Page 49

December 7, 1925

I come to my senses gradually, wading out of the fog of time and memory, warm morning light spilling into the tower’s windows. I’m so horrified by what I’ve witnessed—Claire’s fall, Weston’s death—that I don’t know if I can bring myself to look Marguerite in the eye. I return to my and Beckett’s room. He’s already up, the covers pulled taut over the mattress. As I’m dressing, he raps on the door, then enters.

“Where were you?” he asks. “You were gone when I woke up.”

“I ... I couldn’t sleep. I went to the library to read,” I say, turning my back to him. I shrug a sweater over my slip and step into my skirt.

He crosses to me, wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “I was just worried about you. That’s all.”

I turn in his arms and kiss him, my guilt over seeking out Weston the night before keen. I’m grateful that my temptation didn’t yield success. In the light of day, I can see how foolish I was. “How’s Marguerite doing this morning?” I ask.

“She’s in the dining room. I made breakfast,” Beckett says. “I can’t get her to eat anything, but perhaps you can. She was having a hallucination when she woke. About the lost baby again. I managed to get her calmed down.”

I know who Marguerite’s lost baby is now. My mother. A pang of sympathy runs through me. Although I witnessed Marguerite kill Weston last night, my compassion for her remains. It was likely an accident—a terrible one. And according to Iris, there might still be a chance she can save him and, in the process, save Sybil. Maybe even Claire ... if I can convince her to finally face the truth.

Marguerite is sitting in a puddle of sunshine when I enter the dining room, staring out the window, her hands folded in her lap like innocent doves. On the sideboard a tray of pastries and a steaming tea samovar await. I pour myself and Marguerite a cup, add three sugar cubes to mine, and cross to her with a plateful of pastries. “Beck made all sorts of good things for us this morning, Aunt Marg. Won’t you have something?”

She waves the food away. “I haven’t been able to change a thing,” she says, her voice haunted and low. “I’ve tried. Five times now. Each time I go back, I refuse Florence’s request to paint him. I even burned her manuscript. Yet Weston still appears at her debut. They still dance. Still fall in love, no matter what I do.”

Because he wasn’t a figment of your imagination. He was a real person, and you killed him. “Aunt Marg, we need to talk about Weston.” I reach out for her hand. “I went through Iris’s painting last night. She showed me what happened all those years ago, in California.”

Marguerite’s eyes widen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I believe you do. I think it’s probably easier to cling to the falsehood you’ve created, and I can understand why you would. But Weston was a real person, Aunt Marg.” I pull in a shaky breath. “I know he was, because I saw him die.” I saw you kill him.

Marguerite snatches her hand from mine, her mouth a hard line. “Nonsense.”

“Iris showed me everything. The argument between Claire and Florence. I saw Florence hit Claire. She lost her balance. Fell to her death.”

“Stop it. Stop it right now.” Marguerite shoves away from the table, her voice frantic. I stand, facing her. I’m tempted to call for Beckett, but part of me wants to protect Marguerite, and him, from knowing her most shameful secret. It might color how he thinks of her. I don’t want that. I want him to remember her as the benevolent, generous woman he’s known his entire life. I only want her to face the truth.

“Aunt Marg, think. Think back to the summer of 1881. You, Florence, and Claire went on holiday to Big Sur, in California. Iris and Weston were there with you. Florence and Claire were quarreling over Weston’s affections. Florence threw a tantrum one morning, refused to go on a trail ride with all of you. You had a picnic on the bluff later that day. Do you remember?”

Marguerite stills, her shoulders falling. “How could you know about any of that? We’ve never talked about it.”

“Iris showed me.”

“I can’t do this.” Marguerite falls back into her chair, resting her face in her hands. “I can’t ... I can’t talk about the rest.”

I kneel at her side, my hand resting on her knee. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Aunt Marg. I saw it all. I saw Claire fall. Saw you charge at Florence. Saw you accidentally stab Weston. It was a crime of passion. A sudden madness, wasn’t it? It doesn’t make it right. Of course it doesn’t. But it happened.”

“Yes.” Tears flow unrestrained down Marguerite’s face. “I loved Florence and yet I hated her so much at the same time. I just wanted her to stop meddling in Claire’s life. In my life. I hated her for what she did to Hugh. How she drove us apart and kept me from the life I wanted. We were all puppets in Florence’s play. When I saw Claire fall, something came over me. I wanted to hurt Florence. I didn’t want to kill her. And I certainly didn’t intend to kill him. But I just ... oh, Sadie, what did I do ?”

I’m at war with myself. I want to offer her words of comfort, to tell her it wasn’t her fault. But it was . And no matter how good I know Marguerite to be, it doesn’t erase the past. She killed Weston, got away with it, and then covered it up with Florence’s and Iris’s help—and a delusion so convincing she fooled herself and me into thinking he was her creation.

“Aunt Marg, I want you to listen to me.” I lower my voice. “Iris told me you can make this better. You can fix things. You said yourself that what you’ve been doing isn’t working. Iris said she would help you, if you go to her. But there isn’t much time.”

Marguerite looks down at me, wipes her eyes. “It isn’t too late, then? To undo my biggest regret?”

“Iris seems to think there’s a chance.”

“I have been able to change some things. In the past. I’m not sure why these things and not the others. I managed to conceal mine and Hugh’s love affair from Florence. And my pregnancy, at least for now. Or is it then? I’m not sure what difference it will make, in the present, in the future, but perhaps ... in that other time, Hugh and I will find some way to run away together. To be happy. I’ve the feeling he’s still alive out there. Somewhere. Perhaps we’ll find one another again, before the end.”

“Yes, but even if you do manage to run away with Hugh and raise Mama together, there’s no guarantee you won’t still kill Weston. It’s the reason he’s here, haunting us, Aunt Marg. The reason he haunted Florence for all those years, killed Sybil, and why he’s threatening me. He’s angry. Vengeful. All of you played a part in his death.”

“Yes, I understand that now.”

“And you realize that your actions in the past have impacted all of us, don’t you?” I prod.

She raises her teacup to her lips, her wrist shaking. Her tremors are growing even more pronounced, another indicator we haven’t much time. She takes the tiniest sip of tea. “Of course, my dear. I remember. The whole reason I went back in time was to try to save you from him.”

“I understand that. But I don’t think you should go back and try to alter how things happened with Hugh anymore. I think, perhaps, it might be best to accept that part of the past as it is. As it was. If you go back, I think you should just try to save Weston, since he’s the problem at hand. Don’t you agree?”

“And let go of Hugh? Penny?” Marguerite’s face grows stony. Hard. “You’ve no idea of the pain I’ve endured, child. None. I didn’t tell you everything. Your mother knew about the adoption. I didn’t tell her, but she figured things out for herself. She asked me for the truth, the last time you were here, after I came home from France, and I couldn’t lie. Not to her. She was so angry. At Florence for lying to her all those years. At me, for lying, and for giving her up. She thought I didn’t want her.” Marguerite’s lip trembles. “That’s the reason you never came back, Sadie. Why she never called or visited after that summer. And now that she’s gone, where does that leave me?” Tears break free from her eyes, flowing down her cheeks.

So, Mama knew. She knew the truth of her birth. And she never told me or my brothers. It makes sense now, her sudden reserve whenever I’d bring up Marguerite. How she’d hedge when I asked her why we no longer spent summers at Blackberry Grange. A shallow echo of the hurt and betrayal Mama must have felt nudges at my heart. I don’t know what to say. All this is too much at once.

“Ever since you told me about her death, I’ve tried to go to Penny,” Marguerite says. “To prevent it from happening. I can’t. All I can do is watch my own child die, again and again. Do you know what that does to a person?”

I choke back a sob, my fingernails biting into my palm. “Please, Aunt Marg ... don’t.”

She shakes her head, the hardness returning to her face. “Now that I’m at the end of my life, I can see all of my regrets spread out before me, like some horrible, hellish landscape. You can’t understand how I feel because you’re still young. But someday, your regrets will come home to roost, Sadie—mistakes you’re making now, and mistakes you have yet to make. You’ll wish you had the chance to do things over again, too.”

I know this look. This tone. My aunt is about to descend into obstinance. I attempt another tack. “Perhaps you should try to go to Iris. Listen to what she has to say. She loves you. She wants to help.”

“I don’t suppose it could hurt anything. She keeps coming to me in my dreams, anyway. She’s been trying to get me to tell you the truth.”

“I’m glad someone has. There are far too many secrets in this family. I’ll help you up to the tower if you’ll eat something first.”

“Oh, all right. You’re always after me to eat.”

“Only because I care. I want to keep you around as long as I can. We’ve missed out on a lot over the years.” I offer her a danish, and she takes it.

After she’s finished eating, I guide her up the narrow steps to the sun-drenched tower, where the portrait of Hugh has taken center stage on the easel, her chair parked in front of it. I ease it off and replace it with Iris’s portrait. “There. All settled?”

“Yes, dear.”

“I know Iris will be happy to see you.” I pick up the porcelain bell from the side table next to her chair. It rings faintly. “Ring this when you’re ready to come down. I’ll just be in the library, reading.”

In the library I leave the door to the tower cracked, ever so slightly, and tuck into one of the club chairs by the fire. I open my grandmother’s dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights , still unfinished, and resume reading. It’s little wonder where she got the inspiration for her fictional Baron de Havilland ... or that she fell for Weston. Heathcliff, with his dark good looks and passionate, fiery temperament, reminds me of Weston.

Lulled by the crackling fire and the stillness of the room, I soon find myself growing drowsy. As my eyes shut to half-mast, I sense Iris’s spirit nearby. She’s listening to me about Weston, but she won’t listen when it comes to Hugh. The baby. Her selfishness could destroy you, Sadie. You must find a way to stop her. You must.

I sit up, blinking, and she disappears, like smoke from an extinguished candle.