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My nerves are still a mess when I go out to meet Beckett that evening. Between the search for Marguerite and her strange admonition about the man in the attic, I’m feeling fretful and out of sorts. When I went upstairs to dress for dinner, the unsettling sensation of being watched persisted, although the man was gone. The rolltop desk he’d been seated at was covered with cloth and there wasn’t a thing out of place indicating anyone else had intruded. Still, I’d unfolded the screen in the corner and undressed behind it for my own peace of mind.

As Melva cleared the table after dinner, I asked her if she knew anything about the man I saw.

“Yes. That man. The other maids talked about him,” Melva said, brushing breadcrumbs from the tablecloth. “They said he’s so real you’d likely feel flesh if you touched him.”

“He seemed real enough to me. We had a whole conversation. Is he a neighbor? Another servant?”

“No. He’s neither.” Melva looked away, her eyes hooded. “Miss Thorne says there are spirits here, though I’ve never seen anything myself. I suppose he must be one of them.”

A shiver ran through me like cold spring water. “You’re saying he’s a ghost?”

“Yes, miss.”

Now, as I cross the lawn, I willfully turn my mind from ghosts to temporal matters. Haunted or not, this is my home now, and I’m eager to meet with Beckett and survey the entirety of the property and get a sense of what any future inheritance might entail.

The fountain plays merrily, water streaming forth with a musical sound—proof that Beckett succeeded at his morning chore. Being near the fountain feels pleasant, a cooling respite from the heat. I perch on the edge of the basin and wait, watching the sun slide behind the house. My grandmother would have frowned at my meeting with a man—much less a servant—unchaperoned. But times are changing. Girls much younger than I go out alone with men now. Petting parties are all the rage, Victorian morals having swiftly fallen by the wayside after the war. Besides, I’m hardly a blushing maid, and there’s no risk of anything romantic happening with Beckett.

I lift my wrist, eyeing my watch. Nearly seven thirty. I rise and pace around the fountain, trailing a finger idly in the water. I’m making my third circuit around the fountain when I glimpse Beckett in the distance. I note his change of clothing immediately. He’s no longer in his workaday clothes but a freshly pressed pair of linen trousers and a striped oxford with a crisp collar, a tie knotted at his neck. As he closes the distance between us, I see he’s even combed his hair and oiled it, the sheen of pomade catching the warm evening light. From the cut of his clothes, my aunt must pay him a healthy wage, indeed. Once more, my suspicions rise.

“Have I kept you waiting too long, Miss Halloran?”

“Not at all.” I ignore the fetching tilt to his lips and fiddle with the strand of pearls around my neck, suddenly nervous. “Harriet said she wouldn’t leave until I return.”

“Then shall we?” He motions toward the gardens.

“Of course.”

An awkward silence descends as we cross the lawn to the stand of trees bordering the house. Maples, elms, and cedars. I imagine what the seasonal play of color will look like in autumn—flaming reds and yellows in contrast with the verdant evergreens.

“Marguerite told me your father was her original gardener,” I say as Beckett leads me down a narrow, pebbled path through the wooded glen. “Did he do most of the plantings?”

“Yes. He did. My father was a follower of Frederick Law Olmsted. He believed in coaxing the land gently into submission instead of forcing things, allowing nature to hold dominion. Most of the trees on the estate are native, but the monks planted the blackberries and fruit trees long ago.” Beckett motions toward an apple tree alongside the path, its fruit just beginning to ripen. “They fermented their own wine and cider. The old cider press is still here, on the property. I use it every fall.”

“How fascinating. Marguerite told me about the monastery.”

“Yes, you can still see remnants of the old foundation at the back of the house.”

“When was the house built?”

“1880.”

“So, not long before Marguerite bought it,” I say, fingering a persimmon tree’s leaves as we pass through an arbor woven out of willow. “She said she got it for a song.”

“The man who originally built the house—Erwin Blaylock—didn’t live here long. My father did most of the finish work on the interior. Blaylock’s wife died on the property. People around here are superstitious about such things.”

“Marguerite told me about his wife. Lucy. You know, my older brother claims he saw a lady once, in the attic here. He tried to scare me with ghost stories when we’d visit.”

“Felix?”

“You knew him?”

“Yes. When you all came in the summer, we would run these woods together. I remember you, too. I thought you were a boy at first, with your cropped hair.”

I laugh. “Ah, yes. I took Mama’s pinking shears to it. I was tired of enduring her tight braids. I suppose I remember you, too, come to think of it.” My memories are vague, but I do remember a boy with long-lashed, melancholy eyes. He asked me my name one summer afternoon as I sat pouting on the veranda after Felix stole my new kaleidoscope, then scurried away as quickly as he’d appeared. “You were very shy.”

“Yes. But Felix wasn’t, and that’s why we got along so well. We were the same age, I think.” Beckett’s brow wrinkles with concern. “You said I knew him. Marguerite told me he served in the war. He came home, I hope.”

“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so dire. We just don’t see one another very often anymore. We’ve never had much in common. His wife doesn’t care for me, and my sentiments are equal. But they’ve two lovely boys. Felix is an attorney. Like our da was.”

“That’s grand for him. And what about your younger brother? As I remember, he was only a baby when you were here last. You were always toting him around.”

“Henry. He died in ’18. The flu. Two years after our da.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “And what about you? Any family here?”

“No. Not anymore,” he says with an air of finality. He points to where the forest closes in, the treetops allowing for only the faintest shimmer of light to fall to the ground. “The grotto is just ahead. You might take my arm. It gets a bit steep. You wouldn’t want to roll your ankle.”

I do as he suggests, winding my hand through the crook of his elbow. This near to him, I can smell the faint scent of his aftershave and something richer, like sun-warmed earth. I ignore the way my pulse is climbing, the way his steady strength reminds me of my best days with Ted, in far-flung places well outside Kansas City, where he might parade me around without risk of someone familiar seeing us—someone who would know what I really was to him. In those roadside hotels and restaurants in towns like Dubuque and Amarillo, I could pretend to be Mrs. Theodore Fitzsimmons. Only I knew I wasn’t. I never would be.

As the path levels out, I let go of Beckett’s arm and walk ahead, my eyes widening in wonder. The grotto is as magical as I remember. Yellow-gold coins of sunlight dance over the hostas and ferns. A statue of the Virgin presides over it all in her stone alcove, haloed by carefully groomed ivy. The faint trickle of the spring soothes my senses, the fairylike array of moss roses and creeping Jenny soft underfoot. It’s a tranquil place. Quiet and serene. A peaceful calm descends, and I close my eyes for a moment, letting out a long breath and lowering my shoulders.

“Restful, isn’t it?” Beckett’s voice is reverent, as if we’ve just entered a church, and we have, in a manner of speaking.

“Yes.”

“I come here often, once my work is done for the day. The monks built this, too.”

“You’ve maintained it beautifully. Truly. You should be proud.”

“It calms me. My work. As it did my father. Being a steward of the land is a great privilege.” Beckett brushes a fallen leaf from one of the stone benches facing the shrine and motions me to sit. I tuck my skirt smoothly and perch on the edge of the bench, crossing my ankles. He kneels to inspect a cluster of white lilies near the foot of the spring, then comes to sit next to me. “How long are you planning on staying with us, Miss Halloran?”

I’m taken aback by his question. “As I said yesterday, I hadn’t planned on leaving.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Marguerite is very special to me.”

“She said the same of you.”

“That’s the reason I’m curious. About why you’re here again, after all these years.” His voice is soft. Level. But I see the suspicion behind his eyes. “I’ve never heard Marguerite mention receiving a single letter from you. Or even a telephone call. And here you turn up, ready and willing to be her devoted companion. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

I stiffen. “I’m not sure I like what you’re implying, Mr. Hill.”

He smiles that fox-like smile. “Just as I thought.”

I rise, flummoxed, crossing my arms defensively. The sun has fallen well below the ridge, bringing a coolness to the shaded grotto. “I’m only here to care for my aunt, because it’s obvious someone needs to.”

Beckett stands, towering over me. All at once I’m back in my tiny apartment with Ted, liquor on his breath and his temper boiling beneath the surface. I take a step backward, and Beckett laughs softly. “Don’t worry, Miss Halloran. I’m not in the business of hurting women. Or taking advantage of them, for that matter. I hope I can say the same for you.”

“Oh? After your little flirtation with Marguerite at the breakfast table, I’m not certain you have the best intentions when it comes to my aunt, either.”

“You read me wrong, Miss Halloran. Marguerite is like a mother to me. If I flatter her now and then to see her smile, it harms no one.”

I glare at him steadily, refusing to cede any ground. “I’d like to go back to the house now, if you please.”

He laughs. “Already ordering me around, I see.”

“All right. I’ll see myself back, then. Good night, Mr. Hill.” Impertinent man! I turn and stalk ahead of him up the path, my face red with shame. His words settle in my belly, curdling like soured wine as I rush up the hill. Suddenly, my foot slides on a moss-covered rock, and I go down on one knee, a sharp cry leaving my throat before I can stop it.

Beckett catches up to me and offers his hand. “Let me help you.”

I ignore him and lift myself from the ground, brushing my stockings. My palm comes away with a smudge of blood. “I’m fine,” I lie through clenched teeth. Though my knee shouts at me, I stumble the rest of the way up the rise, refusing to give him the pleasure of seeing my pain.

“Miss Halloran!”

I don’t turn at the sound of his voice. I walk on, through the trees and onto the front lawn, my back straight and my head held high as tears track down my cheeks. I angrily wipe them away, not wanting him to see that he’s gotten to me—that he’s right. For as much as I’d like to pretend my reasons for being here are selfless, I know they aren’t. And so does he.