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Interlude

Iris

Sadie finds herself in the sunlit room at the sanatorium again. Marguerite is sitting on her narrow cot, heavily pregnant, rocking gently back and forth, her mouth an angry slash. There’s a light tap on the door. Florence enters, dressed as she was the first time Sadie witnessed this scene, in striped summer poplin.

“Good morning!” Florence chimes. “You look—”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Marguerite says, cutting her off. “I’m keeping the baby.”

Florence wilts. “Marg, we’ve been over this. It’s for the best if James and I raise her. It is. You can’t see it now, but it is.”

“Oh, I see it now. I’ve seen it all, because I’ve already lived it once, Flor. I’ve endured watching her grow up from a distance, on holidays, through pictures. You told me you’d let me see her as often as I liked. You lied. You’ve lied about so much.”

“You’re not making any sense, darling. Are you sick?” Florence crosses the room, sinks down next to Marguerite. She places the back of her hand on Marguerite’s forehead, frowns, her dainty rosebud mouth pinching. “You don’t feel feverish.”

“I tried. I tried to make things right with you. Tried to accept our differences and forgive you for your selfishness. Because that’s really why you want the baby. You’re selfish. At least you’ve let him go,” Marguerite mutters beneath her breath. “At least perhaps, now, Claire might live. We’ll see in two years, I suppose.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Florence’s brow furrows. “Are you quite well, sister?”

“I’m fine! It’s all of you who are broken. You with your vanity, your hypocrisy. Your hidden darkness. Maman and her creditors, trying to heal her heartache over Papa’s affairs with pretty dresses and jewelry. Papa, with his drinking. The drinking will kill him, you know. And you, too, eventually, because you’re going down the same road.”

Florence looks at Marguerite, aghast. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Oh, but I am. Claire was always lying down and letting you walk all over her. She hates you for it, secretly. We all did. But I see everything now, Flor. All of it. And I’m fed up. I’m fixing things. I am. For once and for all. For Sadie’s sake.”

“Sadie? Who is that?” Florence asks.

“Never mind. You’ll think I’m mad if I tell you.”

“Marguerite, what on earth are you talking about?”

The scene shifts, the light fading to a dull coppery orange outside the window. Sadie watches as Marguerite goes to the dresser, frantically removing clothing from the drawers.

Iris comes in, just as she did before. “Marg, what are you doing?”

“I’m leaving this place.”

“You can’t! You’re due any day now.”

Marguerite stills, turns to Iris, softness in her eyes. “Listen to me, Iris. Listen very carefully. I’ve seen the future. You’re going to be successful. You’re going to marry well—an English lord. You’ll travel the world with him. He’ll finance your art. You’re even going to meet Rossetti. You’ll have more children—children that you’ll get to see grow up. It will always hurt, giving up Victor, and you’ll always miss him, because a mother’s heart never forgets, but as you once told me, we must move on and try to find our happiness in the present.” Marguerite crosses to Iris, presses her forehead to hers. “My granddaughter and your nephew are going to meet someday, and they’ll fall in love, just like us. They won’t get along at first, but in time, they’ll see how much they need one another.” Marguerite bends to kiss Iris, long on the lips, making her gasp in surprise. “I’m so sorry for everything I put you through. The terrible secret you had to keep for me. What I made you do. You were one of the greatest loves of my life, Iris, the truest and best of friends.”

“‘Were’? What do you mean?”

Marguerite hoists the carpetbag over her shoulder, opens the window, and lingers on the sill for a moment, before turning one last time to look at Iris, her lips curving into a tender smile. “I love you, my darling. I’ll carry our memories for always.”

And then, with a flash of auburn hair lit by the setting sun, she’s gone.