“What?”
“The brandy.”
“I left it in the parlor.”
Harriet marches into the parlor and snatches the mostly empty bottle off the floor. She upends it into one of the potted palms by the window, then hands me the bottle. “Put this in the rubbish bin. And for heaven’s sake, no more alcohol of any kind. That goes for the both of you. You can’t be off your wits with her, Miss Halloran. Not for a minute.”
A part of me rankles at Harriet’s authoritative tone. My grandmother would have never allowed hired help to talk to her in such a way, but I’m not my grandmother, and Harriet is right. And so I take the bottle to the kitchen, shamefaced, and bury it in the waste bin.
I shouldn’t be drinking, anyway. Not with our family history. Grandmother was a closeted lush, with a proclivity for hiding gin in pretty crystal perfume bottles—something I discovered as a young girl. The habit caught up with her, and she succumbed to liver failure. I think of all the other secrets she might have been hiding. Did her guilt and regret over her affair with Weston drive her to drink? It’s possible.
Weston’s words from the night before sit heavily on my mind. If there are more secrets, more lies to uncover about my family’s past, it all seems to begin and end with him. I reach into my pocket for the chatelaine and its keys. There are two keys I haven’t yet tried. With a furtive glance behind me, I ascend the servants’ stairs to the second floor, where Weston, and the past, await.
Interlude
Weston
Sadie stands slowly, reeling from the uncomfortable vertigo created by her free fall into the past yet pleased by her successful escapade all the same. She lifts her hand, sees the faint outline of trees through it. While she is a ghost here, her senses are all still present. She breathes in the scent of soft rain, feels the breeze blowing across her skin, hears laughter close by—that of a woman, or a girl.
A few yards away, Sadie encounters a wooden gazebo set in a clearing—one she remembers from childhood. Grandmother gave her and the cousins birthday parties there. In her time, the gazebo had fallen into disrepair, its floorboards crumbling with rot and its delicate gingerbread ruined by the weather. Money had grown scarce for Aunt Grace in recent years, and nature was slowly reclaiming the Brookside gardens as a result.
But now, in this era, the gazebo is a luminous, whitewashed confection set against the verdant spring landscape. Inside, a man and a woman sit close together, their heads nearly touching. Sadie creeps forward, parting the rain-speckled shrubbery. It’s Weston and Claire. Her long-deceased aunt lifts a sheet of paper from the open folio spanning her lap and reads from it.
“And Cecilia was the purest of heart,” she recites, “though her eyes held an uncommon curiosity her elder sister lacked. Her charms wereoften disregarded when Felicity was about, but William saw in Cecilia the unrealized potential of the dreamer.”
“Do you like it?” Weston asks.
Claire’s chin dips. “I do. But Flor won’t. She won’t like it at all.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s my story, and in it you’ll shine the brightest.” Weston lifts Claire’s chin to gaze into her eyes. “I’ve told Florence we can’t go on, after she’s wed.”
“She won’t listen.” Claire laughs. “It will only make the game more interesting for her. A challenge.”
“Do you think me weak, Claire?” Weston’s thumb brushes her cheek. “Unable to resist her?”
“No.” Claire takes his hand. Her eyes dance over the gardens, landing on the hedge of roses near Sadie. “It’s only ... Florence has never let me or Marguerite have anythingshewants.”
“Oh, darling. But it’s you I want.Onlyyou. Trust in that.” Weston bends to her, kissing her deeply. Claire sighs, throwing her arms around his neck in surrender.
A clatter of hooves echoes through the trees. Weston and Claire spring apart as a horse and rider crash through the gardens, clearing the rose hedge in a spectacular jump. Marguerite sits atop a handsome dapple gelding, her long hair matted with wet leaves, her cheeks flushed. She brings the horse around in a circle before the gazebo and dismounts. Her hem is soaked, and a long tear in the fabric reveals the scarlet petticoat she wears beneath the dark woolen skirt. Claire stands, handing the leather folio to Weston. “Papa will have a fit if he finds out you brought Pepper into the gardens, Marg.”
“I had to get out of that house,” Marguerite says, exasperated. “Flor’s throwing a tantrum over the seating for the wedding breakfast. She wants James’s parents seated next to John Wornall and his wife instead of Maman and Papa.” Her brows knit together as she regards Weston and Claire. “What are the two of you doing out here alone?”
“Weston was just showing me the new pages he’s written.” Claire smiles at him shyly. “They’re quite good.”
“Hello, Marguerite,” Weston greets her. “Did you enjoy your ride?”
“I did,” Marguerite says, lifting her chin. “Maman was looking for you, Claire. She needs your help choosing table settings. Why don’t you take Pepper and go back to the house?”
“But ...” Claire looks from Weston to Marguerite.
“Claire, it’s all right,” Weston says. “I should be leaving. I need to go back to the boardinghouse and pack.”
“Oh? You’re not staying for Flor’s wedding?” Marguerite crosses her arms, pinning him with a cold gaze.
“I don’t believe I will.” Weston’s eyes cut to Sadie. He gives her a slight nod, acknowledging her presence. “I’m due back in Bristol on Monday to give a lecture on Keats.”
“Keats, is it? I’d imagined you preferring Byron.” Marguerite and Weston regard one another in stony silence for an uncomfortable breadth of time.
