“Of course.”
“Promise you’ll stay put, right here at this table, until Harriet or Melva come get you.”
Marguerite’s face hardens. “Child, I don’t need a keeper in my own home. Now run along. I’ll be fine.”
With one final furtive glance to the kitchen, I take my leave, smoothing my skirt and patting my hair. I catch up to Beckett at the fountain, where he’s shin-deep in the basin, trousers rolled to the knee, scrubbing a metal nozzle protruding from a leaping carp’s mouth.
“Hello,” I say.
He turns toward me, taking off his cap and wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm.
“Aunt Marguerite suggested I have you show me around the property.”
He gestures toward the fountain. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”
“I can see that.” I cross my arms over my waist, defensively. “It’s a lovely fountain.” It isn’t, with that cluster of horrible, gawping fish leaping from the water. I’ve always hated it.
Beckett laughs. “It’s hideous.”
I break into a smile, and bite my lip to contain it. “It really is, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but Marguerite is very fond of it.” He resumes scrubbing the nozzle. “There’s too much lime in the water. I have to do this at least once a month.”
I look around, taking in the freshly mowed green lawn, the arbor of climbing roses sheltering the path to the house, the blackberry thicket. “I can see you take a great deal of pride in your work. The gardens are lovely.”
He says nothing in reply, only moves on to another stone carp.
“Marguerite and I were just talking about you.” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Beckett stills, his hand cupped around the steel wool in his palm. His eyes narrow. “Oh? What did she say?”
I stand there awkwardly, not knowing how to respond. Where should I begin? Our dead brothers? His handicap? We hardly know one another—and certainly not well enough for such intimate talk. “Only that she greatly appreciates all you do for her. I’ll leave you to your work, Mr. Hill. I apologize for the interruption.”
I head toward the house, the humidity gathering around me and further inflaming the sudden heat on my face and neck.
“Miss Halloran!”
His voice seizes me midway across the lawn, and I turn to see him staring at me, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Yes?”
“Come out after dinner, before Harriet leaves for the night. I’ll show you around the gardens then, if you’d like.”
“All right,” I say, offering him a smile. “I’d like that.”
The house is in chaos when I return. In just the few minutes since I left her, Marguerite has gone missing. Melva accosts me as soon as I walk in the door. “Where were you?”
My defensiveness rises, accusatory words of my own climbing my throat. I push them back. If I’m to be lady of this house someday, I’llneed to keep my emotions in check when addressing the servants. “I only went out for a moment to speak to Mr. Hill. You and Harriet were just there, in the kitchen, weren’t you? Didn’t you hear her?”
“Well,” she replies, flustered. “Well. It don’t take long for her to get a notion.” Melva turns in a circle. “Oh, where has she gone now?”
“Do you think she’s gone outside again?” I think of the sheer bluff behind the house, its edge protected by nothing more than a few scattered fieldstone boulders.
“No.” Melva shakes her head. “No, not this time. I’m sure of it. I’d have heard the door.”
Even though Melva’s reassurances bring some level of comfort, Marguerite could be anywhere in this labyrinthine house, with its hive of interconnected rooms. I think of the steeply pitched staircases, the many windows, the weak spots in the floors. Even within the house, she’s still in danger. “You search downstairs,” I say. “Harriet can look for her on the second floor, and I’ll search the attic. She must be here. She must.”
I meet Harriet on the stairs and convey our plan, her coolheaded reaction a welcome contrast to Melva’s panic, even though I can feel my own nerves jangling just below the surface. I think of Louise’s words back at the teahouse in Kansas City—her judgmental chiding when I mentioned becoming Marguerite’s companion. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps I’m not suited. For the second time since my arrival, I consider that I might have made a mistake. But I’m here now, and I must make this work.
I fly up the attic steps, and into the lofty, open space above. The daytime heat has already begun to gather beneath the eaves. A shaft of sunlight burns a bright path across the floor from the east-facing window, throwing the corners of the attic into shadow. “Aunt Marg,” I call. “Are you up here?”
