Sadie cowers under the weight of his rage. “But we ... I ... I didn’t do anything.”
“You didn’t need to do anything. I saw the way you looked at him.” He turns away from her, his gaze falling on the sea. “Your heart is turning. You’re fickle. Disloyal.”
“No, Weston. I’m not.” She lays a hand on his back. “I’ve tried to come to you several times and you denied me. If you wanted me here, why didn’t you let me in?”
“I was working,” he says stiffly. “Writing.”
“For weeks? You’ve been ignoring me. It hurts. You know what that’s like, Weston. What it was like when Florence did it to you.”
He turns to her, with a cutting, sardonic smile. “Do not say her name again. I’ve forgotten her, for your sake. And this is how you repay me? By flirting with thegardener?”
“Nothing will happen with Beckett. I promise you.” Sadie gestures at the wild, wide Highland vista. “There’s no comparison. How could he ever give me this? Take me to places and times I’ve never seen?”
“He couldn’t. He can’t give you what I can. Not by half.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about,” she says, resolute. “I’m here now, aren’t I? I’m here because I needed to know that what we have is real. I’ve been doubting whether it was all an illusion. A figment of my imagination.”
“No, darling. I’m real.Thisis real.”
“Then show me, Weston.”
He closes the distance between them, enveloping her in his arms, lifting her off her feet as he kisses her, his lips brutal and hard. It is only them in this world—in a year she cannot name. Any thought, any consideration of Beckett flees, the foolish temptation she felt fading as Weston pulls her down into the gorse. Overhead, the clouds darken, and cold drops of rain begin to fall as Weston pushes her skirt above her hips to touch her. He smiles wickedly as she arches her back, as she invites him with her body. Some part of her recognizes the danger in his sudden jealousy, in his flare of anger. He could kill her here, if he wanted, close as they are to the edge of this sea-tossed oblivion. But isn’t that part of the thrill? His raw passion, his animus—these things are what make him so intoxicating. So irresistible. Sadie surrenders to her fear. Surrenders to his touch.
“You are mine,” he says hoarsely as he covers her with his body, claiming her. “Only mine. Never forget that.”
Chapter 17
August 30, 1925
In the days that follow, it’s as if the brief frisson of attraction I felt for Beckett never happened. I keep our interactions to a minimum when he comes to the house to prepare breakfast and dinner. I help him with the dishes after, as always, but I otherwise avoid being near him as much as possible as we see to our respective chores. If he notices my coolness, he says nothing about it. There’s hardly time for socializing, on any account. We’ve had no luck acquiring another maid, and so my days have become a blur of domestic activities. Dusting. Sweeping. Gathering laundry and sending it out. I fall into bed exhausted most nights.
But not tired enough to deny myself the enticements Weston offers. He’s forgiven me for my momentary flirtation with Beckett. I’ve come to my senses. After all, Weston affords me the kind of luxury and hedonistic pleasure Beckett never could. He dotes on me, lavishing me with delicious food, wine, and leisurely hours of lovemaking. In his world, I have no cares. No worries.
Last night, we were in Venice as the century turned, fireworks exploding over the Grand Canal. Marguerite was there as well, with the woman called Pia, walking arm in arm, their laughter ringing over the water as we followed them from a distance, then witnessed their kisson a balcony overlooking the Campo Santa Margherita. In her younger years, my aunt lived a rich life, unconstrained by convention.
How could I want any less for myself? But seeing Marguerite in her prime has underscored just how much she’s faded. Each day, her confusion grows deeper. She barely speaks to me now, and falls asleep earlier each night, sometimes in her armchair next to the radio. Her passion, the verve I admire in these vignettes from her past, has forsaken her. The only time I see her light up at all is when she paints. She sometimes works all day, eating only at my and Harriet’s urging. She’s resumed painting Hugh, her first love. I wonder whether his painting will have the same fantastical qualities as the others, whether he’ll come to haunt this house once she’s finished, just as Weston and Iris have.
I saw her again today. Iris. In the library, where I sat reading the worn copy ofWuthering Heightsthat once belonged to my grandmother. Harriet and Marguerite were there with me, happily playing a game of rummy. Neither of them reacted as Iris walked past us and through the wall, dissolving from view, leaving a preternatural chill in her wake.
I cannot shake the feeling that Iris is showing herself to me for a reason. That she has something important to tell me.
After Marguerite drifts off to sleep that night, I linger in her room to examine the finished portrait of Iris, propped on its easel, lit by moonlight. I look deeply into this long-dead woman’s eyes, until my own eyes begin to cross. The familiar spinning sensation takes hold. I let out a shaky breath, touching the surface of the painting as softly as a feather. It ripples in the same way as Weston’s, and reality tilts on its axis once more.
Interlude
Iris
Sadie stands on coltish legs, exploring this new landscape she finds herself in. It is sunset, golden-hour light slanting horizontally through the leaves. She can hear the rush of a river playing over rocks, laughter in the near distance.
She walks along a deer path, out of the woods, and into a clearing, where a group of young people sit in a loose circle. Some of them are idly sketching. Others are drinking wine. A young man strums a guitar, his eyes closed. They don’t notice her as she takes her place among them. She looks about for Weston. He isn’t here, but Marguerite is. She reclines against a fallen log, a lap desk propped across her thighs. Her hair is loose, as is her blouse, the high neck unbuttoned to her clavicle. A half-finished glass of wine tilts precariously at her side. She is older here than she was at the dinner party with Weston, the first time Sadie traveled into the past, but not by much. Perhaps nineteen or twenty.
Another young woman comes to sit next to Marguerite and whispers something in her ear. Iris. Sadie recognizes her angular, handsome face, her full, dark lips. She exclaims over the drawing Marguerite is working on. Sadie soundlessly approaches from behind, watching over their shoulders as they study Marguerite’s sketch—a sensual-looking woman, chin tilted and eyes at half-mast, the long train of her blackdress cascading down marble steps, her hand resting lightly on the banister.
“Is this yourLady Moss?” Iris asks.
“Yes. I’m almost finished with the preliminary sketches, thank goodness. She’s been an impatient sitter. I’ll begin painting soon.”
“You’re better than Boldini, you know. You are.”
