Page 48

Interlude

Iris

Iris stands in front of an easel in a room overlooking a fog-wreathed mountain, its grassy slope angled sharply down to the shore. Sadie approaches and sees that she’s sketching Weston. “He’s such an engaging subject, isn’t he?” Iris asks, glancing up. “It’s not just his looks, but his presence. I can see why you were taken in by him.”

“You called me here, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I did,” she says. “Because you need to know the truth, Sadie. All of it.”

Sadie looks out the window at the dramatic coastline. “We’re in California, aren’t we?”

“Yes. Big Sur, south of San Francisco. In 1881. We’re here because you need to see what happened that summer. So you can confront Marguerite with the truth and help her right the wrongs of the past before she dies.”

“I’m not sure how I can help,” Sadie says. “Aunt Marg said that I can’t interfere—that only she can change what happened in this world. In the past.”

“Yes, but what she’s doing is a waste of precious time. Painting over Weston. Destroying Florence’s manuscript. None of it will matter, because she still believes her own delusion.” Iris motions to the sketch of Weston. “It’s the way her mind has protected itself for all these years. How she’s justified what really happened.”

“‘Delusion.’ You’re talking about Weston.”

“Yes,” she says, “he’s merely the scapegoat.”

“What do you mean?”

Iris rises, wipes the charcoal from her hands on a scrap of linen. “Do you trust me, Sadie? To tell you the truth? All of it?”

“If you’re anything at all like your nephew, who I trust more than anyone else, then yes.”

“Good. Because what you’re about to see won’t be easy. I wouldn’t lie about this. That would be cruel.”

A chill dances over Sadie’s skin—a chill that has nothing at all to do with the wind ruffling through the window. “I’m ready. I want to see. I want to know the truth.”

The scene shifts, warping and fading. Sadie finds herself alone, standing on the same desolate cliff she saw in her dream, the sea pounding against the rocks below. In the distance, silhouetted against the sun, she sees a man and a woman. From their agitated motions, Sadie can sense that they’re arguing.

She approaches, weaving through the thorny chaparral and scrub sage. It’s Weston, with Claire, her face streaked with tears. “She’ll hate me if I do,” Claire says. “I cannot go through with this, Weston. I’m sorry.”

He reaches for her, but she turns from him and walks away, arms clutched around her waist. “Claire!” Weston calls, his voice ragged. “Please!”

The scene shifts once more. Marguerite and her sisters are having a picnic on the same cliff, the sun a beacon in the afternoon sky as gulls scream overhead. Nearby, Weston poses for Iris as she sketches him in profile, looking out to sea.

Sadie approaches the plein air tableau cautiously, but no one seems to sense her presence. Marguerite cuts a tea sandwich, serves one half to Florence and the other to Claire. “I’m not hungry,” Claire says, pushing away the plate Marguerite offers.

“Claire, please, you need to eat.”

“Now you’re the sour goose,” Florence chides. Her hair is mussed, gathered in a tangled clump atop her head. Her eyes are swollen into slits, as if she’s been crying all day. Sadie remembers the scene from the past she witnessed in Florence’s bedroom—the tantrum Florence had thrown. This must be later, on the same day. The picnic she promised to attend.

“I’m going for a walk.” Claire rises, shaking out her muslin skirts. She walks away in a meandering line, toward the edge of the cliff. Apprehension fills Sadie’s gut, remembering Marguerite’s words. Claire killed herself because of Weston. Jumped from a cliff in California when we were on holiday.

“Please don’t,” Sadie whispers, following Claire as she comes to a stop on the perilously loose shelf of rock and sand. Claire bends and picks up a handful of stones. She pitches one over the precipice, her mouth knotted in concentration as it bounces down to the sea.

Florence approaches, her blond curls whipped loose by the wind. “Come away from there, Clairey. You’re getting too close to the edge.”

Claire says nothing, a look of placid calm on her face as she pitches another stone.

“If you think pouting is the way to get his attention, you’re wrong,” Florence says. “Now, come away from there before you fall.”

Claire whirls on her older sister, her freckles sprinkled like stardust across her nose. “Why can’t you let the rest of us be happy, Flor?”

“Happy? Do you think I’m happy?” Florence asks, exasperated.

“You’re far happier than you have a right to be. Do you know what Marguerite calls you? The Monster. And she’s right. You take whatever you want, and you hurt people. You don’t care what happens to anyone else.”

“You’re wrong. I care too much. Marguerite can’t see that, and neither can you. My affair with Weston has been my solace. My joy. But the guilt has made me miserable, Claire. Do you think this is how I imagined my life? You can’t fathom all the lies I’ve had to keep straight. The stories I’ve had to tell. It’s exhausting.”

Claire says nothing, her eyes narrowing.

Florence looks out to sea. “Do you know I’ve never been able to be my true self outside of his arms? Not once! My only choice as the eldest was to please Maman and Papa. To do their bidding. To placate. To be a good example for you and Marg. I don’t love James. I didn’t want to marry him. I wanted to break off our engagement and marry Weston instead. From the first moment I met him, I knew he was the love of my life. We were two halves of a whole. I tried to tell all of you that, but no one would listen. All Maman and Papa saw was James’s money and how it would bring us back from the brink of ruin. Papa was too worried about our reputation to let me have the life I wanted. The husband I wanted.”

“And so, because you can’t have what you want, you’ll destroy all of us.” Claire’s lip trembles. “You want to keep Weston, yes. But it’s not because you love him—only because you can’t bear to lose. Because you’re selfish . Heartless. Weston wants me , Flor. Me. Not you. He’s sick to death of you.”

Florence begins to shake, her eyes brimming with tears. “That isn’t true.”

“Ask him, if you don’t believe me.” Claire laughs. “You find it impossible, that he could choose me over you. Plain little Claire. Quiet little Claire.” She chucks another round stone over the ledge. “I told him I wouldn’t marry him because you’d make our marriage a living hell. But I might change my mind, after all. Why should I sacrifice what I want to appease you, when you’d never do the same?”

It happens so quickly, so unexpectedly, that at first, Sadie doubts her own eyes. She sees Florence strike Claire, sees the slap land so hard that Claire’s head jerks to the side, so hard she stumbles and loses her footing on the perilous bluff, her arms wheeling for balance. Claire’s blue eyes pop wide, and then she falls, tipping over the cliff’s edge, her hair a scarlet flag against the sky. Sadie and Florence scream in tandem, the sound echoing off the rocky shoreline.

“Claire!” Marguerite shouts and runs toward the bluff. Iris and Weston follow, their faces marked with horror. “Oh, Florence, what have you done!” Marguerite wails, peering over the edge to where Claire’s body lies broken on the rocks, blood trailing from her head.

“She ... she fell,” Florence says, frantic. “I warned her she was too close to the edge. She wouldn’t listen.”

“You were arguing,” Marguerite says. “I saw you!”

“No. You’re wrong. She tripped over a rock and fell.”

A low moan of grief leaves Weston’s throat. He falls to his knees, hands knotted in his hair.

Florence paces back and forth, her face pale. “No. She—she jumped. That’s what happened. She was upset over Weston, and she jumped.”

“You liar! You hit her! I saw you!” Marguerite screeches.

“I did no such thing.” Florence begins to cry, shakes her head violently. “No. No!”

“We have to fetch the constable, Marg,” Iris says, the only calm voice in the midst of this frenzied anguish. “He’ll know what to do.”

“Did no one else see them?” Marguerite asks, frantic. “Did none of you see what just happened?”

“It must have been an accident. A terrible accident.” Weston shakes his head, wipes his eyes. He goes to Florence’s side, and she wilts against him, sobbing. “It was an accident, wasn’t it, Florence? Please tell me it was.”

“Yes, yes,” Florence says. “Of course it was. You believe me, don’t you?”

“I’ll go down to the beach,” Weston says gently, disengaging Florence from his arms. “She might have survived.”

“Yes,” Florence said, nodding rapidly. “She’s still alive. She must be.”

Something shifts in Marguerite’s demeanor. A hardness enters her eyes. “You’re mad. Both of you! She’s dead!” She stalks forward, seething. “This is your fault, Florence. Every bit of it.” Marguerite grasps a handful of Florence’s hair, twisting it. Florence cries out, sinking to her knees. Marguerite wrestles her to the ground, teeth clenched, eyes wild as she stands over her sister.

And that’s when Sadie sees the knife clutched in Marguerite’s hand, half-concealed by her long skirts. A simple table knife, the same one she used to cut the tea sandwiches, its edge serrated.

Weston sees the knife at the same time, terror in his eyes as he hurtles forward. “Marguerite, no!”

Everything that happens after is a frenzied blur as Weston tries to pull the women apart, like two vicious, feral dogs. Suddenly, he cries out, eyes lit with shock. An arc of blood shoots forward, painting the ground crimson. Weston stumbles, clutching his neck, blood spouting like a fountain between his fingers. Marguerite screams, dropping the bloodied knife. “No! Weston!” She rushes to his side, futilely trying to catch him as he collapses, panic blanching her features as she wraps the tail of the skirt around his neck in an attempt to stanch the bleeding.

Iris rushes to Marguerite’s side as Florence begins to wail.

“God, help!” Florence cries, clambering across the ground and shielding Weston with her body, desperately clawing at his chest. “Oh God! Please don’t die, my love, please don’t die.”

The scene fades from view, the whispering sound of the sea muted. Sadie realizes she’s back in Iris’s room. She sinks onto the edge of Iris’s bed, her mind reeling from the horror she’s just witnessed.

“We dragged Weston’s body into the sea, at high tide,” Iris intones, her voice hollow. She continues sketching, adding shading to Weston’s jawline with a thin stick of charcoal. “No one questioned his disappearance. He had no living family. No one to miss him. As for Claire, Bram had enough social standing to ensure no one would ask the sorts of questions that would endanger his reputation, nor those of his daughters. They shipped Claire’s body in a private railcar back to Kansas City, gave her a full requiem mass, and buried her in hallowed ground without incident. Only I, Florence, and Marguerite ever knew the full truth of what happened. I loved Marguerite enough to keep her secrets. I protected her. And Marguerite protected Florence, for Laura’s sake. Florence went mad. Spent a year in an asylum. It was terrible. You can’t begin to imagine. Marguerite was never the same after that day. None of us were.”

Sadie stands and paces the room, her mind reeling. Marguerite, a murderer. Her grandmother, guilty of potential fratricide. She doesn’t want to believe any of it. She can’t. “But Marguerite said that Weston wasn’t real, that he was an invention—the hero of Florence’s romantic story that she painted into reality.”

“No. He lived, Sadie. He was a real person. Marguerite can’t face the truth of what happened that day, so she made up a story. A delusion. She’s been in denial for decades. And it’s cost all of us dearly.” Iris shakes her head. “Weston’s spirit wants vengeance. He’s angry. And so he’s punished us by destroying those we love. First Sybil, my only granddaughter. Now he’s trying to destroy you.”

“To what good end can any of this come? How can I change things?”

“The only way you can is by confronting Marguerite with what I’ve just shown you. Help her remember. So that she uses the time she has left to make things right. I’ll help her if she comes to me. If she prevents Weston’s murder, her actions will ripple down through time, to you. It’s the only way you’ll ever be safe from Weston’s vengeance ... and I have the frailest hope that if she’s successful, it might bring my Sybil back, too.” Iris looks up at me, her eyes brimming with tears. “You have to make her see the truth, Sadie. You must.”