Page 44

October 22, 1925

I sit by myself for a long time that morning, thinking over everything I witnessed. I have no reason to doubt the truth of what Iris showed me—that Marguerite is my grandmother by birth. It’s no wonder that she took the news of Mama’s death so hard. After my tears are spent and I’ve considered the words I want to say, I wipe my eyes and go to Marguerite. Harriet looks up from her knitting as I enter the library, which has become our favorite room as fall’s chill sets in. I ask Harriet to leave us, and she does so graciously, eyeing the items cradled in my hands. I pull a chair next to Marguerite at her easel and sit, but her concentration never wavers. Her brush makes smooth, delicate swirls through the paint. Even though her hand often trembles when lifting her fork or a teacup, the tremors seem to dissipate when she paints. The self-portrait is nearly done, Marguerite’s young features fully formed. The figures in the background have taken on more presence as well—two girls dressed in summer muslin, one blond, the other redheaded. Though their features are still vague, I know it’s Florence and Claire.

“Aunt Marg,” I say softly, “I was hoping we could talk. How are you feeling today?”

“Oh, hello, dear. I’m well enough, I suppose.”

“You’re almost finished.” I gesture to the painting. “Tell me what’s happening here, in this moment.”

Marguerite smiles. “The beginning of everything,” she says cryptically.

“Everything?”

“Yes. I remember that day so well.”

“I found something you were looking for.” I lift the unfinished portrait of my mother from my lap and show it to her, along with the lock of red-gold hair.

Her hands fly to her face. “Penny.”

“I never knew Mama wanted to be a nun,” I say.

Realization slowly dawns on Marguerite’s face. “You know.”

“Yes. You never had tuberculosis, did you?”

She shakes her head, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. I reach for Marguerite’s hand, my own emotions still near the surface, ready to break free at any moment. “Why don’t you tell me everything. I think it’s time. Florence is gone now. So is Mama. I’m ready to listen—to help ease some of your burden.”

Marguerite’s lip trembles. “How much do you know?”

“Not everything, but enough. And I’m so very sorry that things happened the way they did.”

Marguerite traces my mother’s painted profile with a slender finger. “She had Hugh’s nose and his chin, but my eyes—the Thorne eyes. You have them, too. And to answer your question, she didn’t want to be a nun. She only became a postulant to get away from Florence. From home. That’s why I talked her out of taking her final vows.”

It’s a revelation, hearing her speak the truth aloud, one that shakes me to my foundation. Even though I saw my mother’s birth in the scene Iris showed me, a part of me had still wondered whether it was an invention of my mind. A strange dream. Now there can be no doubt. A tear escapes my eye. I wipe it away, determined not to succumb to my emotions.

“When your aunt Grace was born, Florence nearly died. She hemorrhaged and had to have a hysterectomy. She’d always wanted more children ... always wanted to be a mother. When I became pregnant, she saw the opportunity. When I refused to marry the men she threw at me, early in my pregnancy, she told Papa about me and Hugh. Our plans to run away. She claims she did it to protect me—couched it as if taking Laura off my hands was a blessing. A favor. And in some ways, it was.” Marguerite gestures toward her paintings. “After all, if I’d run away with him and kept the baby, I wouldn’t have had the opportunities I had. To travel. To study.” She pats her heart. “But there was always an emptiness here. I loved her so very, very much. More than I thought I ever could love someone.”

“Did Grandmother let you see her?”

“No. Not really. Only on holidays and the like. I’d get the occasional picture, with Florence’s letters. Laura started writing to me in her teenage years. I became her confidante. It was wrong of me, of course. She had a mother. But I longed for anything I might have of her. Once she went to the convent, I visited her as much as her Mother Superior would allow. Which wasn’t often ... but all the same, I was glad for any opportunity to see her.” Marguerite smiles. “When she left the Sisters and took up with Duke shortly after, Florence was furious. Cut her off. I started sending Laura money. I helped them out a lot, over the years.”

“Did Mama ever know the truth?”

Marguerite sighs. “I never told her. I promised Florence I wouldn’t. Besides, what good would have come of her knowing? I had carried her in my body, and then I carried her in my heart. Even though it wasn’t enough, I knew keeping the secret was for the best. And I enjoyed being the doting aunt. Florence had taken her from me, and yes, I was bitter. Angry. But I refused to make Laura—Penny—suffer for it.”

I squeeze Marguerite’s hand. “You loved her more than you loved yourself. And that’s noble of you, Aunt Marg. Selfless.”

“Perhaps.” Marguerite shakes her head. “But if I had it all to do over again, I’d never have signed those papers. I’d have found a way to keep her. I regret it to this day.”

We sit in silence for a while, contemplating what might have been, the portrait of Penny perched in front of Hugh’s likeness. I can see the resemblance clearly now, with them side by side. Can see it in myself. I have my grandfather’s bronze-blond hair. The dimple in his left cheek. Possibilities crowd my mind. If Marguerite and Hugh had run away together and gotten married, would my mother have grown up in some Colorado mining town? Or in Ireland? Would Mama and Da have ever met? Would my brothers and I have existed at all? It’s a lot to ponder. To consider. Not that any of these conjectures, these theories of fate and chance, truly matter. Because here we are now, in this moment, bound by common blood and choices made. And while I have some of the answers to my questions about Marguerite’s past, a knot of dread remains lodged in my gut. There are still missing pieces, concerning Marguerite and her sisters and something terrible that happened on a holiday by the sea two years after my mother was born.

The next day, Peter Bruce comes with two witnesses, a stenographer, and a notary. Marguerite’s state of mind is keen and her hand steady as she signs her name to the documents. The will is duplicated, signed by both witnesses, notarized, and sealed. I place my and Beckett’s copy safely inside my dresser, beneath my underthings.

The telephone rings not half an hour after Mr. Bruce and his entourage depart. “Hello?” I answer, out of breath from my jog down the stairs.

“Sadie! It’s Felix.”

My stomach drops. It’s as if he has a sixth sense.

“How’s Florida?” I ask, my mouth gone dry.

“Oh, it’s grand! You should see Rosalie’s suntan. She’s always in our swimming pool.”

“How nice. How are the boys?”

“Good, good. Say, have you had any luck finding Aunt Marg’s will? Rosalie said you never answered her letter.”

Dammit. I lean my forehead against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. “There’s a will, yes.”

“Well, what does it say?”

“Listen, Felix, I can’t talk right now. Dinner’s on. I need to see to it.”

“Sadie, come on. It’s only two o’clock there and you don’t cook. What are you hiding?” His voice grows stern. “What does the will say?”

My mind grasps, grapples for what I might tell him, but lying won’t change anything, and better he find out now, from afar, than in person. I pull in a shaky breath. “First of all, before you get angry with me, as I know you surely will, you need to know we’ve thought everything through very carefully.”

“What are you talking about? Who is we ?”

“Marguerite, Beckett, and I.”

“Beckett? The chauffeur?” He barks a laugh. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“He’s my husband now,” I say. “Beckett and I got married. This week.”

The line goes deathly quiet.

“I know you’re upset with me. But this is my life to live, Felix. This is my home now, here with Marguerite and Beck.”

He sighs. “You’ve always been impulsive. But this ... this astounds me, Sadie. Marrying the help. What would Mother think? Grandmother?”

“Mama would like him. I know she would. And I don’t give a whit what Grandmother would think.”

“Very well. If you’re determined to make a wreck of your life, that’s your choice. Seeing as you’re a married woman now, you’ll no longer need an allowance. This month’s check will be the last.”

“You can’t do that. Da intended that money for me.”

“Until you married. That’s what his will said. That your monthly stipend will continue until the termination of your life or until you marry, whichever occurs first, at which point it reverts to me. Now. What does Marguerite’s will say? Specifically, please. And if you think to deceive me, know that I have ways of going above your head.”

Felix’s voice has grown cold. Clipped and mechanical.

“She wanted everything to go to Mama. The house. Her accounts. All of it. Down to the silverware.”

“I see. How unusual. Seeing as Mother’s dead, we’ll need to get the will redrafted with a proxy to speak on Marguerite’s behalf; otherwise Aunt Grace is next in the line of consanguinity and stands to inherit everything if Marguerite dies intestate.”

I won’t tell him the truth about our lineage unless I’m forced to, but I must tell him the rest. I press my lips together and say a silent prayer for strength. “Aunt Marg ... already had the will redrafted. She made her wishes very clear. She wants me to have the house. Me and Beckett, together.”

Felix laughs. He laughs so loudly and heartily that I nearly drop the phone. “She’s in no state of mind to declare her wishes. She’s incompetent. Did you coerce her? You must have. You do realize if a will is written under duress, it’s not legally binding.”

“There was no coercion. Her attorney reassured us it was all upstanding and legal, Felix.”

“Well. We’ll see about that, won’t we? What absolute and utter bull, Sadie.”

My anger flares then, boiling my guts. “When Mama died, you took everything . Both houses. Rosalie flaunts Mama’s jewelry. I only got one strand of pearls and a check for fifteen dollars a month. You are despicable, Felix. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I used to think you were a good person. What happened?”

The line goes silent, and I realize he’s hung up on me. I replace the receiver, my hands shaking. I think of the time Felix wanted the handsome Gladiator bicycle our cousin Beau had received from Marguerite at Christmastime. Felix claimed she’d intended it for him, since Beau favored riding horses, not cycles. He’d argued that the Hermès saddle he’d received was meant for Beau, and Aunt Marg had accidentally tagged them wrong in the shipment. His argument was so firm, so solid, that the adults caved to his charming manipulations. He’d won the bicycle and taken it out for a ride after Christmas dinner, leaving Beau in tears, the saddle in his lap. Beau had half a dozen saddles already, a point I’d argued to no avail, because Felix always got what he wanted. He was the golden child. And just like Beau’s bicycle, if he wanted Blackberry Grange badly enough, he’d find a way to take it from me.

In speaking my mind, in asserting myself, I’ve shaken our already fragile bond and made an enemy.