I roll my eyes. Aunt Grace has always been a fabulist and instigator. Louise comes by her histrionics honestly. “Well, I’m alive and well, as you can hear.”
“You’re reallythere. I never thought ... How is she?”
“She’s grand. We’ve been having a time. I’m going to stay here with her, Louise.”
The line goes quiet for a moment. “Well. Isn’t that something?”
“How are things in Kansas City?”
“Dreadfully hot. And Sadie, I didn’t want to tell you this, but I fear I must ... it’s about Ted.”
I brace myself, knowing my cousin, and how she gloats over the least bit of schadenfreude. “What is it?”
“Toby saw him at the Montpellier Tea Room.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “With another woman.”
My stomach sinks. “It was probably his wife.”
“No. It wasn’t. She was young.Veryyoung.”
“Oh.” I bite my lip to hold back the rising flood of tears. But what else did I expect? Men like Ted are strangers to fidelity. He’d never be satisfied with one woman.
“You’re better off without him, Sadie. I know you don’t think so, but you are.” Louise’s voice grows soft, almost tender. Almost. “Look, Pauline and I were thinking about taking the train down to see Aunt Marg for Labor Day. Now that you’re there, it’s even better. We’ll bring the children. It’ll be like old times.”
“Yes ... sure. I’d like that. I’ll let Aunt Marg know.” I rock back on my heels, clutching my new lavalier until the garnets bite into my palm, my eyes filling. But I won’t give my cousin the pleasure of hearing me cry. “I need to go, Louise. I can’t leave Marguerite alone for very long. Goodbye.”
I replace the receiver, cutting off my cousin’s response, and stand there in stunned silence, tears tracking down my cheeks.
The rain is relentless that night, washing the house in streams of water as thunder crackles overhead. I do my best to sleep after I’ve tucked Marguerite in, but even as exhausted as I am, all I can think of is Ted with his young ingenue. I imagine them doing all the things he used to do with me, and my stomach turns with envy and anger. I finally throw the covers off in frustration and pace the attic floor, fists clenched.
In the wee hours of the morning, after my anger simmers to a low buzz of resentment and I’m able to think straight again, I decide to go to the studio. I need a distraction from my thoughts, and the temptation of wandering into the past with Weston is as irresistible as it is frightening. Part of me still wonders whether what I experienced inside my aunt’s studio was nothing more than an illusion. The only way I’ll know whether itwasis by trying to make it happen again. I want to know more. How Weston became enmeshed with my grandmother and her sisters. What happened between him and Claire? They never married—something I know for certain. I grab the chatelaine from my wardrobe, quietly make my way down the hall, past Marguerite’s door, and push the studio key into the lock. The door opens with a satisfying snick. I go inside, my heart beating wildly.
But Weston’s portrait is gone. The easel stands empty. Raw panic rushes through me as I remember my conversation with Beckett about Sybil. He’d burned the painting once. He might have done so again. I imagine the portrait going up in flames, the paint bubbling and melting, destroying Weston’s likeness. Tomorrow morning, I’ll confront Beckett. If he’s done something to the painting, every ounce of my goodwill toward him will disintegrate.
And then ... I have a thought.
Marguerite was concerned about my affinity for Weston’s portrait as well. She was adamant about wanting the painting destroyed the first time I saw it. Might she be responsible for its disappearance?
I leave the studio, locking the door behind me, and rush to the heavy double doors leading to the library. I open them as silently as I can and ease inside. Moonlight spills through the high windows, illuminating the stacks and slipcovered furniture. I make my way down the rickety spiral staircase from the upper gallery to the first floor, then to the shelves hiding the secret passageway. The bookcase swings open with a tired groan, and I climb the narrow, steep steps, squinting to better see in the darkness. I emerge into the glass-ceilinged tower, the heavy patterof rain loud overhead. My heart beats with wild excitement. There are two easels there now.
I uncover the first and find an incomplete painting of a young girl.
But the second is Weston’s portrait, just as I suspected. I reach out to touch the surface. It ripples and shimmers like water, and suddenly I am falling, falling, falling ... like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.
Interlude
Weston
It is nighttime. The gardens are illuminated, a soft summer breeze filtering through the air. A thread of orchestral music streams toward Sadie from the gazebo where she saw Weston and Claire, now lit with waxed paper lanterns and candelabra. There are others there—guests of this party—attired in evening wear, the men in cutaway coats and white cravats knotted at the neck, their high-waisted trousers accentuating the length of their legs, the women in full, bustled skirts. Weston appears at Sadie’s side, dashing in his formal dress, his wild, dark hair framing his face in waves.
“What year is it?” Sadie asks, enraptured.
“1874. The year I first met the Thorne family.”
“What’s happening? What is this party?”
“Florence’s coming-out ball. The night it all began.”
Sadie sees Florence now—the golden penumbra of curls gathered atop her head, her white gown ethereal, her waist impossibly tiny. She flits among her guests, graceful as a butterfly, kissing them on both cheeks in greeting. Claire and Marguerite stand nearby. Marguerite wears a demure pink ballgown, her long, auburn hair spilling down her back.
