Page 18 of The Dravenhearst Brides

Merrick,

Your copies of the notarized paperwork, as requested. I appreciate the consideration you’ve shown my daughter throughout this process. Of all the “assets” discussed herein, she is the most precious to me.

I know it is early yet, but it’s my sincerest hope that one day you might agree.

Sincerely,

Samuel Greenbrier

I’m going mad. It’s the only explanation.

Margot needed to get dressed for church. She needed to procure her Book of Psalms, her handbag and matching gloves, then her husband, lest they be late.

Instead, she was staring at her wedding gown, strung up on the curtain rod by a length of rope.

A length of rope knotted around the neckline of the dress…

Noose-like.

It was a clear threat. A manifestation of her own subconscious, of the curse of the Dravenhearst brides. Tangible proof of the evil, the sick weakness, lurking within her.

Like mother, like daughter.

Margot’s breathing grew ragged. Her fingers scrabbled at her neck, imagining the rough itch of tightening twine on her skin. Cutting off her air.

She stumbled to the bed, gasping.

Thunderous knocks battered the door.

“Not now,” she whispered, clutching her head, trying to control her breath. She glanced at the dress, billowing in the morning breeze from the balcony. Another knock. Margot closed her eyes. It was all too much.

“Margot, are you nearly ready?” They were the first words her husband had spoken to her today, but he already sounded annoyed.

Margot stuffed her fist in her mouth, trying to muffle her panicked, gasping breaths. She didn’t want Merrick to come in to investigate, couldn’t afford to let him see the gown strung up on the curtain rod. Or worse, her on the floor.

Incapacitated.

Weak.

Hysterical.

“Wouldn’t want to be late,” her husband continued, his voice a bored drawl. “I’d hate to miss an opportunity to watch Father Simmons asphyxiate on his own doctrine of perfection.”

The joke punctured her panic. She exhaled in a sharp snort.

“It’s a beautiful day to be indoctrinated, don’t you think?” His words were muffled by the door. “Or better yet, to take a midmorning nap. Reckon his holier-than-thou homily will do the job nicely.”

Merrick’s persistent irreverence brought a smile to her lips. She inhaled slowly, focusing on his voice, surprised to find how much it helped.

“Margot? Are you there?”

“Y-y-yes…” she called. She rose on trembling legs and gave a sharp tug on the wedding gown, pulling it down. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Swell. Are you ready?”

“Almost,” she lied, tossing the gown into one of the trunks in her closet and slamming the lid. She grabbed a lemon-yellow tea dress at random and shucked off her nightgown.

“If you’d prefer a lazy morning instead, I’m happy to oblige…”

“No, no,” she called back, stepping directly into the day dress. God forgive her, there was no time to procure a matching chemise. “Sunday service is important. The whole community will be there, as will we.”

Merrick mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like “a pack of zealots and fools.”

A giggle rose unbidden to her lips.

“If you don’t hurry, we’re going to be—”

She pulled open the door with a flourish. “I’m all set.”

Hardly. Her hair was unbound and loose around her shoulders, her body indecently wanton without proper structural undergarments, and her crocheted church gloves were nowhere to be seen.

“Oh.” Merrick cleared his throat, taking in her disheveled appearance. “You look…”

“A bit undone.” She laughed nervously and waved him off. “I’ve misplaced my gloves and—”

“Heaven forbid,” Merrick teased. He reached for her hand, twining his fingers with hers. “A fine pair of sinners we’ll make, you and I. Bare flesh in church and an atheist liberal on your arm. Holy water won’t save you today, Mrs. Dravenhearst.”

It certainly won’t. That smile of his alone would be her demise. Godless, adulterous, a liar…oh, the list of his accolades went on and on. Yet here she was, a dog ravenous for any scrap of his philandering attention.

“We should go,” Margot said quietly, casting her lashes downward. It was easier, perhaps, if she just didn’t look at him.

But before they set out, her husband did something altogether unexpected. Something that made her traitorous, sinful heart somersault in exaltation.

Merrick leaned in and pressed his lips to her temple. “For what it’s worth,” he murmured against her skin, “I think you look quite beautiful this morning.”

She started. Evidently, sleepwalking, hauntings, and a bit of morning madness agreed with her.

“Undone”—he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear—“suits you.”

Nervous energy bubbled to her surface, releasing yet another giggle. Oh, how she loathed herself. “You’ve gone mad, like Alice’s hatter in Wonderland.”

“A high compliment if I’ve ever heard one. Can you keep a secret, love?” He brushed her ear with his knuckle as he quoted, “‘We’re all mad here.’”

Well, wasn’t that the truth? A truth from which Margot—busy turning to vapor from the mere whisper of his touch—couldn’t even pretend to be exempt. The riotous explosion of butterflies in her stomach and his iron-hot brand on her ear were evidence enough.

Love, he’d taken to calling her…

She shivered.

He isn’t the mad one, she realized. It’s me. I grow madder and madder here by the day.

Margot spent Sunday afternoon on her knees in the dirt.

When they returned from Mass, Merrick turned tail for the rickhouses.

Margot let out a lengthy sigh, taking a long look at the manor.

Her stomach soured at the thought of walking through the doors.

Her noosed wedding gown was in there, waiting for her.

Pulsing in a trunk upstairs, like Poe’s tell-tale heart beneath the floorboards.

Margot stared at the house, and it stared back. Its mullioned windows were like the paned mosaic of dragonfly wings, glinting in the midday sun. Winking at her, drawing her in.

She crossed her arms, trying very hard not to feel silly. Don’t be a ninny.

Evangeline walked by. She wore a pair of dirt-stained dungarees and wellington boots, her arms laden with gardening supplies. She followed Margot’s uneasy gaze to the house before wordlessly offering a shovel.

Margot needed nothing more. She followed Evangeline down the hill to a plot of freshly tilled soil near the stables.

“Turnips, radish, collards, and pumpkin…fall harvest begins with midsummer planting,” Evangeline explained, handing off packets of seeds. “An inch deep, all in a row down this line.”

And that was that. Margot dropped to her knees and set to work, reveling in the feel of soft dirt beneath her fingers, sunshine on her face, and a quiet, focused mind.

As she worked her way down the line, Evangeline followed, running her hands atop the fresh soil. Eyes closed, lips moving. Halfway through the planting, she noticed Margot staring.

“They can’t talk back yet”—Evangeline nodded toward the ground—“but even seedlings can listen. What we exhale, nature inhales.”

A bead of sweat dripped down Margot’s nose, falling into the dirt. Evangeline smiled, pleased, then closed her eyes and resumed her benediction.

It wasn’t until the sun began to fade that Margot rocked back on her heels and wiped sweat from her brow.

She shifted in the dirt to look at the house atop the hill.

With the sinking sun behind the building, the manor cast a long shadow.

The two towers stretched toward her like greedy fingers, eager to repossess their quarry.

She sighed and rose to her feet, her gaze perusing the pasture.

Julian was out there, holding the reins of a palomino.

Beyond him, on the outskirts, Margot spied two men at the pasture fence, deep in discussion.

Merrick was closer to her, his profile clearly visible.

At first glance, his posture was relaxed, leaning forward over the rail.

Casual confidence and power. But the longer she looked, the less comfortable she became.

His broad shoulders were taut, stretching the planes of his white shirt to their limits, pulling at seams. And though his right hand dangled freely over open air, the fingers of his left were curled tightly around the pasture rail.

She recognized the stature of his silver-grayed companion.

Alastair Pendry.

What is he doing here? Her heart fluttered.

Alastair was speaking…ranting, more like. He gesticulated wildly over the fence at the grazing horses.

Julian turned, stretching the palomino’s reins as he angled closer. Listening.

Alastair’s mouth continued to move a mile a minute.

Ruth hovered nearby, the equestrian trainer’s face half-hidden in the shadows where she lurked in the stable doorway. She stared at the pair with a murderous glint in her eyes. Her arms were tightly crossed, her toe tapping steadily. Her ice blue gaze flicked to Margot.

Ruth nodded pointedly at her, then toward the pair. Get over there, she seemed to say.

And do what?

Merrick cracked his knuckles over the railing as he listened, and the sight forced her into action.

“Merrick?” she called, beginning to move.

He startled, then held out a hand, signaling her to wait.

He turned back to Alastair to say a few brief words, nodding as he spoke.

Alastair’s sour face lightened incrementally, appeased.

He reached into his pocket and passed over three sheets of paper.

Merrick scrawled something—presumably his signature—across the bottom of each page, then handed one back to Alastair.

Margot watched as final false pleasantries were exchanged, then Alastair turned and headed up the hill, departing.

She sighed with relief and continued walking. Merrick met her halfway, folding the papers and sticking them in his pocket.

“What was that about?” she asked.

He gestured uphill toward the house. “Shall we?”

“Merrick.” She fell into step. “What did Alastair want?”

“Same thing he always wants, my distillery and my horses.”