhythm as ancient as the land around us. Afterward, we lie still, breathing, holding one another in silence, until our skin dries in the soft breeze. When the air grows too brisk, we dress quickly, throwing bashful smiles at one another, and make our way back to the car.

On the way home, he twines his fingers with mine on the leather seat, raising my hand to his lips as he drives. “I never knew it could be like ... that,” he says. “I’ve been to peep shows, of course. Looked at pictures. But you’re like something from a beautiful dream.”

“And to think we’re only getting started,” I say, biting my lip. “To think you were worried about pleasing me.”

“Did I? Please you?”

“Oh yes.” I laugh. “More than once. Couldn’t you tell?”

He squeezes my hand. “On the nights Harriet stays over, you should come to the cottage. There’s a double bed.”

“Already thinking about an encore, I see.”

“How could I not?”

“Mmm. I’m happy. Aren’t you?”

“Very.”

I scoot closer to him, my head resting on his shoulder as the darkened countryside rolls by, the lights of town peeking through the trees. The closer we get to Blackberry Grange, the more dread fills me at the thought of returning to the house. Of what might happen.

“What’s the matter?” Beckett asks, his voice rumbling below the wind.

“I’m worried. About what might happen when we get back.”

“With Marguerite?”

“No. With him.” I can’t bear to speak his name aloud.

Beckett’s hands tense on the steering wheel. “I’ll protect you. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

“The other day when he pushed me to the floor, I was completely helpless, Beckett. I couldn’t even scream. It was terrifying.” I shudder. “I’ve been thinking about Sybil a lot. Imagining how horrific it must have been for her. And my grandmother as well.” Looking back, my grandmother’s insistence on leaving the lights on all through the night makes much more sense. While she’d hidden her fear well, she’d been kept in thrall by Weston for decades, a servant to his demented attentions.

He grows silent. “I don’t think you should sleep in the attic anymore. It’ll be too cold up there in the winter, anyway. Take the room next to mine. If anything happens, I’ll hear.”

“There’s a door between those rooms, you know.”

He chuckles. “Yes. I know. But if you come visit me, you’ll have to be much quieter than you were tonight.”

“Perhaps we’d better use the stone cottage, then,” I tease. “Nice thick walls.”

He pulls into the driveway, the windows of Blackberry Grange shining like half-shuttered eyes. I tidy my mussed hair as best I can as Beckett helps me out of the car, then drives away to garage the Duesenberg. Harriet opens the door, her lips curving into a smug smile. “Have fun?” she asks lightly, sauntering into the kitchen.

“We did.”

“I’m glad.”

“How’s Marguerite?”

“She’s been agitated most of the night. Kept wanting to go to the attic to find her penny. Do you happen to know what that’s all about?”

“A little. I thought she was talking about a lost coin, but Penny was a person. Marguerite was looking for her portrait when she got locked in that closet. I think she and Marguerite were ... friends.”

Harriet pours a cup of coffee and pushes it toward me. “Something else happened while you were gone. I wasn’t going to say anything. But after I put Marguerite to bed, I heard some noise up in the attic. At first, I thought it was my imagination.”

I brace myself, a sense of foreboding falling over me.

“The maid before Melva was always hearing things. Amanda. Seeing things. I never have, so I didn’t think much of it. But when I went up to the attic, there was a man there—just as real-looking as you or I. Dressed in old-time clothes and sitting at that rolltop desk, writing.” She takes a drink of her coffee, pursing her lips. “I closed my eyes, for just a second. When I opened them, he was gone.” She snaps her fingers. “Just like that. Now explain that to me.”

I choose my words carefully, pondering them at length before I speak. “I’ve seen him, too. On my first day here. I thought he was a servant. I asked Melva about him, and she said the other girls had seen him as well. I ... I think he’s harmless.” I feel bad about lying to Harriet, now that I know Weston is anything but harmless. But I don’t want to scare her away. We need her too much. Hopefully her seeing him will be a one-time occurrence.

“I’m not so sure that he is. Harmless.” Harriet frowns. “Amanda told me a dark-haired man locked her in the linen closet. Slammed the door on her while she was sorting laundry. She couldn’t open it for several minutes. She left after that. Melva told me he’s the reason y’all can’t keep any help. Word gets around about things like that. Folks are superstitious in these parts. People talk about Sybil Vaughn, too. They say her fall wasn’t an accident.”

“Did you know her?”

“All of that happened before my time with Marguerite. But I’d seen her around town. Young. Pretty. Beckett told me she was his cousin. She was English, so she stood out here, as you can imagine.” Harriet shrugs. “There was lots of talk when she died. Some folks say it was suicide. Some say she was pushed. Beckett saw it all happen. The sheriff suspected him, for a while.”

“Surely not.”

“There was no one else around. They had to question him.”

Even though Harriet’s words give me pause, I have no reason not to believe Beckett’s version of the story. And after Weston’s violent assault in the parlor, his angry outbursts in the other world, I know too well what he’s capable of. “Do you remember seeing a portrait of a man, with dark hair?”

“I recall seeing it a time or two.”

“It’s ... haunted.” I pull in a deep breath. “That man, in the painting, he’s the same one you and I both saw. Marguerite painted him when she was young, and his spirit is tied to that painting somehow. He was my grandmother’s secret lover for years. None of us ever knew about him.”

“That’s quite a story.” Harriet shakes her head, looking skeptical. “I don’t like to mess around with spirits and things like that. But whoever he is, he’s not going to run me off. I can promise you that.” She stands and stretches. “I’m off to bed. I’m going to sleep in Marguerite’s dressing room tonight. Hope that’s all right with you.”

“Are you comfortable in there?”

“Have you seen that dressing room?” She laughs. “It’s bigger than my house.”

“I think I’m going to move downstairs for the winter. Across the hall from Marguerite.”

“Next to Beckett?”

“Yes, Harriet,” I say, smiling. “Next to Beckett.”

“Good,” she coos. “I’ll see you lovebirds in the morning, then.”

Beckett comes in the kitchen door a few moments later. I go to him, pull him in for a lingering kiss, the memory of our lovemaking still hot in my blood. He smiles against my lips. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Not at all,” I purr.

“Me neither.”

“Marguerite’s sleeping?”

“Like a lamb.”

“Want to sneak out with me?”

“Mmm. Are you going to show me your stone cottage?”

“I plan on keeping that cottage, and you, very ... occupied, Miss Halloran.”