Page 5

Over breakfast, Marguerite tells me more about Blackberry Grange and its history. The land it sits on once housed a small monastery of Trappist monks, who came to Arkansas in the middle years of the last century to enjoy the natural beauty and solitude. The monastery burned down one winter, after Christmas mass. According to local legend, the fire was an arson—allegedly set by one of the monks, who had fallen in love with an Osage girl and been denied leave of his order by the abbot.

“The abbot locked him in his cell, with only the light of a single candle to read by. That’s what he used to start the fire.” Marguerite blows across her coffee cup with pursed lips.

“Did he escape?” I ask.

“No one knows for certain. But people claim to see their spirits in the woods—the monk and his Osage maiden. Lights drifting between the trees.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m going to need a special diary to keep track of all your ghosts.”

“It might seem far-fetched, but this is one of those places where the veil between worlds is thin. There are all kinds of stories if you ask the locals.”

While I’m still skeptical about spirits, I marvel at Marguerite’s ability to remember things from the distant past, while I’ve had to remind her of my name no fewer than six times since my arrival.

Melva refills my coffee, then excuses herself to eat with Harriet in the kitchen. A few moments later, the front door scrapes open, followed by the heavy, uneven sound of Beckett’s tread on the floorboards. My shoulders stiffen as he enters the dining room, dressed as he was the day before: gray trousers with suspenders, a collarless cotton shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow. He doffs his cap and pulls out a chair to sit at the table. I glance at him sideways as he greets Marguerite, then helps himself to the biscuits and gravy. I’ve never known servants to sit at the same table as their employer. Once more, I find myself wondering about his history with Marguerite. How he came to be here. The nature of their relationship.

“Good morning, Miss Halloran,” he says, noticing my gaze. I quickly look away. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes. I did, thank you. Aunt Marguerite was just telling me about the history of the area. About the house.”

“About our ghosts, you mean?” His lips tilt into a smile. “Are you a believer, Miss Halloran?”

“I ... I’m not sure,” I answer, stumbling over my words. “I suppose I’d like to believe.”

“You will soon enough.” His eyes glint with mischief.

“Don’t scare the girl, Beckett,” Marguerite says archly. “We want this one to stay, don’t we? She knows how to dress my hair. Look.” She twists in her chair so he can admire my braiding. “Isn’t it fetching?”

“You look stunning, Marguerite. As ever.”

She smiles and simpers as they make small talk, and I suddenly realize why she allows him at her table, the little minx. I only hope he doesn’t use his flattery for improper advantage. Despite his unwelcoming attitude with me, he’s quite a looker, with those dark-lashed aquamarine eyes and sly smile. A surge of protectiveness washes through me. I’ll be watching the man and his motives. Closely.

After he finishes his breakfast, he excuses himself to his work. I watch him through the window as he walks the perimeter of the front gardens, stopping to examine the blackberries growing there.

“How long has Mr. Beckett been in your employ?” I ask.

“Years now,” Marguerite answers, patting her hair. “He grew up here. His father was my gardener before him, his mother the cook. And he’s Mr. Hill, dear. Beckett Hill.”

“The two of you seem very familiar.”

“Yes. He’s like a son to me. The only one who’s never left my side. I don’t know how I’d have managed without him. He has such a talent with growing things—with roses, especially. They’re difficult with the weather here. The rocky ground. But Beckett can coax anything to life.”

I soften a bit in my opinion of the man. Perhaps I’ve misread him. “What happened to him?” I ask. “I’ve noticed his limp. Was he in the war?”

“No, my dear, although he tried to enlist twice, and they denied him. He was born with a severe curvature of the spine. It pains him at times, especially when the weather turns, but he’s managed well despite it. He had to wear a brace as a child. I paid for his treatments.” Marguerite’s eyes grew wistful. “Such a beautiful boy. Happy, too. Until Charlie died.”

“Charlie?”

“His younger brother. The war. He lied and enlisted before he was of age. Beckett feels guilty about that, I think. That it was Charlie who served and died instead of him. His poor mother’s heart was broken, God rest her.”

Many mothers lost their sons during the war. My older brother, Felix, came home unscathed by some miracle, but we lost Henry the winter after the Armistice. The rest of us had recovered from the epidemic of influenza raging through the country, but despite my constant vigil at his bedside, sweet Henry died. He was only thirteen.

Beckett and I have more in common than I realized. We’ve both lost younger brothers, and I gather he’s an orphan, too. My thoughts are already on the future. If I ingratiate myself with Marguerite, I might inherit this house after her passing. I’d need a gardener and caretaker. So long as Beckett defers to me, I’ll allow him to remain. If he persists in goading me ... well. That’s another matter. It feels calculating and selfish, having these thoughts, but my other prospects are dim. Perhaps it’s opportunistic, but a woman like me, hedging toward thirty and past the prime of her youth, must be realistic. Practical. Besides, it’s obvious Marguerite needs me just as much as I need her.

My gaze drifts out the window once more.

“You should go out, dear, have Beckett show you around the property,” Marguerite says. “The grotto is lovely this time of year. Some of the hostas are as big around as this table.”

“I think I might.” I nervously eye the kitchen door, where I can hear the faintest thread of laughter. Hopefully Harriet or Melva will resume their watch over Marguerite once they’ve finished breakfast. “You’re sure you’ll be all right if I go out for a while?”

“Of course.”

“Promise you’ll stay put, right here at this table, until Harriet or Melva come get you.”

Marguerite’s face hardens. “Child, I don’t need a keeper in my own home. Now run along. I’ll be fine.”

With one final furtive glance to the kitchen, I take my leave, smoothing my skirt and patting my hair. I catch up to Beckett at the fountain, where he’s shin-deep in the basin, trousers rolled to the knee, scrubbing a metal nozzle protruding from a leaping carp’s mouth.

“Hello,” I say.

He turns toward me, taking off his cap and wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm.

“Aunt Marguerite suggested I have you show me around the property.”

He gestures toward the fountain. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”

“I can see that.” I cross my arms over my waist, defensively. “It’s a lovely fountain.” It isn’t, with that cluster of horrible, gawping fish leaping from the water. I’ve always hated it.

Beckett laughs. “It’s hideous.”

I break into a smile, and bite my lip to contain it. “It really is, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but Marguerite is very fond of it.” He resumes scrubbing the nozzle. “There’s too much lime in the water. I have to do this at least once a month.”

I look around, taking in the freshly mowed green lawn, the arbor of climbing roses sheltering the path to the house, the blackberry thicket. “I can see you take a great deal of pride in your work. The gardens are lovely.”

He says nothing in reply, only moves on to another stone carp.

“Marguerite and I were just talking about you.” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Beckett stills, his hand cupped around the steel wool in his palm. His eyes narrow. “Oh? What did she say?”

I stand there awkwardly, not knowing how to respond. Where should I begin? Our dead brothers? His handicap? We hardly know one another—and certainly not well enough for such intimate talk. “Only that she greatly appreciates all you do for her. I’ll leave you to your work, Mr. Hill. I apologize for the interruption.”

I head toward the house, the humidity gathering around me and further inflaming the sudden heat on my face and neck.

“Miss Halloran!”

His voice seizes me midway across the lawn, and I turn to see him staring at me, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Yes?”

“Come out after dinner, before Harriet leaves for the night. I’ll show you around the gardens then, if you’d like.”

“All right,” I say, offering him a smile. “I’d like that.”

The house is in chaos when I return. In just the few minutes since I left her, Marguerite has gone missing. Melva accosts me as soon as I walk in the door. “Where were you?”

My defensiveness rises, accusatory words of my own climbing my throat. I push them back. If I’m to be lady of this house someday, I’ll need to keep my emotions in check when addressing the servants. “I only went out for a moment to speak to Mr. Hill. You and Harriet were just there, in the kitchen, weren’t you? Didn’t you hear her?”

“Well,” she replies, flustered. “Well. It don’t take long for her to get a notion.” Melva turns in a circle. “Oh, where has she gone now?”

“Do you think she’s gone outside again?” I think of the sheer bluff behind the house, its edge protected by nothing more than a few scattered fieldstone boulders.

“No.” Melva shakes her head. “No, not this time. I’m sure of it. I’d have heard the door.”

Even though Melva’s reassurances bring some level of comfort, Marguerite could be anywhere in this labyrinthine house, with its hive of interconnected rooms. I think of the steeply pitched staircases, the many windows, the weak spots in the floors. Even within the house, she’s still in danger. “You search downstairs,” I say. “Harriet can look for her on the second floor, and I’ll search the attic. She must be here. She must.”

I meet Harriet on the stairs and convey our plan, her coolheaded reaction a welcome contrast to Melva’s panic, even though I can feel my own nerves jangling just below the surface. I think of Louise’s words back at the teahouse in Kansas City—her judgmental chiding when I mentioned becoming Marguerite’s companion. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps I’m not suited. For the second time since my arrival, I consider that I might have made a mistake. But I’m here now, and I must make this work.

I fly up the attic steps, and into the lofty, open space above. The daytime heat has already begun to gather beneath the eaves. A shaft of sunlight burns a bright path across the floor from the east-facing window, throwing the corners of the attic into shadow. “Aunt Marg,” I call. “Are you up here?”

I pause to listen, my breath rasping hollowly. There’s no response, but on the opposite side of the room, I sense movement and hear a faint rustling and scratching—the same sounds I heard last night. “Hello?”

I take two tentative steps forward and stop, my heart stuttering with shock as my eyes adjust. A man is sitting there, at a rolltop desk tucked against the wall. At first, I think Beckett somehow got past me and into the attic, but he couldn’t have without my knowing. This man is taller, broad shouldered. Older than Beckett. He’s writing, his pen flying across the surface of the paper, his silhouette limned with light. I wonder whether he’s one of the household servants I’ve yet to meet. If so, we’ll need to have a conversation about my privacy. I glance over at my unmade bed, my silk slip hung carelessly over the iron frame. This attic is my room now. He shouldn’t be up here.

“Hello. I’m looking for Marguerite,” I say crisply. “Have you seen her?”

The man turns, a slow smile forming on his face. “You must be the new hire. I saw you arrive yesterday.”

“I’m ... I’m not the help. I’m Marguerite’s grandniece. She’s gone missing. Have you seen her?”

“Marguerite goes missing often. You’ll have to get used to that.” His eyes glimmer in the half-lit room, flashing a devious, dark gray. “You might check the west turret. She likes to go there to read. There are hidden stairs behind one of the shelves in the library. Look for the red edition of Joyce’s Ulysses , facing out.”

His manner is haughty, bordering on arrogant, yet I find myself riveted to the spot. There’s something strangely familiar about him—as if we met at some point in the past. He holds my gaze for a moment, then turns back to his writing. “Run along. Find her quickly now, before they all go into a panic.”

His dismissive tone rankles me, but I do just that, rushing back down the stairs and toward the long hallway to the back of the house, where the two-story library sits, its tall windows framing expansive views of the valley below. It’s one of the few rooms I remember well from the games of hide-and-seek I played here as a child. There are so many places to hide in this room, with its shadowed alcoves and heavy furniture, but I never knew about any secret stairs. I scan the shelves for the book the man mentioned— Ulysses —and find it, the leather binding a brilliant carmine red. I take it off the shelf and see a brass lever in the shape of a beckoning hand behind it. When I push down on the lever, the entire shelf swings open with a tired groan, revealing a twisting staircase leading up. A single set of footprints marks the dust on the treads. Marguerite’s, I hope. I pause before going up, the stale air heavy in my lungs.

When I reach the top, my eyes widen in awe. Fractured light rains down on the floor from above, where a ceiling of steeply pitched glass catches the sunlight. The heat is fierce in this small space. Stifling. Marguerite stands before an arched picture window, looking out at the landscape below. The room is lined with bookshelves, but sparsely furnished otherwise, with only a cushioned, low bench under the window and a wingback chair. A covered easel stands at the center of the room. I resist the urge to lift the cloth covering it, and quietly cross the room to stand behind Marguerite, clearing my throat.

Marguerite turns, blinking slowly. “Hello,” she says. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sadie, remember? We had breakfast together, just this morning.”

“Sadie,” Marguerite says, testing out my name. “I thought it was Sybil.”

“You’ve given us all a fright. We’d no idea where to find you.”

Marguerite frowns. “Find me? Why? I’m not lost. This is my home.”

I smile, start again. “Yes, but ... we all still worry about you. The man in the attic told me about this room. He said I might find you here.”

Marguerite’s eyes flash. “What man?”

“I didn’t catch his name. Dark hair. Handsome. He was at the desk upstairs, writing. Is he one of your staff?”

Marguerite suddenly grasps my wrists, her bony fingers digging into my skin. I try to pull away, but she holds me fast. “You’ve seen him. That beast . I knew you would. Listen here, girl, stay far, far away from that man. Do you hear me? He’s worse than any devil.”