“It calms me. My work. As it did my father. Being a steward of the land is a great privilege.” Beckett brushes a fallen leaf from one of the stone benches facing the shrine and motions me to sit. I tuck my skirt smoothly and perch on the edge of the bench, crossing my ankles. He kneels to inspect a cluster of white lilies near the foot of the spring, then comes to sit next to me. “How long are you planning on staying with us, Miss Halloran?”
I’m taken aback by his question. “As I said yesterday, I hadn’t planned on leaving.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Marguerite is very special to me.”
“She said the same of you.”
“That’s the reason I’m curious. About why you’re here again, after all these years.” His voice is soft. Level. But I see the suspicion behind his eyes. “I’ve never heard Marguerite mention receiving a single letter from you. Or even a telephone call. And here you turn up, ready and willing to be her devoted companion. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
I stiffen. “I’m not sure I like what you’re implying, Mr. Hill.”
He smiles that fox-like smile. “Just as I thought.”
I rise, flummoxed, crossing my arms defensively. The sun has fallen well below the ridge, bringing a coolness to the shaded grotto. “I’m only here to care for my aunt, because it’s obvious someone needs to.”
Beckett stands, towering over me. All at once I’m back in my tiny apartment with Ted, liquor on his breath and his temper boiling beneath the surface. I take a step backward, and Beckett laughs softly. “Don’t worry, Miss Halloran. I’m not in the business of hurting women. Or taking advantage of them, for that matter. I hope I can say the same for you.”
“Oh? After your little flirtation with Marguerite at the breakfast table, I’m not certain you have the best intentions when it comes to my aunt, either.”
“You read me wrong, Miss Halloran. Marguerite is like a mother to me. If I flatter her now and then to see her smile, it harms no one.”
I glare at him steadily, refusing to cede any ground. “I’d like to go back to the house now, if you please.”
He laughs. “Already ordering me around, I see.”
“All right. I’ll see myself back, then. Good night, Mr. Hill.” Impertinent man! I turn and stalk ahead of him up the path, my face red with shame. His words settle in my belly, curdling like soured wine as I rush up the hill. Suddenly, my foot slides on a moss-covered rock, and I go down on one knee, a sharp cry leaving my throat before I can stop it.
Beckett catches up to me and offers his hand. “Let me help you.”
I ignore him and lift myself from the ground, brushing my stockings. My palm comes away with a smudge of blood. “I’m fine,” I lie through clenched teeth. Though my knee shouts at me, I stumble the rest of the way up the rise, refusing to give him the pleasure of seeing my pain.
“Miss Halloran!”
I don’t turn at the sound of his voice. I walk on, through the trees and onto the front lawn, my back straight and my head held high as tears track down my cheeks. I angrily wipe them away, not wanting him to see that he’s gotten to me—that he’s right. For as much as I’d like to pretend my reasons for being here are selfless, I know they aren’t. And so does he.
Chapter 7
July 20, 1925
Beckett and I do our best to avoid one another in the days that follow. It’s not difficult, busy as he is with maintaining the grounds. I don’t know how the man can endure this relentless, cloying heat. It pervades everything. In the front parlor, I lift one of the heavy window sashes, then open another across from it, bringing in the faintest cross breeze. I wipe the sweat from my brow with the side of my hand and sit on the sofa next to Marguerite, who I helped dress in the scantiest clothing propriety allows. I skim my thumb over the scab forming on my knee. Luckily, a skinned knee is the worst of my injuries, apart from my pride. Though Beckett’s words vexed me, they have also spurred me to action. In the last few days, I’ve doted on Marguerite, determined to prove to him—and myself—that my motives for being here are pure.
“This heat reminds me of the canicule of ’11,” Marguerite says, fanning herself with a rattan fan.
“Pardon?”
“In France. The heat killed thousands that year. Christine and I fled Paris. Went to Antibes. Let a villa by the shore.”
I settle in with my glass of iced tea, crossing my legs. “Who’s Christine?”
Marguerite lifts an eyebrow. “If I tell you the truth, it will make you blush.”
I laugh. “Try me.”
“She was my lover. For many, many years.”
I nearly drop my tea in my lap.
Marguerite smiles. “I told you I would shock you.”
