Page 12 of The Dravenhearst Brides

Jean-Philippe,

I’d like to commission a gown. I’m thinking…peacocks.

Do what you do best, darling.

Yours,

Babette Dravenhearst

Merrick returned from morning services in a dour mood and made himself scarce, heading straight to the bourbon rickhouses. Margot was more than a little curious after his edict banning her from the distillery, but the glower on his face made her think twice about following.

Instead, she spent the afternoon quarantined on the floor of her closet, tossing the gowns, day dresses, and perhaps most flustering of all, lingerie of her predecessor into various piles on the floor and bed.

Most were destined for donation, but she earmarked a select few to save.

Several gowns were of such exquisitely detailed and ludicrous construction, it seemed a crime to part with them.

Margot stood with both hands on her hips and let out a tired but satisfied sigh as she surveyed her work. Seven piles earmarked for donation—truly a Herculean effort.

The door to her bedroom gave a whining creak.

“Gracious Lord in heaven above.” The aging butler, Xander, poked his tufty head into the room. His face was aghast. “What in tarnation is going on in here?”

“Ah, Xander.” Margot gave him a pleased smile. “I was just thinking of locating you for your opinion. I’ve been sorting through the closet, and—”

“The Chantilly lace mourning gown—this requires hanging to prevent creases.” He sprang into action, pulling a black dress from a pile.

“And gracious, whatever is the ermine cloak doing out? It’s far too warm for this right now, m’lady.

” He scooped it up with his tremoring hands.

“And is that the House of Worth peacock gown?” He positively shivered in fright.

“Whyever have you removed the couture from its protective casing? The feathers aren’t meant to be exposed to open air—they’ll wilt and molt! ”

“Wilt and molt?” She furrowed her brow. “But surely, on the bird itself, the feathers are exposed to open air all the time, are they not?”

“Babette, what has gotten into you?”

“I’m Margot,” she corrected, looking directly at the butler. Did he truly not know who she was? Or was this merely a test, a perverse battle of wills against an outsider?

“Margot?” His brows drew inward. His confusion seemed genuine, but she was not reassured. Quite the contrary.

“Yes. Margot. Merrick’s wife.”

“Merrick…Merrick’s wife?” Slowly, awareness dawned. Xander’s bemused concern twisted into horror. “Why have you been touching Babette’s things? What right have you?”

“It’s my bedroom now,” she said, instantly defensive. “My closet. I need to hang my things, my dresses.”

Xander’s jaw quivered as he looked around the room. “This is grave robbing, this is.”

“Is there another place in the manor where we can store her gowns, perhaps?” Margot asked weakly, giving up all hope of donation. She simply hated confrontation. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“But you have.” He was positively tremulous, gazing at the piled-up couture with sorrow. “You’ve disturbed her things without asking. It’s not right. She’ll be very upset.”

“I’m sorry.” Margot was wringing her hands, nearly as distressed as Xander. Her heartbeat pounded in her temples. How had this gone so wrong?

“We can just…perhaps we can put them back.” He nodded. “That’s what we’ll do. We’ll put them back very carefully, precisely as they were.”

“But my things—”

“She won’t like this at all.” He lifted two garments with care and headed for the closet, speaking more to himself than Margot, stroking the ermine cloak like a lover, murmuring, “There, there.”

Margot’s vision began to tunnel as she recognized the dismissal.

Dismissed from her own bedroom! As if she were an interloper, unwelcome.

She was nearly in tears now. An embarrassed flush rose on the back of her neck, creeping ever higher.

Her breathing grew ragged. She fled the suffocating room and collapsed to her knees in the candlelit hallway, out of sight of the horrible butler.

She closed her eyes, breathed in and out.

He's in the wrong, she told herself. You’re not crazy. You’re not hysterical.

The ticking of the grandfather clock roared in her ears. Tick, tick. She matched her inhalations to its rhythm, trying to slow her hitching breaths.

Xander is confused. It’s your closet, she told herself.

“It’s mine!” a vehement voice hissed. So very intense and close at hand, it raised shivers on Margot’s neck. She sprang to her feet, whirling in a flurry of skirts.

A sudden chill overtook her.

The hallway was empty.

A draft blew down the corridor, whipping hair away from her face. Two doors along the passage slammed shut with jolting bangs.

Margot grew cold, cold to her very bones. When she exhaled, her breath was foggy. Her legs churned, propelling her backward.

A second gust blew down the corridor, extinguishing candles along the wall, one after the next. A black wave of darkness surged toward her. When the last taper guttered out, Margot stumbled. Her legs tangled in her skirt, then caught. She went down hard.

Her panting breath filled the air. Just beyond her feet, a floorboard creaked. Margot stifled a whimper, unable to see in the dark. She twisted to rise.

A hand grabbed her ankle. Icy fingers latching on, one by one, over her skin. Gripping. Dragging. So cold it burned.

Margot screamed and kicked ferociously. The hold of the vise broke, her foot swinging free. She lurched upright, then stumbled backward, eyes frantically searching the darkness for the threat.

Her spine slammed into a doorframe. She scampered over the landing and down the winding stairwell, yanked open the front door of the manor, and exploded into the fading rays of sunlight. The tear tracks frozen upon her cheeks melted instantly, becoming one with the midsummer humidity.

Deep breaths, she told herself. Calm down.

She shifted her skirt to examine her ankle. The skin was clear. No grip marks. No evidence of a frigid burn.

An imagined frigid burn, she told herself, exhaling mightily. She’d worked herself into a terrible state, let her distress get the better of her. How else could you explain—

“What’s the matter, sugar?”

Margot spun to the voice. The estate groundskeeper, Evangeline, stood before her, a sharp trowel at her waist. Her hands were full of ripped-up weeds, the roots dangling freely.

Margot swiped at her tear tracks, but the woman had already seen.

“That house.” Her voice was husky. She nodded over Margot’s shoulder toward the manor. “It’s no good for anyone, which is why I don’t go inside. You shouldn’t spend your days locked in there. You’re always welcome to work outside with me.”

Margot released a shuddering breath. “You…don’t go inside?”

“I haven’t set foot in that crypt for almost thirty years.”

“Why not?”

Evangeline didn’t answer, only puckered her lips and gazed over the gentle slope toward the distillery. A few crumbles of dirt and roots fell to the ground when she moved.

“Merrick told me I’m not to go in the rickhouses,” Margot said, following the groundskeeper’s sightline. “Not that there was something wrong with the manor itself.”

“Yes. It’s quite dangerous, the distillery.” Her voice turned dreamy, at odds with her words. “There’s a large sinkhole behind Rickhouse One”—she pointed to the nearest warehouse—“so it’s best not to go wandering off. Wouldn’t want you to get swallowed up when you’ve only just arrived.”

Margot swallowed uncomfortably, eyeballing Rickhouse One. The brick was half covered with creeping ivy and unchecked wisteria, as though the earth was trying to swallow it whole.

“What a day it’s been.” Evangeline shook her dirt-laden fingers.

“I’ve spent hours and hours weeding. It’s an important task on an estate as long-standing as this.

” The pitch of her voice grew deep with promise, suspiciously so.

“There will always be critters trying to creep in where they don’t belong.

Bold as brass, they are. Can you imagine? ”

I’m the weed, Margot thought. That’s what she means, just as Xander implied.

“Pruning, endless pruning.” When Evangeline shifted her weight, the blade of her trowel caught sunlight. “Poison works nicely, for the most stubborn breeds. I blend my own with herbs and flora I grow here on the estate.”

Margot paled, drawing a hand to her throat and stepping back. “Is that a threat?” she whispered.

Evangeline cocked her head. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You said…you just said…about weeds, creeping in where they don’t belong. And pruning and poison,” Margot rambled. Distantly, she sensed her paranoia running away with her, but she couldn’t stop the words from coming.

Evangeline’s brows pulled down, bemused. “Well, yes, weeds can quickly ruin a garden—the grounds of a whole estate—if left unchecked. Nature is one of the most ancient magics, and it must always be kept in balance. I consider myself a steward of that balance.”

“A steward,” Margot repeated. “You mean like a…a witch?”

Evangeline narrowed her eyes. “I prefer steward.”

“O-of course,” she stammered, glancing uneasily back toward the house. “I reckon I’ll go back inside now. I’m feeling much better. Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t go in there just yet. Why don’t you work in the garden with me?”

“No, it’s getting late.” Margot backed away. “Merrick will be expecting me for supper.”

“All right, sugar. You newlyweds have a lovely evening.” Evangeline waggled her long fingers as she turned to depart, causing a few more weeds to tumble to earth. The earth she’d unceremoniously ripped them from.

She’ll do the same to you, given the chance.

The thought was sharp and crystal clear, but it had risen unbidden. Was it her own, or…was it the voice of someone else?

Margot eyed the manor with trepidation as she ascended the steps of the portico.

She glanced back, but Evangeline had disappeared.

Her gaze traveled downhill until it landed on the stables.

Standing outside was the tall, lithe figure of the horse trainer, Ruth.

A hand shaded her eyes as she stared up at Margot.

The distance was too great to ascertain her expression, but Margot sensed coldness, that her presence was unwelcome.

The hinges of the front door whined as she pulled it open, wailing a warning to any who dared cross its threshold.

“It’s nothing a good oiling won’t fix,” Margot said aloud, feigning cheerfulness. The hinges screeched again when she closed the door.

Evangeline had called the manor a crypt, Ruth a mausoleum. The memory was faint, buried deep from when Margot was half asleep, but it was there.

Why had both women said those things?

Perhaps oil would be superfluous. Perhaps the shrieking first impression suited after all.