“I’ll go see what I can do to help Maman,” Claire says. “Help me up onto Pepper, won’t you, Wes? I’m not at all dressed for riding.”
Weston lifts Claire, light as a feather, onto Pepper’s back. As she rearranges her skirts over the sidesaddle’s pommel, Sadie sees his hand slide up her leg. Claire’s eyes widen and the faintest gasp escapes her lips. “I’ll see you in August, won’t I, my dear?” Weston asks.
“In August,” she responds, her cheeks flushed.
She rides away at a trot, her hair bright as a bobbing flame through the roses.
Marguerite wastes no time in accosting Weston. Her face is a storm cloud of rage. She snaps her riding crop against the gazebo. “I saw the two of you. You were kissing her.”
“And what of it? It’s what Claire wants.”
“To be your consolation prize?” Marguerite laughs.
“She isn’t. I love her.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” Weston runs a hand through his damp curls. “You think me a rake. A cad. But I care for both of your sisters a great deal.”
“Oh yes, you’ve made that very clear. It sickens me how they fawn over you.”
“But not you. You’ve never liked me, Marguerite. Why is that?”
“Because I’ve always known what you are.Whoyou are. What you’re offering Claire isn’t real. It’s merely the illusion of love.” Marguerite taps the riding crop against the gazebo in a staccato rhythm. “Florence is drinking now. Just like Papa. She tries to hide it, but I know. She was perfectly happy with James until you came around. You’ve ruined her. But I won’t let you ruin Claire.”
“I have no intention of ruining Claire. I can’t help it that I fell in love with Florence first. It was a great misfortune that she was already promised to James when we met. But Idomean to marry Claire. And no one will stand in the way of that.” Weston reaches out, grabs Marguerite’s riding crop, stilling its perpetual motion. “Florence knows about you and your stable boy. She told me. But don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret. All of us deserve to be happy, after all. Don’t we?”
The scene flickers, dying out like a spent candle, leaving Sadie with more questions than answers.
Chapter 11
When I come to, I find myself on the studio floor. I sit up, dust off my clothes, and pinch my eyes shut against the sun glaring through the split in the curtains. My hangover from the night before is slightly better, but confused thoughts run through my head. I’m not quite certain what Weston meant for me to glean from my latest foray into the past, but apparently he was honest about his intentions toward Aunt Claire, who seemed just as besotted with him as my grandmother. Something must have happened to derail their betrothal, because Claire was unmarried when she died. Did my grandmother interfere, just as Weston implied?
I cover Weston’s portrait with its dustcloth and lock the studio door behind me. The upstairs hall is silent, apart from the ticking grandfather clock. Downstairs, Marguerite and Melva are sorting mah-jongg tiles on a card table in the parlor. A woman I don’t recognize sits across from Marguerite, who looks up as I descend the stairs. “Ah! Here’s our North Wind. I wondered where you’d gotten off to.”
“Just reacquainting myself with the house. Your nooks and crannies.”
“All morning? It’s half past noon.” Marguerite raises a brow and motions to the gray-haired lady across from her. “This is Georgia Merritt. My neighbor.”
Georgia Merritt of the blue steamboat gothic and the fancy radio set. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Merritt,” I say, offering my hand. “Sadie Halloran.”
“Oh, it’sjustGeorgia.” She pats my fingers. Everything about her is tidy, from her attire to her trim, petite figure. “Marguerite, you didn’ttellme how perfectlylovelyshe is.” Her thick drawl rises in pitch with every word. I know that tone. All too well. It’s the tone of a would-be matchmaker with some weak-chinned, clammy slob of a son, grandson, or nephew she’d like to set me up with.
“Are you a Sarah?” Georgia continues. “Sometimesthey’recalled Sadie.”
“No. Only Sadie.” I smile tightly and fold into the chair across from Melva. I’d hoped to speak to Marguerite alone—to ask her more about Claire and Weston—but our long-hidden family secrets will have to wait.
Melva shuffles the tiles and deals out thirteen apiece. It isn’t a fortuitous hand for me, and my losing streak continues through two glasses of iced tea, three cucumber sandwiches, and a rousingly shrill rendition of Verdi’s “Sempre Libera” by Georgia, who claims she sang the role of Violetta in 1906, which I believe to be a confabulation of the highest order.
I applaud her all the same. We’re having a nice time, and Marguerite seems to be in a high mood—a marked improvement from last night. She seems to have forgotten about the incident with the knife, and I won’t say a word to remind her. After our game, Melva clears the table and returns to the kitchen, while Marguerite, Georgia, and I retire to the conversation nook in front of the parlor’s bay window.
“I saw Beckett when I drove in,” Georgia says, before daintily taking a sip of her tea. “What doeshethink of your Sadie?”
Marguerite presses her lips together and glances at me before answering. “We’re all very glad that Sadie is here. It’s nice to have family close.”
“Hmmm ...” Georgia smacks her lips. “Do you think he’llevermarry? Beckett?”
I turn my head, uncomfortable with the conversation and the pointed way in which Georgia studies me.
