Page 9

July 21, 1925

“Miss Halloran.” I open my eyes at the sound of my name. Blades of grass poke at my skin. I place a hand on the dewy lawn and sit up, my head spinning. The labyrinth is gone. The Brookside mansion is gone. Blackberry Grange looms in front of me instead, its dark windows cold and dismissive. The rising sun cuts a red gash in the sky.

“Miss Halloran.” Beckett’s voice comes to me again, hollow. I push myself up from the ground and stand, drawing my thin robe tight around me. The faint reddish light paints Beckett in monochrome as he rushes to my side. “Are you all right?”

“I ... I don’t know.” I press the heel of my hand to my eye, where the beginning of a headache throbs. “I don’t know how I got out here.”

“You were sleepwalking.”

But I’ve never sleepwalked. Not a day in my life. I shake my head. “I was in Marguerite’s studio. Something happened ... I was in the past.”

Beckett frowns. “Let’s get you inside.” He takes me by the elbow, gently steering me up the porch steps. Pins and needles tingle my legs, making me weak. I stumble against him, and he catches me before I fall. “Easy, now.”

We make it into the kitchen, and Beckett pulls out a chair at a simple, rough-hewn table, easing me into it. He flicks on a lamp on the sideboard, and soft light floods the room. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

As he stokes the embers in the stove, I comb through my memories from the strange, dreamlike encounter with Weston Chase. The thought of my young grandmother in the throes of passion brings a brief rise of nausea. She married my grandfather at twenty, and as far as I knew, he was her only beau. In the encounter I witnessed, she couldn’t have been much younger, because Marguerite—five years her junior—wore a floor-length gown at dinner and the upswept hair of a young woman.

Was Weston Chase my grandmother’s first, secret love?

“Would you like something to eat?” Beckett asks. He takes an iron skillet from the wire rack above the stove and places it on the cooktop. “Eggs?”

“No thank you. My stomach is a little wobbly right now.”

He grunts and cracks two eggs into the skillet, then adds a pat of butter, scrambling everything together with a wooden spoon. I watch him, the crossed braces of his suspenders emphasizing the asymmetry of his shoulders. He sees me looking and shoots me a sly smile. “Never seen a man cook before, have you?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“My mother taught me. Said I’d need to know how.”

I’d never learned. We’d always had a hired cook and a maid, even after the Panic of 1907, when Da lost the bulk of our stocks and savings. In the boardinghouse, I got by with dry toast, boiled eggs, and canned beans warmed on my two-burner range, but it was hardly what I’d call cooking . “It’s a good skill to have, certainly.”

“Well. Men who look like me don’t tend to marry.”

He’s a fine-looking man, but I’ve the feeling if I said as much, given his suspicions of me, he’d think the compliment ungenuine. The coffee gurgles in the pot, and Beckett pours me a cup, sliding it across the table. He heaps a plate with scrambled eggs and sits opposite me. “You’re sure?” He gestures with his fork.

“Go on. It smells delicious, though.”

He nods and tucks in, eating heartily as I sip my coffee. It’s strong, just the way I like it first thing in the morning. I press my lips together before speaking, measuring my words. “I feel we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, Beckett. Both of us want the same thing, I think.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I can see that you’re very protective of Marguerite. I want the best for her as well. But I’ll admit that you’re not entirely wrong about me. About my reasons for coming here.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me and continues eating.

“I was engaged to be married, but my fiancé ... he changed his mind. Less than a month after my mother died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes. It was a lot, all at once.” I take another sip of my coffee. “There was nothing left for me in Kansas City. I used to work as a cigarette girl at a supper club, but I’m getting too old for that scene, and I’m running out of money.”

He stops eating and leans back in his chair. “And so you came here.”

“Yes. I’ve always felt a sort of kinship with Marguerite.” I think of what I witnessed in my vision—the way Marguerite’s mother and siblings dismissed her concerns and shamed her outspokenness. Felix, and even Mama, often did the same to me. “We’re both outcasts.”

“I can understand why you’d feel a pull to your aunt, but if you’re thinking you’ll garner Marguerite’s affection and, someday, her fortune, she’s savvier than you might think.”

I bristle. “No ... and that’s rather harsh of you to say. I’m not a fortune hunter. Not at all. I merely thought I could be of use to her, while not becoming destitute myself in the meantime. If that makes me selfish in your eyes ... well, I suppose you can’t begin to understand my predicament.” I clear my throat, soften my tone. “There are very few options available to unmarried women, Mr. Hill. Especially those of us past the first blush of youth.”

“That may very well be, Miss Halloran, and you have my sympathies. But the fact is you shouldn’t have come. It’s not safe for you here.” He pushes his chair back and stands. “This morning was proof of that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whether you choose to believe so or not, this place is haunted. That’s why we can’t keep staff. Harriet has her reasons for staying, with a husband away working and two little ones to feed. So does Melva. But the rest of them?” He shrugs again. “They start seeing things that shouldn’t be there. Eventually those things become more real. Dangerous.”

A shiver crawls up my back. “I saw something strange. Last night. In Marguerite’s studio. There was a man. I saw him in the attic as well, the day after I arrived.”

“Yes.” His eyes lock with mine. “You’re not the only one who’s seen him. My cousin was Marguerite’s last companion. She swore there was a man living here in the attic—a writer of some sort. I’ve never seen him, but she was adamant.”

“Melva said the other maids saw him, too. Is he really a ghost?”

“In a manner of speaking. One who has a maddening influence on the living—especially young women.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It doesn’t matter what he is, Miss Halloran, but I can assure you that his intentions are less than noble. For your own good, you should leave. The sooner, the better.”

Try as I may, though the day shines bright and cloudless, I can’t seem to shake my unease. My early-morning conversation with Beckett niggles like a stubborn hangnail during my walk around the rose garden with Marguerite and Harriet after breakfast. I’ve never believed in ghosts, but I can’t explain what happened to me in the studio. I have questions for Marguerite—about my grandmother and Weston Chase. I’ve a feeling that although Marguerite’s recent memory is a sieve, she guards the distant past like a precious coffer full of jewels.

We settle on the rear terrace after Marguerite has finished her daily inspection of the roses. Harriet covers Marguerite’s shoulders with a crocheted shawl and excuses herself. I regard my aunt from across the heavy wrought iron table. It might be my imagination, but she seems younger today. More vivacious. There’s a gleam in her green eyes, as if she’s been up to something sly. She smiles at me and offers me the plate of delicate pastries Melva set out for us. I wave them away.

“Aunt Marg, now that I’m here, I’m curious about our family history. Grandmother especially. Did she have a beau before Papa James?”

Marguerite shakes her head. “No. Your grandfather was her one and only.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. She was nineteen when he proposed. They carried on the engagement for a year, as was proper in those days. All she could talk about was their wedding. Such a bore.”

“Do you happen to remember a houseguest you had in Kansas City around the time of Grandmother’s engagement? A man?”

Marguerite’s brow furrows. “Oh, we had several visitors. Father’s business associates would often stay with us when they came from out of state.”

“Was there ever a writer?”

“A writer?” Her perplexed look deepens. “I don’t recall.”

I pause, taking a sip of my tea. If she’s lying to me, she’s hiding it well. I decide to try another tack. “The portrait. In the attic ... the one that upset you so. Who was he?”

A sudden spark of recollection alights behind Marguerite’s eyes. “Weston.”

“How did you come to paint his portrait? Was he one of your beaux?”

Marguerite shifts in her chair, uncomfortable. “No. And I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Why not?”

“He and Florence. They . . .”

Ah. Now I’m getting somewhere. “What did they do?”

Marguerite clenches her teeth and slams her open palm on the table. “No. I won’t talk about it. I want to go back inside now,” she says, petulantly. “Take me inside, Sybil.”

“Sadie.”

Marguerite’s eyes blaze. “What does the name matter? You’re all the same. You all leave me. Every one of you. Whether Sadie, Sybil, or Amanda.”

“I’m not leaving you. I promise,” I say firmly. I help her to her feet, and wind my arm through hers. “You happen to be stuck with me, Aunt Marg.”

She wilts against me. “You’ll really stay?” she asks. “You promise you won’t leave me?”

“Of course not.” I pat her hand and guide her toward the door, steadying her gait. “Now, why don’t we go inside. I’ll play some music for you if you’d like. Or I could read you a story.”

“Do you play? The piano?”

“Yes. I do. Not well, I’m afraid.”

“I never could, either.” Marguerite smiles up at me, her demeanor softening. “My wrong notes drove Maman batty.”

No. It was my grandmother who had been the accomplished pianist of the family. The great beauty. The star debutante at the top of the Kansas City social register and a paragon of feminine virtue. But what secrets had she kept hidden? Perhaps she wasn’t as virtuous as we all thought. I have a feeling, with enough time spent cleverly coaxing out Marguerite’s memories, I’ll discover more about my grandmother and her sisters than I ever imagined.