Page 45

October 27, 1925

I hear nothing further from my brother after our phone call, although I expect some sort of threatening legal letter to arrive any day now, demanding my cooperation in his attempt to seize Marguerite’s estate. Instead, things remain deceptively peaceful as autumn fades slowly toward winter. I’ve made three attempts to reenter Iris’s world since the night I discovered the truth of my mother’s birth, to no avail. It’s as if she’s withholding the rest of the story. But why? Almost everyone who might be affected by what happened back then has passed away. It makes no sense.

I take a drink of coffee and stand looking at the morning fog through the library windows as Marguerite paints, the blaze of maples in the distance bright against the gray.

Beckett emerges from the dim, hauling a wheelbarrow to collect the fallen hedge apples from the lawn. He’s had a surge of industriousness before winter. Since my return, he’s built a handsome split-rail fence along the edge of the bluff, which has greatly improved everyone’s peace of mind and done little to sully Marguerite’s view of the valley below. Our marriage isn’t at all what I expected when I was a girl, but I fall more in love with him every day. His quiet steadiness grounds me, keeps me tethered to reality.

“Mrs. Hill?” Harriet says after clearing her throat. “May I speak with you?”

“Certainly.” I follow her down the hall, concerned by the expression on her face. She leads me to the sofa in the parlor, and we sit side by side. “Is something the matter?”

She shakes her head. “No, ma’am.” Her hand flits lightly to her stomach. “It’s just that ... I need to let you know I’m in the family way.”

I’ve noticed the booties she’s been knitting, but I assumed they were for a friend’s or a relative’s baby. “Well, that’s wonderful news, Harriet!”

When Harriet doesn’t return my smile, I know. Dread rolls through me. “You’re not leaving us, are you?”

“I ... I can’t. I can’t afford to. But my midwife wants me off my feet. My last pregnancy was a difficult one. I went into labor too early, and the baby ... she didn’t survive.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” Harriet drops her head. “This one was a surprise.”

“Well, you must think of your health and the baby’s. Let me talk to Beckett and Marguerite. See if we can afford to pay you to take a leave. You can come back after the baby is born. Whenever you’re ready.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course we would.”

She pulls in a dignified breath before continuing. “I’ll just take a couple weeks off, after the baby comes, then return to work as soon as I can. I just worry Miss Thorne won’t be with us by then.”

We share a long look in the space between words because she’s probably right.

“You already know how to do everything for her, but I’ll still call to check in on you from time to time. My neighbor has a telephone she lets me use. I’ll give you her name, in case you need to call me.”

“That’s very kind of you, Harriet.”

“Well. Miss Thorne has been very kind to me. So have you. That’s not often the case with white folk.”

I squeeze her hand. “You’ll always have a place here with us.”

Even though Harriet’s departure comes with more warning than Melva’s, and Harriet has schooled me well in caring for Marguerite, my mind swirls with anxiety. I think about my long days, and how they’ll soon be even longer. The overwhelm I already feel crests like a gigantic wave, threatening to crash over me and pull me under.

I wait until Harriet returns to her duties, then go to the powder room on the first floor and sob into a towel to muffle the sound. I think of how much I wanted this house to be mine. My inheritance. But now ... the monstrous responsibility of it all threatens to consume me. We’ve had no luck finding help after Melva’s departure, and I don’t have high hopes for Harriet’s return—despite her best intentions. With three children underfoot, she’ll have her hands full at home.

I pull myself together and pat my face with a cool washcloth to soothe the blotchy redness from my cheeks. I run into Beckett on my way to the kitchen. He reads my face immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“Harriet is expecting. She needs to take a leave of absence. I don’t know how we’ll manage without her, but I wonder if we might pay her while she’s away, to help ease her burden.”

“Of course.” Beckett pulls me close. “It’s nearly winter. I won’t have to do as much work on the grounds. I’ll be able to help more with Marguerite. We’ll get through this, darling.”

Beckett always brings me back down to earth, when my anxieties threaten to send me into a tailspin. He pulls away from me, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. “I need to burn some brush. I could build a fire, in the stone cottage. Why don’t you find a reason to slip away? Make the most of the time we have left with Harriet here.”

“I think I could manage that.”

He kisses me, nuzzling my neck with his nose. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

I bring tea to the library and tell Harriet I’m helping Beckett with his work, ignoring her sly smile and arched brow, then make my way to the cozy stone cottage. Beckett is waiting for me next to the crackling fire, the bed turned down in anticipation. As the day rolls on toward afternoon, the patter of soft rain against the shingles makes for a pleasing accompaniment to our leisurely lovemaking.

After, I curl against Beckett’s chest, contemplative. “Do you think we should have a baby, Beck?”

“Only if you want,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “We can be more careful, if not.”

I think of my grandmother, Marguerite, and Harriet—all of whom had difficult pregnancies and deliveries. But my own mother didn’t. My brothers and I were born without complication. While a part of me is terrified of being pregnant and then bringing a child into this world, with all its horrors and troubles, I consider how wonderful it would feel to see my and Beckett’s love reflected in our child’s eyes. I imagine the unique blend of our features. Our personalities.

“I don’t want to be careful,” I say, lacing my fingers with his. “I think we should let fate take its course. I’ll be happy, and settled, either way.”

“Even if our baby is born like me?” he asks, a tinge of sadness in his tone. “It could happen.”

“And it might not.” I turn to him. “But if it does, we’ll make sure he or she has all the help and care we can afford. We’ll cope. Besides, do you think your mother regretted your birth for one second?”

“No,” he answers. “She always reassured me of that.”

“Then I’m willing to take the chance if you are.” I run my fingers through his thick chestnut waves. “I know one thing ... our baby had better get your glorious hair and eyes.”

Later, we return to the house, hand in hand. Harriet greets us at the door, her eyes tired. “Marguerite is in some sort of state all of a sudden. I can’t get her to respond to me.”

“What happened?”

“She finished that painting, then seemed to slip into some sort of trance.”

“The self-portrait?”

“Yes.”

I rush to the library, Beckett behind me.

I find Marguerite sitting in the chair in front of her easel, her lips moving soundlessly, eyes glazed over.

“She’s just asleep,” I say, pulling a chair next to hers. I have a feeling I know what’s happened. What she’s done. The self-portrait is finished now. It’s another portal into the past. One she’s walked through this time. Her sisters stand in the background, their faces fully rendered. I see Claire blink, see Florence’s hem ripple in the wind. The familiar vertigo washes over me. “She’s dreaming and we don’t want to wake her by force. Leave me with her. I’ll watch over her until she wakes. Beck, close the doors when you leave.”

“Sadie ...” Beckett gives me a concerned look. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve gone pale as a ghost.”

“I’ll be fine. Please. Just trust me.”

He squeezes my shoulder, and he and Harriet depart. “Show me what you’re seeing, Aunt Marg,” I say, after the library doors close. I take Marguerite’s limp hand in mine, reach toward the painting with the other, and pull in a steadying breath as the past opens to me once more.