I sit and open the book, relieved, thumbing through the pages. I pause on a passage that catches my eye.
“And Cecilia was the purest of heart,” I read aloud, “though her eyes held an uncommon curiosity her elder sister lacked. Her charms were often disregarded when Felicity was about, but William saw in Cecilia the unrealized potential of the dreamer.”
It’s the same passage Claire recited from Weston’s portfolio in the tête-à-tête in the gazebo I witnessed months ago. I go back and start at the beginning and read straight through, until morning light breaks through the windows. The novel is about three sisters—akin toLittle Women, in many ways. If there’s any similarity between Weston’s sisters and those in my family, it’s shallow. The sisters go to dances and parties, gossip, marry very different men, and Cecilia—the main character—lives happily ever after with the stalwart and kind William on a farm in Wisconsin. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. It’s an innocent little book. One that would be at home in any child’s library.
I stand and stretch, replacing the book on its shelf, content with the sense of closure I feel. I go up to the tower. Marguerite’s portrait of me sits on its easel, the likeness filled with as much light as Weston’swas with shadow, its colors radiant and fresh. I feel nothing but delight when I draw near to it—no sensation of vertigo, no strange, otherworldly sensations. And then I see the envelope with my name written on it, propped atop the canvas.
I open it and read.
Dearest Sadie,
I hope you like your portrait. I’ve been sketching you for months now, without your knowing. I thought I’d create one last beautiful thing before I died. Don’t be sad. It was my time to go, and I have the peace I’ve always wanted. I’ve fulfilled all my promises. To Florence. To Iris. To you. I’m grateful we had our time together. I’ve lived my life the best way I knew how. Righted all the wrongs I could. And now, you must live. Live well.
I am always with you.
Love, Marguerite
Epilogue
1935
Birchtree Manor is a pleasant-looking place, with walls of red brick surrounded by rustling maples. As I ascend the front steps, I nod at the elderly gentlemen I pass, some in wheelchairs, others as spry and fit as I am. Any one of them might be the man I seek. The man I’ve come all these miles to see. My heartbeat ratchets higher as I enter the building, the sharp, clean scent of ammonia greeting me. I make my way to the nurses’ station and give them my name.
“I called earlier. I’m here to see Mr. Nolan?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s in the dayroom. You’ll see it to the right, at the end of the hall—the room with all the windows. He’s usually there, sitting in his wheelchair. He likes to watch the birds.”
I readjust the paper-wrapped parcel in my arms and walk down the wide hallway and into the dayroom. Just as the nurse said, an elderly gentleman is there, sitting in a pool of sunlight, looking out the bay window, his fine gray hair combed over his freckled scalp. I pull a chair next to him and sit, perching my pocketbook on my lap. “Hello, are you Mr. Nolan?”
“Yes, the very same.” He turns toward my voice. “And who might you be, dear?” he asks, his lilting Irish brogue apparent. His smile is so much like my mother’s, it’s shocking.
“I’m Sadie. Sadie Hill. We’ve never met, but I’ve come all the way from Arkansas to meet you.”
“My, that’s a long way.”
“Yes. I’ve never been to Vermont. It’s beautiful here. I’ve been trying to find you for years.”
“Have you, then? And why is that?”
“I think you’ll know why, once I show you these pictures.” I lift the parcel and unwrap the twine and brown paper. I place the two canvases side by side on the windowsill.
He leans forward in his wheelchair, squinting, and then his eyes suddenly widen in surprise. “Oh, oh my.” His hand flies to his mouth. “Is that ...? Well, the one on the right is me, as a boy. And the other is ... no, it can’t be.”
“It is. I’m Marguerite Thorne’s granddaughter.” I reach out my hand, and he takes it, clutching it with surprising strength. “And I’m so happy to finally meet you.”
“Really.I never realized Marguerite had any grandchildren. She must have married, then?”
“No, she never did.” I shrug. “You were the only man she ever loved, Mr. Nolan. You’re half the reason I’m sitting here today.”
Realization dawns on him slowly. “Oh ... well. I never knew.”
“She never told you she was pregnant?”
“No. Never. I knew she was hiding something from me, but not that.”
“I didn’t know, either,” I say. “Not until a month or so before she passed away.”
“She’s gone, then.”
