Page 9 of The Dravenhearst Brides

My darling Richard,

Today we write the first page of our happily ever after.

Today I finally get to call you my husband.

And I, your Dravenhearst bride.

—Excerpt, a letter from Margaret Babette to her husband on their wedding day

“What the hell am I supposed to do with her?” A loud voice penetrated Margaret’s sleepy haze.

“What do you mean?” A shrill retort, unmistakably female. “You married her.”

A striking thud. A fist hitting a wall.

“I didn’t want to marry her, but the money—”

“I would have gotten us the money come spring. Omaha has gold in his bloodline. He’s a champion.”

“We wouldn’t have made it to spring! I would have lost the house—the distillery—by October.”

“The goddamn distillery? Really? You Dravenhearst men are all the same. Your precious bourbon, no matter the cost. And there is a cost, Merrick. A steep one.” Her voice lowered almost to a whisper. “How could you?”

“Ruth, I—”

“That girl doesn’t belong here. You swore you wouldn’t…you swore. Never another Dravenhearst bride.”

“There’s no curse, Ruth.”

“That’s not what you said a decade ago. That’s not what your mother—the last Margaret, the last Dravenhearst bride—believed.”

Silence. Upon hearing her name, Margaret stirred, her eyelids fluttering.

“You’ve made a terrible mistake,” Ruth said. “I won’t forgive you for it, and neither will she, not once this place sinks its claws into her. I can’t stand to be in this mausoleum even a second longer. When you’re ready to admit what you’ve done, you know where to find me.”

Thudding booted footsteps. The slam of a door.

The sounds echoed in Margaret’s brain, pushing her away from consciousness again. She sank deeper into herself, pulling down the shutters and locking the doorway to her mind once more.

She wasn’t ready to face it all.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Margaret awoke to a moist prodding against her palm. Snuffling. She sat bolt upright with a screech, frantically looking for a horse.

A yelp, followed by the thump-thump-thump-thump of four paws scampering away. A small black dog with fluffy fur and enormous brown eyes stared up at her, affronted.

“Beau?” Dravenhearst strode into the bedroom. The dog collapsed sideways, paws up, belly exposed for rubbing.

Dravenhearst dropped to his knees. “Getting into mischief, buddy?” His gaze moved from the dog to Margaret. “This is Beau. Apologies if he frightened you. He’s always sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. It’s the spitz in him, I’m afraid.”

Spitz. An unusual breed. Black fur and a fox-like face, pointy ears, and an exceedingly bushy tail…she’d never seen a dog quite like him before.

Margaret fidgeted, then swung her legs over the side of the mattress.

The bed was a four-poster with a filmy canopy and a lavender duvet, light and feathery.

The room had an airy quality with its ivory paneled walls, helped along by wide-open French doors leading to a balcony.

She could just make out the tips of the white magnolias in the distance.

Dravenhearst rose to his feet. The ticking of a clock echoed faintly from the hallway outside the bedroom.

Tick, tick, tick.

The metronome of time roared in Margaret’s ears. Her cheeks heated as, with every passing second, she became more embarrassed and flustered by her inability to connect, to simply speak. To fill the silence between them with charming words or a winsome smile.

A new beginning here, that was what she’d hoped for. But how could she possibly start fresh when she was still the same old Margaret?

Tick, tick, tick.

He cleared his throat. “Are you feeling better?”

“I am. Thank you.”

Tick, tick, tick.

He nodded slowly. “It’s…it’s quite warm today. I’m sure it’s overwhelming for you, coming here with me. It all happened rather fast. I’m sure you were overcome—”

“Please stop.” She simply couldn’t bear it. “It wasn’t the first time, nor do I expect it shall be the last.”

“What do you mean?”

It was almost comical how his dog mirrored his movement, head tilted, lips slightly parted.

She focused on Beau instead of her husband and took the plunge. “I have a…condition. Perhaps I should have warned you. I’m vasovagal—my blood pressure drops, and I…I faint.”

“You’re…you mean you’re unwell? Is it very limiting?”

She hated him a little for this response, for his quick rush to judgment. “It needn’t be. Not usually. The physicians, they say it’s triggered by…distressing circumstances. Nerves.” She forced out a laugh and wrung her hands together. “And today has been…I’ve been a bit…”

“I understand.”

“I’m not unwell,” she maintained, hating the word.

“Of course not.” His answer came too quick. It sounded false to her ears.

Tick, tick, tick.

Margaret stared at his shoes. They were polished to a shine. “I’d hoped for a fresh start here,” she admitted, “but it seems I’ve already made a mess of things, haven’t I?”

The longer the silence stretched, the more intimidated and exposed Margaret felt. Just when she thought she could stand it no longer, he spoke.

“If you’d like a fresh start, how about a new name?”

“What?”

“My mother’s name was Margaret,” he said, his toe tapping three times in short succession. “Though amongst company, she often went by Babette, her maiden name.”

“Was?”

“She died. Many years ago.” He crossed his arms and scowled. “But people ’round here still remember her, so is there another name perhaps? A nickname? Xander is so easily confused these days.”

And it’s painful for you, Margaret surmised. She could hear the unspoken words even though he was not brave enough to say them. Haunted by loss…

There are ghosts in this house. The thought came unbidden, sudden. As though planted in her mind by someone else.

“Marge? Margie, perhaps?” he suggested.

She blinked.

“Maggie? Midge? Martha?”

She couldn’t help it; she wrinkled her nose.

“Martha?” he repeated. “Not to your liking?”

“Not particularly,” she whispered.

“What was that?” He stepped closer. “I’m an old man. You’re going to have to speak up.” His tone was close to teasing.

“You’re not that much older than me.”

“You think so?” He closed the remaining distance between them in two quick strides. When she, instinctively, looked downward, his knuckle was on her chin, tilting it back up. “How old do you think I am?”

He was standing very close. Margaret couldn’t blink or look away if she tried. He’d been clean-shaven this morning at the altar, but shadowy black stubble had grown in around his jawline. The muscles there were tight, his teeth clenched.

And his eyes…those eyes. Hypnotic. Deep, churning amber. The most tempting melted butterscotch. The only flaws were tiny frown lines etched underneath.

They undoubtedly came from scowling so much.

“Care to guess?” he asked, his voice soft.

Margaret estimated thirty, so to be safe, she said, “Twenty-nine?”

He released her. “Thirty-one,” he grunted, turning away. “And you’re what? Twenty?”

“Twenty-two,” she corrected.

“Perfect. Nearly a whole decade of life between us. Just goldarn perfect.” His hands were on his head as he moved away from her.

Margaret snorted quietly, unsure why this seemed to bother him. Alastair had been nearly three decades her senior. Nine years, by contrast, seemed easily surmountable. Most men married women significantly younger anyway, better chance for children that way—

“Peggy? Marie? Greta?” He spoke the nicknames to the wall, hands still on his head.

Margaret couldn’t help it, she giggled. His histrionics were certainly amusing. She wondered if he was like this all the time. So dramatic.

“I’m running out of options.” When he finally turned to face her, a small smile tilted one-half of his lips from their pout.

A swooping, soaring sensation took root in Margaret’s gut. Maybe she didn’t mind the scowling so much. Not when a grin like that could break through the clouds.

“Margot, are we flying?”

She’d known what she would tell him from the first second he asked. It had felt wrong for so many years. No one had used the name since Eli.

A new beginning, her mother said.

A fresh start, Margaret hoped.

But could one ever truly start fresh? The past was always there, bleeding into the present. Tainting all it touched. Perhaps the best she could hope for was to come full circle. To work on becoming whole again.

And so, being either very brave or very stupid, she invited her own ghost into the house.

“You can call me Margot.”

As they descended the stairs together for dinner, Margot Dravenhearst took inventory of her new home.

The two-story entry hall was cavernous, the grand staircase curving in sections around two walls of the room.

The banister was carved from wood so dark it could only be ebony.

The balusters were equally somber and elaborate, twisting in a serpentine design that proved disorientingly undulous when viewed in succession.

Margot trod with near-silent steps over the worn wood as they slowly, so slowly, circled the room in descent.

The central chandelier must have once been grand, but its gold limbs and finials slept beneath heavy tarnish now.

A layer of film coated its crystals, light unable to penetrate the thick shroud of dirt and cobwebs clinging to each pendeloque.

Multicolor dust motes circled through the air, reflecting the fading rays of daylight from the large stained-glass window above the front door.

Margot stared at it as they approached. Weaving, curling sprigs of purple flowers with soft yellow centers…

“Are those violets?” she asked.

“They are,” Dravenhearst confirmed. “My mother had the window installation changed when she came here as a bride. My grandmother Eleanor had marigolds there. That color seemed fitting—quite close to the bourbon the distillery makes—but my mother…er, I’m told she didn’t like it much.”

“The flowers or the bourbon?”

“Well, I suppose…neither. If I’m being honest.”

“Oh.” Interesting.