Over breakfast, Marguerite tells me more about Blackberry Grange and its history. The land it sits on once housed a small monastery of Trappist monks, who came to Arkansas in the middle years of the last century to enjoy the natural beauty and solitude. The monastery burned down one winter, after Christmas mass. According to local legend, the fire was an arson—allegedly set by one of the monks, who had fallen in love with an Osage girl and been denied leave of his order by the abbot.
“The abbot locked him in his cell, with only the light of a single candle to read by. That’s what he used to start the fire.” Marguerite blows across her coffee cup with pursed lips.
“Did he escape?” I ask.
“No one knows for certain. But people claim to see their spirits in the woods—the monk and his Osage maiden. Lights drifting between the trees.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m going to need a special diary to keep track of all your ghosts.”
“It might seem far-fetched, but this is one of those places where the veil between worlds is thin. There are all kinds of stories if you ask the locals.”
While I’m still skeptical about spirits, I marvel at Marguerite’s ability to remember things from the distant past, while I’ve had to remind her of my name no fewer than six times since my arrival.
Melva refills my coffee, then excuses herself to eat with Harriet in the kitchen. A few moments later, the front door scrapes open, followed by the heavy, uneven sound of Beckett’s tread on the floorboards. My shoulders stiffen as he enters the dining room, dressed as he was the day before: gray trousers with suspenders, a collarless cotton shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow. He doffs his cap and pulls out a chair to sit at the table. I glance at him sideways as he greets Marguerite, then helps himself to the biscuits and gravy. I’ve never known servants to sit at the same table as their employer. Once more, I find myself wondering about his history with Marguerite. How he came to be here. The nature of their relationship.
“Good morning, Miss Halloran,” he says, noticing my gaze. I quickly look away. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes. I did, thank you. Aunt Marguerite was just telling me about the history of the area. About the house.”
“About our ghosts, you mean?” His lips tilt into a smile. “Are you a believer, Miss Halloran?”
“I ... I’m not sure,” I answer, stumbling over my words. “I suppose I’d like to believe.”
“You will soon enough.” His eyes glint with mischief.
“Don’t scare the girl, Beckett,” Marguerite says archly. “We want this one to stay, don’t we?Sheknows how to dress my hair. Look.” She twists in her chair so he can admire my braiding. “Isn’t it fetching?”
“You look stunning, Marguerite. As ever.”
She smiles and simpers as they make small talk, and I suddenly realize why she allows him at her table, the little minx. I only hope he doesn’t use his flattery for improper advantage. Despite his unwelcoming attitude with me, he’s quite a looker, with those dark-lashed aquamarine eyes and sly smile. A surge of protectiveness washes through me. I’ll be watching the man and his motives. Closely.
After he finishes his breakfast, he excuses himself to his work. I watch him through the window as he walks the perimeter of the front gardens, stopping to examine the blackberries growing there.
“How long has Mr. Beckett been in your employ?” I ask.
“Years now,” Marguerite answers, patting her hair. “He grew up here. His father was my gardener before him, his mother the cook. And he’s Mr. Hill, dear. Beckett Hill.”
“The two of you seem very familiar.”
“Yes. He’s like a son to me. The only one who’s never left my side. I don’t know how I’d have managed without him. He has such a talent with growing things—with roses, especially. They’re difficult with the weather here. The rocky ground. But Beckett can coax anything to life.”
I soften a bit in my opinion of the man. Perhaps I’ve misread him. “What happened to him?” I ask. “I’ve noticed his limp. Was he in the war?”
“No, my dear, although he tried to enlist twice, and they denied him. He was born with a severe curvature of the spine. It pains him at times, especially when the weather turns, but he’s managed well despite it. He had to wear a brace as a child. I paid for his treatments.” Marguerite’s eyes grew wistful. “Such a beautiful boy. Happy, too. Until Charlie died.”
“Charlie?”
“His younger brother. The war. He lied and enlisted before he was of age. Beckett feels guilty about that, I think. That it was Charlie who served and died instead of him. His poor mother’s heart was broken, God rest her.”
Many mothers lost their sons during the war. My older brother, Felix, came home unscathed by some miracle, but we lost Henry the winter after the Armistice. The rest of us had recovered from the epidemic of influenza raging through the country, but despite my constant vigil at his bedside, sweet Henry died. He was only thirteen.
Beckett and I have more in common than I realized. We’ve both lost younger brothers, and I gather he’s an orphan, too. My thoughts are already on the future. If I ingratiate myself with Marguerite, I might inherit this house after her passing. I’d need a gardener and caretaker. So long as Beckett defers to me, I’ll allow him to remain. If he persistsin goading me ... well. That’s another matter. It feels calculating and selfish, having these thoughts, but my other prospects are dim. Perhaps it’s opportunistic, but a woman like me, hedging toward thirty and past the prime of her youth, must be realistic. Practical. Besides, it’s obvious Marguerite needs me just as much as I need her.
My gaze drifts out the window once more.
“You should go out, dear, have Beckett show you around the property,” Marguerite says. “The grotto is lovely this time of year. Some of the hostas are as big around as this table.”
“I think I might.” I nervously eye the kitchen door, where I can hear the faintest thread of laughter. Hopefully Harriet or Melva will resume their watch over Marguerite once they’ve finished breakfast. “You’re sure you’ll be all right if I go out for a while?”
