Page 17 of The Dravenhearst Brides

Ruth,

Don’t wear pink tonight, but don something equally stunning.

We’ll be the brightest stars in Louisville.

Love Always,

Babette

There would be no sleep that night, Margot was sure of it.

Not one wink. The humidity was oppressive, and her thoughts swirled with visions of Babette.

Visions of Dravenhearst Manor lit not by sparse candlelight but the buzzing live wire of electricity.

Glittering ballgowns and grand parties. The images played on the back of Margot’s feverishly warm eyelids like a silent film at the picture shows.

A sharp sound cut through the night, a rumbling outside the manor. Familiar. Her eyes sprang open.

She dashed to the balcony just in time to watch the roadster pull an about-face in the circle drive, Merrick in the driver’s seat.

Sneaking out. For the second time this week, third or fourth since their wedding. She’d lost count.

It felt like defeat, like the worst kind of shame. The soft depths of the bed called to her. The laudanum on the nightstand even more so.

But laudanum wasn’t the only thing on the nightstand tonight.

Dinner had been the usual solitary affair, but when Margot returned to her room, she discovered two surprises—an envelope with her name on it, presumably a return letter from her father, and a crystal vase filled with blue hydrangeas.

She knew those flowers; they were from Greenbrier Estates.

Only one person could have brought them.

Her darling, adulterous husband.

Margot crossed the room on sleepwalker’s feet, then bent down to sniff the heavy blooms. They’d been Ma’s favorite, these flowers, and against herself—against the ingrained impulse to have nothing in common with her mother—Margot had always loved them too.

It was unexpected of him to bring a bouquet back for her. Thoughtful. She’d been buoyed by the gesture, but those hopes were quickly dashed, run over by the roadster’s squealing tires as her husband absconded yet again in the middle of the night.

Who is she, this other woman? It seemed critically important to know.

Margot grabbed recklessly for the laudanum as she tumbled back to bed. She tilted the bottle to her lips and drank deeply, relishing the bitter tincture on her tongue. It tasted like salvation. Like some goddamn peace and quiet.

She nestled into the sheets, wanting to disappear in the blissful abyss of unconsciousness.

She certainly didn’t want to remain here, her thoughts swimming with jealous resentment.

Here she was, nearly a month a bride, her marriage bed cold.

Unconsummated. Dying a slow death by neglectful asphyxiation, day after day.

Margot pictured the face of the mystery woman who shared nights with Merrick in her place. She would be beautiful, of course, striking and magnetic. Confident. She had to be.

Who is she? What does she have that I don’t? Who? Who?

Through her rising opiate haze, Margot wondered if there was an owl on the balcony asking the question.

Who? Who? Who?

Then came the answer, her last conscious thought. A damning one, followed by eerie laughter, high and feminine.

Someone just like Babette.

The ballroom was aglow and hazy, rosy-hued in evening candlelight.

Margot floated above the scene, drifting between the taper-laden chandeliers.

Faces below blurred like the swirling brushstrokes of a Van Gogh painting, all movement, color, and current.

All round edges. A feeling more than a reality.

She rolled over in the air, spinning lazily. Humidity sat like morning dewdrops on her bare limbs. Like water-laden crystals, glistening in the low light. Margot shimmered. Rolled her arms languorously, her gaze trailing across the scene below.

Like an angel, she descended. The skirt of her white nightgown billowed romantically, a peony in full bloom.

Her bare toes pointed, then touched marbled ground.

The cold hit her feet, icing them through.

The sensation crept up her legs, rising like frost, as she began to move.

Humid dewdrops turned to frozen crystals on her skin.

A ragtime reel was playing. Hands clapped to the beat, merry and sharp. The crowd fell away as two girls—a pair of doe-eyed, rosy-cheeked debutantes—stole center stage on the dance floor. One with soft red hair. The other, pale blonde.

Margaret Babette and Ruth Auclaire.

Their feet moved in perfect unison, punctuating every beat with a dance step. The clapping of the crowd increased, winding faster and faster. Challenging the girls to keep pace. To dance. To fly.

Only when it became untenable, only when their feet moved and tapped and twirled as mere blurs, did Babette break harmony, reaching for Ruth.

The pair entwined their hands and leaned back, spinning like cherry blossoms falling to earth in springtime.

Heads tilted up, curling strands of hair dripping down their backs, mouths open in joyous laughter.

The sound rang louder in Margot’s ears than the thunderous clapping.

Rang like the pealing of church bells on Easter Sunday.

The laughter of unbridled youth, of princesses in a room full of peasants.

Fascination and desire swelled in Margot’s chest, shooting a current of warmth through her cold limbs, blazing all the way to the tips of her frosted fingers.

The two girls were a perfect pair of foils.

Babette, the portrait of romance in a diaphanous dusty pink gown with ruffled gigot sleeves ending just above her elbow.

Low cut to expose her flushed bosom, panting with exertion from the effects of the reel.

And Ruth, a strikingly bold figure clad in black and white, art nouveau lines accenting curves down her bodice and lengthening the line of her legs.

Her ears were weighted with succulent pearls, diamonds at her throat.

Glittering with expense, dripping with it.

Together they consumed all the oxygen in the room.

“Louisville’s own pair of Gibson girls,” a watching mama announced. Curious, Margot reached for her, wondering if she could touch…but the woman drifted away, neither here nor there. Insubstantial.

“Indeed. Best for every other debutante in this room they make matches quickly,” her companion replied, staring right through Margot as she spoke. “Until those two dominoes fall, there’ll be no room for the rest.”

A dark-haired man in a crisp, narrow-cut tuxedo took to the floor.

The music slowed. Ruth gave Babette a knowing, close-lipped smile, nodding over her friend’s shoulder at the approaching gentleman.

She leaned in to whisper something, pink lips nearly touching Babette’s ear.

Margot moved forward, dying to hear Ruth’s words, but the music swelled, transitioning to a waltz.

Ruth melted away as Babette turned straight into the man’s arms and began to dance.

“You were saying,” the mama said, nudging her friend’s shoulder.

“Well, well, well. A Babette and a Dravenhearst. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Mmm, yes. It’s their fourth dance this week, second tonight. I daresay, that match is made.”

Margot hardly breathed as she watched the pair, their bodies a hair closer than proper, eyes locked on each other. Gazes pooling. Swimming in each other.

Heat warmed Margot’s core, between her legs, only from watching. Because if she slightly fuzzed her vision, it could be her and Merrick revolving around the dance floor. Closer than close. A dark-haired devil and a strawberry-blonde cherub.

Oh, how she wanted to be held like that! To set every tongue in Louisville wagging for something so scandalously improper but undeniably right. To so clearly belong in another’s embrace.

Margot raised her arms into the hold, imagining what it would feel like.

Just before she gave into the music and began to move, the gentleman beside her shifted.

She froze, wondering faintly if he might take her hands and dance.

He was young and fit with soft brown hair and matching eyes, kind eyes.

But his hands didn’t reach for her; instead, they clasped behind his back.

A set of silver cufflinks twinkled in the candlelight, a pair of racehorses.

When Margot’s gaze traced up his arms, over his shoulders, across his face, she found abject longing.

He stared straight through her with eyes for none but Babette.

Babette, who was twirling in Richard Dravenhearst’s arms, seemingly enamored. Brushing her fingers on his neck, teasing, twining in the dark hair at his nape.

The man beside Margot flinched and turned tail.

Only then did Babette’s attention falter.

Her gaze snapped like a magnet, watching the man’s retreating back, like she’d known precisely where he stood all along.

Her body continued to waltz, the crowd continued to gawk, but Margot was watching Babette’s eyes—a single flicker, there and gone. Enough to give her away.

As the music faded, Dravenhearst leaned low to kiss Babette’s curled fingers.

She accepted her victory with smug delight, a princess ascending to the rank of queen.

Murmurs buzzed through the room. Heedless, Babette took her leave, gently waving away another gentleman who extended his hand for a dance.

Margot gave chase through the crowd. She followed the swishing train of Babette’s pink dress straight out of the ballroom and into a dark hallway. The temperature dropped several degrees. Margot shivered.

A closed door waited at the end of the passage. Babette paused, curling her fingers around the knob. Before she entered, she looked straight at Margot, her green eyes blazing with awareness.

She can see me, Margot realized. None of the others had noticed, but—

Babette winked. “Yes, Dravenhearst bride. I see you.”

Margot jolted, the voice reaching her ears like wind chimes in the distance—airy, high, and melodic.

Babette’s lips pursed. She blew Margot a playful kiss. “Watch this.”

She turned the knob to slip inside, and Margot caught a glimpse of the brown-eyed man waiting within. Heard his voice, pleading, as she closed the door.

“Babette, please don’t marry him.”

The door clicked shut.

Margot’s hands scrambled at the knob, twisting and turning, but it was futile. Locked. She pounded a hand on the wood in frustration, then pried at the keyhole. Twisting madly. She wanted to hear. To see.

A faint barking echoed down the hallway, but Margot was single-minded in her desire to open the door. She would not be distracted.

“Babette?”

She turned her head to the voice, but the hallway was empty. Suddenly, warm hands gripped her frozen arms, pressing.

“Babette, what are you doing?” The voice came from a great distance, as though underwater. Muted and muffled.

The barking grew louder, pounding in her head. She closed her eyes against the onslaught. The world tilted beneath her feet. When she lifted her lashes, the hallway had vanished, the Louisville ballroom worlds away, decades even.

Margot stood in the foyer of Dravenhearst Manor in her white cotton nightgown, her fingers gripping the handle of the front door.

Beau had wiggled himself between her and the exit, nudging her away.

She turned her head and gasped in surprise.

The bulging, eerie blue eyes of the butler, Xander, loomed before her in the darkness.

“M’lady, where are you going? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I…” Margot released the handle in shock. “Nowhere.”

“Babette, you should be abed. I’ll escort you. Come.”

Margot pulled back from him. “I’m not Babette.” Never before had the distinction felt so crucial.

“Not…” Xander faltered, eyes searching. He shook his head. “Come. Richard will be—”

“I’m not Richard’s wife. I’m Margot, Merrick’s wife.”

“Merrick’s…wife?” Xander blinked twice, raising a hand to cover his gaping mouth. “Merrick’s wife?”

“Yes,” she breathed, folding her arms over her chest. Rubbing her hands up and down against the phantom chill still clinging to her limbs.

“No.” He shook his head, voice raspy. “No, you can’t be. No more Dravenhearst brides. He promised. We all agreed.”

“What do you mean?”

“The curse,” he whispered, eyes wide with reverence. With fear.

“What curse? Did something happen here, Xander? To the other wives?”

“Dead…two generations dead. First Eleanor, then Babette.” His face crumpled. He dragged a hand over it, scrubbing hard.

“Ruth told me…she said Babette committed suicide.”

“They both did. In Rickhouse One. Hung themselves from the rafters, dressed in their bridal gowns. The Dravenhearst suicide brides.”

Jesus Christ. Margot stumbled back.

“The rickhouse has been sealed, but it matters not. Merrick shouldn’t have brought you here.

I…” He trailed off, looking sheepish. “I forget things, sometimes. I forget so many things, but I remember the important ones. I swear I do. I remember things that happened here. I remember what I did.” He shivered.

“You shouldn’t have come. You should leave.

Were you trying to?” He pointed to the door.

“No.” Margot shook her head, finding her voice. “No, I was just…well, I don’t know precisely what I was doing. I was asleep. Dreaming.”

“Do you dream of her?”

She was almost afraid to ask. “Dream of who?”

“Eleanor.”

“No. Not her.”

“Not her?” Xander repeated. His eyes sharpened. “Then…Babette? You dream of Babette?”

Margot didn’t answer.

“I’m only asking because I dream of her too,” he whispered. “She’s worse than Eleanor. Far worse. She is a true haunting.”

A haunting. Margot shivered. Is that what’s happening to me?

Xander closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, he blinked slowly, stupidly. His irises were milky with the cataracts of age, almost glassy in the candlelight. “Babette? Whatever are you doing?”

“Wh-what?”

“You should be abed. It’s terribly late. You know these late-night wanderings distress Richard.” He reached for her. “Here, allow me to help—”

“No!” Margot cried, snatching her arm away, puzzled and terrified all at once. The Xander with the clear gaze and plaintive speech of the last several minutes was gone. She peered closely, uncertain. “Xander?”

“Yes, m’lady?” The slow tilt to his head was creepingly servile. His eyes were vacant. A light on, but nobody home.

Margot moved toward Beau, pressing her trembling leg against the dog for comfort.

“Come now, Babette,” he continued, oblivious to her distress. He was but an old-time music box, playing the same tune over and over. “I’ll see you abed. Come…”