July 24, 1925
I wake in a sweat, body feverish with want. With desire. The memory of Weston’s kiss—his hands on me, sliding over my skin, tangling in my hair, the scent of crushed jasmine beneath my body. I sit up in bed, wondering how I got back to the attic, but not caring as I relish in the memory of what we did together beneath the stars ... the way he made me feel.
My body is a drum, beating with longing.
I rise, the sun a hushed veil of silken pink outside the window. I shed my chemise, pour cool water from the ewer into the basin, sponge my heated skin with a cloth.
I gaze at myself in the mirror, skin flushed, pupils large and dark. Lips bruised and bitten. Did everything I experienced really happen? Somewhere in the past, did Weston and I truly enjoy a night of passion together? It seems mad. A hedonistic dream. One I want to have over and over, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m a little afraid. I’ve taken a ghost as my lover, after all, not a man of flesh and blood. I briefly think of Sybil, and her unfortunate fate. But even Beckett isn’t certain whether she jumped, fell, or was pushed. It might have been a tragic accident. It must have been.
I dress, humming softly to myself as I pull on my stockings, choose my outfit, and brush my hair. It’s strange for the mundane world tokeep running as usual, after what I experienced last night. When I go downstairs, I find Marguerite waiting for me at the dining room table, fully dressed. She smiles up at me, eyes bright. “Ah, there you are, dear.”
“You’re already up! Did Melva help you get dressed?”
“Of course not. I’m capable of dressing myself.”
I sit at the table, unfolding the morning paper, although I’m distracted by amorous thoughts, imagining myself tangled up in Weston’s arms, his lips tracing a line down my ...
“Miss Halloran.”
Beckett’s voice startles me. I look up to see him holding a telegram, his face freshly shaved, the lingering scent of his aftershave crisp and pleasant, though a tinge of green faintly stains the skin around his fingernails. He’s already been working. I wonder whether the man ever sleeps. “This came for you.”
I take the envelope from him and open it. Inside, there are only three lines.
Rosalie and I are coming on August 8th. Disappointed. F.
Felix. Louise must have told him I came here. I shove the telegram to the side. “I suppose my brother and his wife are paying us a visit soon. Weekend after next.” To scold me, more than likely, although hopefully with my allowance in hand.
“Oh, how lovely!” Marguerite exclaims. “Are they bringing the boys?”
“I’d expect,” I said. “Louise and Pauline may come for a visit, too, for Labor Day weekend. I forgot to tell you.” The thought of my family descending on us, at any time, is less than pleasant. “Louise mentioned they’d like to visit when we spoke last night.”
“Louise reminds me so much of Florence,” Marguerite says. “And it’s not just her looks. She’s always in everyone’s business. Meddling.”
“You’re certainly right about that,” I say, smirking.
Melva brings out breakfast, setting a steaming bowl of cornmeal porridge before me.
“This looks delicious,” I say, stirring butter and maple syrup into the warm cereal.
“You’re in high spirits this morning, Miss Halloran,” Beckett says, taking the chair next to mine. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not at all,” I say archly. “But I’m feeling delightful all the same.”
He raises an eyebrow.
I hurry through breakfast, relieved when Harriet arrives to take Marguerite off my hands. After they’ve gone outside for their morning constitutional, I rush to the tower room, where my lover awaits me in another time. Weston crushes me against him, and soon we are flesh to flesh in a room draped in scarlet, aching and soaring and consuming one another like fire set to tinder, like the sweetest addiction I’ve ever known. This is all I need.Heis all I need.
Time seems to accelerate in the real world when I’m in the past with Weston—something I’ve become aware of since our affair began, nearly two weeks ago. I carefully plan our liaisons between midnight and dawn, so that I won’t chance waking Marguerite when I leave the attic. I’m barely getting any sleep as a result. I’ve learned to steal sleep during the day instead, when the rest of the staff is here and Marguerite takes her post-lunch nap. It isn’t enough, though, and it’s taking a toll. I’m becoming more forgetful. Moody and churlish.
But how can I resist what Weston offers? It isn’t just our lovemaking, although it fulfills my need for passion and tenderness. It’s the excitement of journeying to places I’ve never been before. I’d never be able to afford a grand suite in Paris or a holiday in the Tuscan countryside, where my only responsibility is to loll about in a villa with a glass of Chianti. Fifteen dollars a month won’t get a girl very far. But with Weston, the whole world is open to me.
It all seems like madness in the light of day. But it’s a madness I welcome. Tonight, we’re in Rome, in an apartment overlooking the Spanish Steps. The bells of Trinità dei Monti ring vespers as Weston slides my gown down over my shoulders, pressing kisses between my shoulder blades and along my spine. He knows, instinctively, how I want to be touched, how I enjoy relinquishing myself completely. He dominates me, devours me, and I’m all too willing to be the tinder for his fire.
I can see why he had such a hold over my grandmother. Over Claire. It’s intoxicating to be so desired. To be the object of his ardent admiration.
I turn in his arms, and he sets me on the wide windowsill. I wrap my legs around him as he takes me, not caring that anyone on the plaza below might see us. In this world, where no one knows me, and will never see me again, I am free. Without reservations.
Suddenly, I’m very cold, as if I’ve been standing in a drenching rain. I cling to Weston, seeking his warmth, but he pushes me away abruptly. “You must go,” he says. I try to kiss him, but he rebuffs me, his eyes narrowing. “Leave, Sadie.”
