Page 34 of The Dravenhearst Brides

Dear Diary,

I planted another magnolia today. That’s two pairs now, guarding the house. My babies take root in the earth instead of my womb. Where they grow, even flourish.

I stand at the windows and wonder, “Why out there? Why not within me?” What is wrong with me?

—Excerpt, the diary of Eleanor Dravenhearst

“Sit, sit.” Eleanor fluttered around the tea table, pulling out chairs and fluffing napkins. Her ever-present white veil dragged behind her, ghosting along the mahogany floor with a sinister whisper. “Please, sit. It’s so nice to have all of us together, isn’t it?”

Babette rolled her eyes. She leaned in the parlor doorway, wearing a dress of deep green. “I’ll sit, but only if you remove that ghastly veil.” She shuddered. “I’m not taking tea with Dracula’s bride.”

Eleanor froze. “I never take off my veil,” she whispered. “You know that, Babette.”

The second bride’s mouth opened, a snide look twisting her beautiful face into something distinctly evil.

“Here, sit beside me, Babette.” Margot slid into a chintz chair and patted the neighboring seat. She fought a shiver, pulling a blanket from the settee to wrap around her shoulders. Behind her, the windows were thick with creeping frost. Inside the panes, not out.

“Indeed, indeed. Sit and drink,” Eleanor trilled.

She settled on Margot’s other side and began to pour.

Smoke curled from the teapot, dewy steam collecting along the rim of the cup.

“Tell us everything, Margot. Surely you’ve shared the news with Merrick by now?

What did he say? How did you do it? Oh, did he cry when you told him he was going to be a father?

” She propped her chin in her hand and waited expectantly.

Margot ignored the proffered cup of tea. The warmth felt delicious in her frozen fingers, but she didn’t trust the brew for one minute. The story of Babette’s miscarriage loomed heavy, and Eleanor’s fervor about the baby frightened her. It was all she ever wanted to talk about.

“I’ve still not told him. The, er, time hasn’t felt right.”

“What could possibly be more right than a baby?” Eleanor wheedled. This too was a familiar refrain. “You’re starting a family. There’s no greater calling than children, Margot. No greater joy than motherhood.”

“Is that so?” Babette plunked herself down at the table with enough force to rattle the teacups. “Is that why you offed yourself in the rickhouse, Eleanor? You were filled with joy?”

Eleanor slammed the teapot down, a large dollop sloshing out to stain the tablecloth. “Babette, manners.”

She turned to Margot. Reached out to pat her hand. It felt like dunking her fingers in a bucket of ice.

“Babette and I have never seen eye to eye on this,” Eleanor confided, leaning in. “But you, Margot…you’re going to be a wonderful mother. You’re going to be the best of us, I just know it. Drink up, dearie.”

Margot continued to ignore the tea.

“How dare you.” Babette kicked her feet up to an empty chair, lounging irreverently. “I was an excellent wife, a fantastic mother. Would have been even better if you’d left well enough alone. Ruined everything with your meddling, you did. Ninny.”

Eleanor’s hand flew to her chest. “I did no such thing. You were the one cavorting behind your husband’s back.

Really, Babette, do wedding vows mean nothing to you?

” She ticked off the offenses on white-gloved fingers.

“You defiled my house with your sinful parties. You made a fool of my beloved son, getting yourself in the family way not once, but twice by another man. Invited your degenerate, concubine friend—”

“You took my children from me,” Babette bellowed.

“I lost two babies and my life because of you.” She grabbed her teacup so violently, a tidal wave spilled over the edge, soaking another section of tablecloth.

“And your beloved, pious, perfect son loved those bloody Gomorrah parties as much as I did.”

“When you’ve lost six babies,” Eleanor said, her tone lethal, the tail of a rattler poised to strike, “you can come crying to me. And I didn’t take your life or your second bastard baby from you, Babette. You’ve only yourself to blame for that.”

The silence that befell the room was deadly, stretching for several long, uncomfortable moments.

It was broken by Eleanor’s laughter, high and loud and altogether wrong.

“Oh, Margot.” The bride dabbed her napkin at her veil, right at the place where her mouth should be.

“I’m terribly sorry, dearie. What dreadful hostesses we are.

We were talking about you and Merrick. Babette, wouldn’t you love to hear about your son?

How happy he is? How very much in love they are? ”

“If my son had a half a brain,” Babette replied, hands fisting in her lap, “if he loved her at all, he’d leave his blasted distillery behind and take her far, far away from here.” She pushed back her chair and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

“Don’t mind her,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “She’s never understood what it’s like, the sacrifices women must make. When she came here, I thought we could be friends. The way you and I are.” She nodded frenetically, veil flailing. “But she just doesn’t have what it takes.”

“What it takes for what?”

“To be a mother.” Eleanor tilted her head. “She was a terrible mother, and she knows it. I’m sure Merrick has told you all kinds of stories. I certainly could. Drink up, dearie, your tea.” She gestured toward the untouched cup.

Terrible mother, terrible woman—Eleanor’s implication was clear. If a woman wasn’t a good mother, what else about her mattered? Did anything?

Margot frowned. “About those stories, do you happen to know—”

“It started as soon as he was born. She refused to put him to breast—can you imagine? That’s where the attachment issues began, mark my words. Right from the outset. You plan to nurse your own baby when the time comes, don’t you, Margot?”

Truthfully, Margot hadn’t given it a lick of thought, but she sensed implicitly only one answer was acceptable here. “Er, sure…but—”

“Aha! Because you understand.” The shadow of Eleanor’s lips twitched in a sanctimonious smirk beneath the veil. “You understand.”

“I’m sorry.” Margot’s hands fluttered with her napkin, twisting it in her lap. “Understand what, precisely?”

Out of nowhere, Eleanor began to cry. Great, hitching sobs racked her body. “It’s the best thing you’ll ever do, you know,” she said, between gasps. “Being a mother.”

Gracious.

Margot leaned away, scooted to the edge of her chair. She was filled with aching sadness. Eleanor looked as frail as a baby bird. Thin wrists, shrouded face, heaving shoulders…if this was the portrait of motherhood, it was hardly a glowing advertisement.

“You’ve got to tell him.” Suddenly, Eleanor lunged across the table, grabbing Margot’s arms. Her nails dug sharply into skin. “Once he knows you’re giving him a baby, things will be better. He’ll take care of you.”

Margot twisted in her grip and grimaced. “Eleanor, you’re hurting me.”

Her fingers clung tighter, rabid with fervor. A blotch of spittle stained the veil at her lips as she continued, “Once you become a mother, everything will change. You’ll see.”

“Yes. Yes, I do see,” she lied. “I’ll tell Merrick tomorrow.”

Eleanor’s claws softened, then released.

Margot exhaled shakily, rubbing her arms. “I’ll tell him, but first I need to ask you about Babette. It’s very important. Do you know the name of the man she was sleeping with? Was there more than one?”

“Oh, there were many playthings, but only one ever mattered to her.” Her posture straightened, turning smug. “She never should have married my son, that harlot. Not when she’d already given her heart to another.”

“Who was he?” Margot leaned back in. “Can you tell me his name?”

“Drink up, dearie. You’ve not had any tea.”

“It’s…it’s gone cold.”

“I’ll pour a fresh cup then, shall I?”

Margot picked up an empty one, holding it obediently while Eleanor began to pour. “His name,” she repeated. “Can you tell me his name?”

“They both loved horses, you know. They used to meet in the stables to screw there. She just couldn’t stay away.” Her voice was picking up steam with every sentence. “She was going to leave my son—leave her own son without a mother! Can you believe that?”

Suddenly, the tea overflowed the cup, cascading straight into Margot’s lap. Scalding. Violently hot through the thin cotton of her nightdress. She screamed and leapt from her chair.

“His name,” Margot cried, jumping away as tea streamed over her bare feet. She shrieked again. “Please, Eleanor, just tell me his name!”

“Of course, dearie.” Eleanor tipped her head again, mouth agape. She continued spilling tea over open air. “No need to get yourself so riled. It can’t be good for the baby. Your tea will help, drink up. Now let’s see…the name…why, it’s—”

“Margot!”

Her mouth was open in an ear-piercing scream when Merrick wrenched her from sleep.

“Margot, are you hurt?” He turned over her arms, checking, ripping back the blankets.

“Merrick?” Her eyes fluttered open with surprise. Eleanor and the tea party were gone. She was lying beside her husband in his bed. Her nightgown was dry, not soaked with scalding, potentially poisonous tea.

“Were you dreaming? Did they do something to you?”

It all came rushing back, and with it, the agony of how near she’d come. She’d been so close. The name, she was convinced, would unlock everything. And if she could unlock the past, she could set them free of it. All of them—her, Merrick, the house.

“I think we should go to Louisville,” Merrick said, nodding as he came to the decision. His concerned eyes swept her face. “For a few weeks. I’ll sort everything out. Julian can manage the distillery while I’m gone.”

“Merrick, stop. Shh.” Margot placed a finger over his lips. “I’m fine. We don’t need to go anywhere. I don’t want to go anywhere. And I don’t want you to wake me ever again, not when I’m dreaming. You interrupted a very important discussion.”

“You were screaming,” he said, incredulous.

“I was fine. I’m more than fine, actually.” She smiled softly and reached for his hands. “I have something to tell you.”

She didn’t know what possessed her, what possibly felt right about this particular moment, but something of Eleanor glowed in her chest, purring when the words came out.

“Merrick, I’m expecting. We’re going to have a baby.”