Page 16 of The Dravenhearst Brides

“Merrick hasn’t told you about Rickhouse One?”

Margot folded her arms. “Is there something I should know?”

He laughed again, uneasy now. “You’ll have to be askin’ your husband about that, Mrs. Dravenhearst. S’not my story to tell, not my family skeleton.”

So there was, in fact, a story.

Margot tilted her chin, trying to appear more confident than she felt. “I suppose I’ll just ask him then.” Though I can imagine how that conversation will go.

“Do that.” Julian nodded, backing away. “Best wait until he’s in a real fine mood. I’m not a married man myself, but seems to me, that’s what pillow talk is for.”

When Julian crooked a knowing grin, Margot blushed scarlet, embarrassed by the insinuation her nights in Dravenhearst Manor were consumed by her husband.

In reality, they were anything but.

She chuckled nervously. “I should return to the house.”

He nodded. “Nice to properly meet ya, Mrs. Dravenhearst. And don’t you worry on tellin’ Merrick that grifter—Toni—stopped by. I’ll handle it.”

“I appreciate it, thanks.”

“Oh, and if you ever want a tour of the stables, I’d be happy to oblige. We could get you set up with your own horse. Got plenty of real steady mares—”

Margot raised a hand to stop him. “That’s kind of you, but I don’t ride.”

“I bet you ride just fine.”

When he flicked his eyes appreciatively over Margot’s curves, she bit her lip, uncertain whether they were still speaking of horses. Julian gave a booming laugh as he turned on his heel to depart, cutting a course for the stables.

Before Margot rounded the corner of the rickhouse, she looked back. The sinkhole had swallowed the brick. Erased its presence from history, simple as that.

Margot turned her discoveries over in her mind as she walked back to the manor.

The chains on the rickhouse doors. The sinkhole…

could that be it? Merrick had mentioned, she suddenly recalled, one of the rickhouses was sealed.

He said it on their wedding day. He must’ve been speaking of Rickhouse One.

Perhaps he sealed it because it was structurally unsafe?

“It’s Margaret, yes?”

Margot startled as she crested the hill. The angle of the sun was intense, the glare obscuring her vision. She raised a hand to shade her eyes and saw Ruth, all tightly bound blonde hair and shining boots, towering before her. Gracious, the woman was tall, especially with an uphill advantage.

Margot took two steps to get on even ground. “Yes, but you can call me Margot. I’ve come to understand…Merrick mentioned his mother’s name was also Margaret.” She hugged her arms around her middle.

“So it was.” Ruth frowned. “But those of us who knew her best called her by her maiden name, Babette. It suited her.” She extended a hand. “I’m afraid our initial introduction got interrupted. I’m Ruth.”

“I remember.” Margot accepted the handshake.

Ruth’s fingers, long and slender, gripped with surprising strength.

What her riding jodhpurs and blazer lacked in ornamentation was made up for with exquisite tailoring.

Combined with her conventionally angular features and military-straight posture, the woman reeked of the kind of confidence that came only from wealth and breeding.

“How have things been since your arrival? Have you been getting on properly—adjusting to the house?” Her words were perfectly pitched and appropriate, but it was her eyes that gave her away. A glimmer of intrigue buried in their blue depths.

Margot tilted her head but didn’t respond, chewing over Ruth’s peculiar word choice. Adjusting to the house.

“I’m sorry I didn’t check in with you sooner,” Ruth continued. “I’ve found myself otherwise prioritized. Training, you know. Our colt’s Derby debut is less than a year away.”

“How did you come to your position here?” Margot asked. “It’s an unusual job for a woman, an equestrian trainer.” To say the least.

“Quite accidentally.” Ruth laughed. “I started as a hobbyist. Babette and I shared a love of horses. It wasn’t until after her death I took on a more formal role, began experimenting with bloodlines and breeding.

That’s what horseracing is all about—bloodlines.

Bad blood will always out, good will take gold. ”

Margot paused to assess the woman. It was almost impossible to pinpoint Ruth’s age. Her skin was like porcelain, impossibly well preserved and without blemish. Her body was lean and fit. “You speak of Babette fondly,” she observed. “Were you close?”

“We were. We’d been friends since girlhood and made our debuts together. Babette set her cap on Richard”—she nodded toward the manor—“early in the season. He never stood a chance. Anything that woman wanted, she got. I’ve never known anyone quite like her, before or since.

“They were a striking couple, a real fairytale match—both from blue blood families, attractive, wealthy as sin…but Babette was terribly young when she married, only eighteen. That’s how I ended up here. I came with her as a companion. We ran the house together in the early years.”

Margot started. “But what of your own prospects? That’s quite a compromise to make for a friend.”

Ruth snorted. “Unlike Babette, I didn’t have stars in my eyes where marriage was concerned.

I was in no hurry to wed. And I certainly didn’t diminish my chances by moving here.

Dravenhearst Manor was, at the turn of the century, the social capital of Kentucky.

Babette and Richard threw legendary parties.

The manor had a revolving door.” Ruth gave a tinkling laugh.

“I met my fair share of suitors, make no mistake. But I never married.”

“Why not?”

Ruth’s eyes misted, dancing with memories.

“I found tremendous freedom when I moved here. Riding horses each morning, parties every weekend…no one to answer to but myself. It was the most…” She paused to inhale sharply.

“Exhilarating time of my life. I think I made out better than Babette.” She smiled at her own joke, then winced.

“I’m sorry, that was in terribly poor taste.

Of course I made out better. Babette died two decades ago, barely twelve years a bride.

It was a…a devastating tragedy. They say the brightest stars burn out the fastest.” She hugged herself and looked away, blinking.

A devastating tragedy…perhaps childbirth? Surprising herself, Margot reached over to gently grip Ruth’s forearm. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“It’s not for you to be sorry about. It was half a lifetime ago, but the people on this estate have long memories.

There’s dark history here, and history seems to have a way of repeating itself.

” Her gaze was steady now, penetrating. “That’s why I asked you about the house, about how you’re getting on. Is everything truly all right?”

Margot bit the inside of her cheek. She was afraid. She didn’t want to say what was happening at night, alone in her bedroom. The words, once uttered, could not be taken back.

Her mother had lost time near the end, unable to recall the things she’d done, uncertain even as to how she passed from one room to the next.

She would move things, forget she moved them, then launch into endless paranoid tirades until she wore herself out.

Until either Margot or her exhausted father would bring her laudanum.

In the darkest depths of her heart, Margot began to think her mother crazy.

It affected how she spoke to her, how she looked at her, and to this day, how she remembered her.

If she was being fully honest, it affected how she viewed herself as well. How others viewed her, especially after the horrific scandal of her debut. Mad Margaret, loony Margaret…she’d lived that life before. She wasn’t willing to do it again. Not here, where she hoped to start over.

No. She’d not utter one complaint about the house. Everything was fine.

Margot kept her voice light. Pleasant. Forced a doe-eyed southern belle smile. “Everything is lovely. It’s been perfect.”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Ruth’s face before she offered a hesitant but relieved smile in return. “Well…good. Good. I’m glad.”

Margot nodded faintly, keeping the silly grin on her face. She poked a thumb over her shoulder toward the manor. “Speaking of which, I best be heading back. Thank you for the chat. It was lovely.”

As she turned to go, Ruth’s fingers curled around Margot’s forearm, gentle but insistent.

“Should it ever…not be lovely,” she said, emphasizing Margot’s word choice and biting her bottom lip, “come see me in Hellebore House.”

“Where?”

“Just there.” Ruth pointed. “The cottage beyond the stables, near the edge of the property. That’s where I live.” She cast a wary eye back to the manor, lurking over Margot’s shoulder like a gargoyle. “I no longer keep a room in the main house. I prefer my own space.”

“Of course.” Margot wiggled her arm free. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She located the stone cottage in the distance, surrounded by flowering bushes. A small garden flanked the side, a veranda before the front door.

“Please do. Anytime, even if you’d just like to share a cup of tea in the afternoon. Babette and I did that often. She adored a good tea party…or gin rickeys on the porch in the summer.”

“She sounds larger than life.” Margot shifted her stance, the question on the tip of her tongue. “I’m wondering…how exactly did she die?”

Ruth’s face fell still.

“I don’t mean to be impertinent,” Margot said, the words coming quickly. “It’s only—”

“It’s okay to be curious.” Ruth’s frozen features broke.

“I’d be concerned if you weren’t.” A fleeting glance to meet Margot’s eyes, then away.

“Babette struggled after marrying Richard. She enjoyed the role of wife in theory, more so the role of hostess. She thrived as the center of attention. But in the moments between, the day-to-day management of the estate, stepping into her role as Merrick’s mother… she floundered.”

Ruth looked into the distance before continuing.

“High as a kite one day, radiant as the sun, making you feel privileged just to stand in her light. But then the next…she’d be unable to get out of bed.

Curtains pulled. Door closed. She called them ‘fits of the sullens,’ and she blamed them on many things—Richard, the house, the gin rickeys…

” Ruth smiled, remembering, then shook her head.

“Maybe it was everything. Maybe it was none of those things. Maybe there’s a cost to shining so bright.

If she was truly a star, she was a very fickle one indeed. ”

“I see.” But Margot pursed her lips, unsure whether she really saw at all.

“No, you don’t.” Ruth’s brows dipped. “But you will. Her death was a tragedy, but by her own hands. Babette died by suicide. She took her own life.”