Page 22 of The Dravenhearst Brides

My dearest Margaret,

Wellness is a generality these days, but you may assume your letters always find me so, made better simply by tracing the ink of your words over a page.

I feel your hesitancy through that ink, daughter.

You say the house is lovely—I confess relief at your words.

There were rumors, many years ago, but you and I know a thing or two about gossip. Often malicious, rarely true.

Perhaps you and your new husband have more in common than you think.

Forever Yours,

Pa

When Margot woke the next morning, she no longer contemplated packing her trunk. Her kiss with Merrick had settled the matter. She was staying.

But.

But…

Merrick had conceded there was something unnatural about the house. Xander, Evangeline, and Ruth had all expressed fears of history repeating itself. Even young Julian, who hadn’t lived through the events of the past, had extended his own vague warning.

Perhaps there was a curse, perhaps not. But if there was, Margot was inarguably the next target.

History repeating itself, she mused, dressing for the day. Did this only refer to the suicides? Or was there more at play here? Babette had reached out to Margot in her dreams. Had anyone, Eleanor perhaps, reached out to Babette?

There was only one way to find out.

And conveniently, the person who likely held answers had given Margot an open invitation to tea.

“So what’ll it be?” Ruth’s grin was playful as she invited Margot inside Hellebore House. “Doilies and fine china?” She gestured toward a curio cabinet, then lifted her opposite hand to indicate the sideboard. “Or shall we make a real afternoon of it and dip into the giggle water?”

Margot’s experience with alcohol was limited, but judging from the impressive array of hooch on display—most bottles less than half full—Ruth was a connoisseur.

“Gin rickeys on the porch in the summer…” Margot eyed the bottles, trying to hide her trepidation. “Isn’t that what you and Babette liked?”

A flicker of interest sparked. “We did.”

“I see no reason to break tradition.”

“Spoken like a true Dravenhearst.” Ruth’s eyes glinted with approval.

As Ruth prepared their drinks, Margot surveyed the selection on the credenza. She lifted a tall, rectangular bottle filled to the midpoint with a rich amber solution. The label was faded and peeling but clearly read Dravenhearst Distilling. In smaller print below came the year, 1912.

“Ah, Merrick’s pride and joy, that is,” Ruth said, nodding to the bottle.

“It’s from the 1912 collection, a particularly good crop of corn and one of Richard’s more experimental mash bills.

It was the first season Richard let Merrick do full tastings alongside him to decide whether the bourbon was ready to be pulled and bottled. ”

“1912?” Margot furrowed her brow. “But in 1912, Merrick must’ve been only…”

Ruth laughed. “Ten years old.”

Margot dropped the bottle onto the sideboard with a clatter. “Started him early, I see.”

Ruth waved this observation away. “Merrick had his first taste of bourbon slipped into his milk bottles. Helped with teething.” She clucked her tongue and lifted her eyebrows. “He was a terribly fussy baby. Hopefully, it doesn’t run in the family.”

“Oh, I don’t think we have to worry about that just yet,” Margot replied, trying to keep her tone light.

“Mmm.” Ruth raised a highball glass and sampled her gin rickey.

She smacked her lips twice before splashing in an additional dollop of gin.

“That’s what Babette thought too, but she was late after only their first month of marriage.

She miscarried the first, but it wasn’t long before she was expecting again.

” She rolled her eyes, and Margot felt a frisson of anxiety at how cavalierly Ruth discussed another woman’s fertility.

“Merrick was born only a few months after their first wedding anniversary. Quite the fairytale, no?” But her eyes glittered with something that told Margot it hadn’t been a fairytale. Not in the slightest.

She remained silent, accepting her glass.

“Do you want children, Margot?” Ruth’s blue eyes were clear and piercing.

Margot took a sip, stalling. “I…well…” She licked her lips, tasting the tartness of the drink on her tongue. “We’ve only just wed.”

“It can happen quickly.”

“Well, yes. Yes, I realize that…” Her cheeks colored. She wasn’t on even footing with Ruth, who talked about sex and pregnancy as casually as one might discuss a summer rainstorm. A single woman, yet far more confident and self-assured in these matters than Margot, a blushing virgin bride.

Ruth took a second sip of her drink. “Shall we take to the veranda?”

Margot offered a thin smile, grateful to let the matter drop.

It would be highly embarrassing to reveal just how inexperienced she still was.

Everyone expected something more from her.

As a wife, and soon, probably, as a mother.

It seemed important to be in on this secret.

To be able to navigate the waters of womanhood with an ease that only came from experience.

Experience she simply didn’t have.

Margot sniffed in frustration and turned her head. She gazed over the railing of Hellebore House and into the garden, which spilled over—fittingly—with hellebore flowers. She took a deep drink and closed her eyes.

Ruth settled on the porch swing with a soft creak. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Margot didn’t open her eyes. If she did, she worried they would brim with tears. That was a weakness she simply couldn’t afford. Not in front of a woman with as many hard edges as Ruth.

“Speaking of the past is…well, frankly, it’s rather maudlin. Babette’s marriage has no bearing on your own.”

Margot’s eyes snapped open. Ruth shifted on the swing but said nothing more, only began to rock slowly.

Margot pursed her lips, deliberating how much to share. In her experience, people tended to reward honesty with honesty.

“I’ve seen her,” she whispered.

Ruth halted her swinging. “Who?”

“Babette.”

“That’s…not possible,” Ruth said, shaking her head. “You mean Eleanor, don’t you?”

“Why does everyone keep asking that?” Margot’s eyes sharpened. “Did Babette see Eleanor? Did she talk to her, dream of her?”

Ruth swallowed nervously.

“She must’ve told you,” Margot insisted. “You were her best friend.”

Ruth sucked down the remainder of her gin rickey in one swig, then rose to her feet. “If we’re going to talk about this, I’m going to need another drink.”

“The dreams started a few weeks after we arrived,” Ruth began, clutching her refilled glass. “Babette didn’t…she didn’t realize what was happening at first, didn’t tell me about it until other things started happening too.”

Margot leaned in. “Like what?”

“Odd things.” Ruth furrowed her brow. “Things moving around her room, items Richard certainly wouldn’t care to touch. A hairbrush, her perfume or paints, some clothes…dresses, I believe.”

Margot held her tongue, though she was dying to ask about Babette’s wedding gown.

“It would have been fairly innocuous if not for the dreams. She said Eleanor spoke to her, took her around the manor, showed her things at night. At first, I wasn’t certain I believed her, but then she started knowing things, secrets about the house. About Eleanor.

“We ran around the manor playing detective for a spell. I wish we hadn’t—there wasn’t anything good to learn about Eleanor.

Her life was full of sadness.” Ruth shuddered.

“She was plagued with miscarriages, six to be precise. One for each magnolia tree lining the front drive. She planted a new one after each loss. She was obsessive about children in a way that made Babette nervous. When she miscarried”—her eyes darted to Margot’s, testing the waters—“Babette insisted Eleanor caused it, that it was her fault.”

“Why did she think that?”

Ruth pursed her lips. “She drank something in the middle of the night. The cup was still on her bedside table when we found her in the morning. The physician said she’d ingested something toxic, and she lost the baby.

When she recovered, Babette insisted Eleanor made her drink the tea, that she wanted her to miscarry, that it would make them better friends if she understood. ”

Margot read the doubt in her eyes. “You didn’t believe her?”

“I certainly didn’t at first. And Richard…” Ruth blew out a nervous exhale. “Richard was convinced Babette intentionally induced the miscarriage. He claimed she didn’t want the child.” She laughed bitterly. “Well, he wasn’t wrong. That first pregnancy happened so quickly. She wasn’t ready.

“After the miscarriage, Eleanor disappeared,” she continued. “Babette didn’t have any more dreams until she was expecting again, with Merrick. But things were very different the second time.”

“How so?”

Ruth laughed again. “All you had to do was tell Babette she couldn’t have something to guarantee she would make it happen.

She wanted Merrick—possibly because Eleanor seemed determined she couldn’t have him.

It was a hellacious pregnancy, worse and worse with each successive month, until Babette was hardly herself at the end.

I moved into her room halfway through, tried to keep her safe.

She went into labor early, which was a blessing.

As soon as Merrick was born, I moved out of the manor entirely.

I’d seen enough.” She looked straight at Margot.

“If you came here today to tell me you’ve seen something, heard something, dreamed something, I’ll believe you.

I won’t even be surprised. I stopped letting that house surprise me a long time ago. ”

“I’ve never seen Eleanor,” Margot said, biting her lip. “But I’ve seen Babette. I’ve had dreams, and there’s been some…” She trailed off, embarrassed to admit it, avoiding eye contact. “Sleepwalking. A few times. Some things moved around in my room as well.”

Ruth’s forehead creased with worry. “Margot, I don’t mean to pry, but is there any chance you could be expecting? I only ask because that’s when the visions, the hauntings”—she shivered—“started for Babette.”

Margot vigorously shook her head. “No.”

Ruth reached for her arm. “You can tell me. It’s okay if you are, but—”

“I can’t be.” Her cheeks flamed with heat. “Merrick hasn’t…we haven’t…”

She couldn’t finish the admission, but Ruth understood.

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “Oh.”

Margot tightly crossed her legs, looking over the railing toward the rickhouses. “I mean, I’m sure we will…” she clarified, trying to hide her embarrassment. “We’re just…taking things slow.”

Ruth nodded. “Slow is good. If nothing else, I’ve learned a bit of caution with the Dravenhearst men is never a bad idea.”

“Why do you say that?”

Ruth sighed, carefully considering her words. She tilted her empty glass, ice cubes rattling within it. “I think that may be a story for another day.”

Margot rose to her feet. “It’s one I’d like to hear. Same time tomorrow?”