I go to the sofa and sit, propping my hands beneath my chin. “Tell me about him.”
Marguerite sits next to me, picking up her brandy. “Hugh was our groom’s son. My best friend and, as we got older, more. It was no surprise we fell in love. My parents didn’t know about us. Only Florence knew.” Her eyes narrow. “I trusted her with all my secrets in those days. That was a mistake. But you should be able to trust your own sister.”
The agitation in Marguerite’s voice rises with every word. She downs the rest of her brandy and pours more into her glass, filling it almost to the rim, her wrist shaking. The bottle is nearing empty now. When she offers it to me, I set it on the floor by my feet and put the stopper in. The night has taken an abrupt turn—tension crackles in the room, replacing our merriment. We’re on the edge of something dangerous. One of us needs to sober up.
Marguerite rises and begins pacing, muttering to herself, her lace tea gown trailing the floor. She pauses in front of the portrait of my grandmother on her wedding day. “She looks the perfect angel here, doesn’t she?” Her words are scornful. Bitter. “Florence was always Papa’s favorite. She could do no wrong in his eyes. But I knew better. I knewher. I saw everything she did.”
I perch on the edge of my seat, ears pricking. “Do you mean you saw her with Weston?”
Marguerite whirls, her eyes sparking with anger. “How did you know about that?”
“I ... I don’t know. Not for certain. Just a lucky guess, I suppose.”
“She asked me to keep her secrets. And I did. Then she turned on me. Turned on Claire.” Marguerite sets the brandy snifter on the mantel, and liquor sloshes over the side, onto the crocheted runner. “Bitch.”
I flinch at the word. “Aunt Marg ... perhaps we should go to bed.” I approach her carefully, keenly aware of the strength in her arms when she led me through our dance. How easily she lifted Weston’s painting from the easel, even in its heavy frame. I’ve learned how quickly her moods can change. Her good cheer has gone, in an instant, and her sanity now perches on a needle-thin ledge.
She reaches for her snifter, and I gently pry it from her hand, pouring the liquor into the empty grate. “I think you’ve had enough, don’t you?”
“What a waste of good brandy,” she says with a haughty sniff. “I should fire you for that.”
“You can’t fire me, remember? I’m family.”
“Family.What has my family ever done for me?”
“Let’s go to bed. All of this will seem better in the morning.” I wrap my arm around her waist, trying to lead her to the stairs. She pushes me away, making for the dining room. I rush after her, my mind wheeling with dire scenarios. We’re alone. Anything could happen. I briefly consider leaving her to fetch Beckett, who seems to have a calming effect on her nerves, but I need to learn to handle her on my own. My legs are weak, my head fuzzy. I shouldn’t have been drinking.
Marguerite begins riffling through one of the drawers in the hutch, where the silver is stored. Before I can reach her, she brandishes a carving knife at me, its tip curved and cruelly forked. I flinch, taking a step backward. “Get away from me,” she growls, her eyes lit with a feral madness. “What are you doing in my house?”
My palms begin to sweat as she advances on me, my mouth dry. I think about screaming for help, but who would hear me? Beckett is at least a quarter mile up the hill, in his cottage above the grotto. The nexthouse is even farther. I pull in a shaky breath to steady my voice. “I’m Sadie. Just Sadie. Your great-niece.”
I take another few steps backward, crossing the threshold into the parlor. I’m tempted to turn and run up the stairs, where I might hide until she sobers up and this mood passes. But I’m frightened about what could happen if I do—of Marguerite harming herself. I can’t take that chance.
“Aunt Marg, put down the knife. No one is going to hurt you. Please.”
Tears spill over onto her cheeks, but her eyes are all fire as she glares at me. “Whoever you are, you shouldn’t have come here.”
It’s the second time someone in this household has told me that, and right now I feel very foolish for coming here, indeed. Harriet warned me of Marguerite’s violent outbursts, but the suddenness has me unmoored. If I survive the night, I’ll be packing up every knife and bottle of liquor I find in this house and secreting them well out of her reach. I was foolish to let my guard down.
Marguerite stands her ground, hand clenched around the knife handle. “Leave,” she says menacingly, taking a step closer. I mirror her in reverse, feeling my way toward the stairs. “You need to leave.”
“If you give me the knife, I’ll leave. I promise.”
She stalks closer, sniffling, her eyes meeting mine. Suddenly, I feel a shift. Marguerite gasps, looking at me, then at her hand. She drops the knife, and it goes clattering to the floor. I step forward quickly, snatching it up and hiding it behind my back. She just stands there, stunned, as if she’s woken from a dream. As if she’s been sleepwalking.
“I’m so sorry,” Marguerite sobs, hugging herself. “I’m so sorry.”
I cautiously approach, my knees trembling. “It’s all right. You weren’t yourself, just then.”
“No. No.” She shakes her head. “But I’m getting like this, more and more.”
I edge closer, drawing her in. She clings to me, and I hold the knife well away, arm extended behind me.
“I’m so frightened,” she sobs, wetting my shoulder with her tears.
“Shhh, it’s all right. Everything will be just fine, come morning. Now, let’s go up to bed.”
I lead her upstairs and tuck her in, turning down the lights as I leave her room. Once I reach the attic, I hide the knife beneath my mattress and sit on the edge of the bed, hands trembling as I shuck my shoes off. The day’s heat still festers under the eaves, gathering like a boil beneath my skin. I shed my clothing, stripping down to my chemise and tap pants. One of the many bedrooms below would provide respite from the heat, but the memory of Marguerite brandishing that knife—the wild look in her eyes—keeps me in place.
