“I’m not sure where I stand with him. That’s all. Sometimes I think we’ve reached an accord, and ...”
“And?”
“Sometimes I think we only tolerate one another’s presence, for your sake.”
“Oh, I can assure you that’s not the case. I’ve known Beckett a long time. I realize he can come off as brusque, but he’s fond of you. He just doesn’t know how to put it forward.” Marguerite assesses me with cool eyes. “You care for him, too, Sadie. I can feel it.”
I press my lips together, flummoxed by her directness. “I ... I’m not sure that I see him in the way you hope, Aunt Marg. Beckett has his charms, certainly. But there’s someone else.”
“Nonsense. You’ve had no suitors coming to the house that I’ve seen.”
“We’re corresponding by ... mail.” Heat climbs my neck, reddening my ears.
“Oh? By mail, is it?” Marguerite’s eyes narrow. “I saw you the other night, out my window. You were wandering around the gardens without a stitch on, my girl. Beckett found you near the bluff. Brought you inside, covered you up, put you to bed. Do you remember that?”
“What?” The heat beneath my skin flares, burning me from the inside. That would explain his mood—the awkwardness between us. I’ve tried to avoid this happening again, by locking the attic door, by going to Weston during only the latest hours of night, but it seems I can do little to control my actions in this world when I’m in his—a sobering thought.
“The other girl ... oh, what was her name ... she used to do the same thing.”
“Sybil?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
How many nights has he witnessed me walking about in a trance? Did I act out the things Weston and I did together, while I was sleepwalking? The thought is so disturbing it makes my stomach turn. No wonder Beckett can’t look me in the eye.
“Florence was just the same.” Marguerite sighs, takes a sip of her coffee. “She was like a wanton thrall, sneaking out to the labyrinth every night to meet Weston. Did you know she spent a year in a madhouse because of him?”
“I ... I’m ...” Shock thrums through me. A madhouse? My grandmother was in a madhouse? I’d heard Great-Grandmother Adeline had gone to a sanitorium after Claire’s death, but my own grandmother had never had any issues with her nerves that I knew of. But neither had I, until Da died. I’m not sure I believe Marguerite, but the conviction in her eyes is needle sharp. She’s fully lucid today, and convincing.
“I can see you don’t believe me.” Marguerite arches a brow. “But I know what you’re doing. Oh, there’s no doubt he has you charmed, just like he charmed my sisters. Sybil, too. He was made that way—his very nature colored with seductive intent, down to his name.” Marguerite chuckles. “Weston Chase.Like something out of a tawdry romance. He’s a hunter, my dear. Hechases. You fell right into his snare. But there’s a price to his pleasures. A price you’ll never be able to pay. I don’t know where you’re hiding his portrait. But when I find it, I’m going to destroy it once and for all.”
I can’t sleep. As the hours tick on toward morning, I pace the attic floor, wrapping my robe tightly around me. I feel Weston’s eyes on me, even though I can’t see him. I’m afraid. I wasn’t before. But I am now. I remember his jealousy over Beckett. How close we came to the edge of that Scottish cliff, the wind lashing my body as he stood over me. From the west-facing window, I look down at the bluff Sybil fell from. Was she on that same Scottish cliff, somewhere in time, with Weston, when she fell from the very real bluff below? When hepushedher from it? Beckett found me there, too. Brought me inside. Kept me safe. But what if it happens again?
They say if you die in your dreams, you die in real life.
I’m no longer willing to cede control of my body, to consciously give myself over to a dangerous situation. I’ve realized I’m not really in love with Weston. I’m addicted to him.
When morning breaks, I take the portrait from beneath the bed and uncover it. Weston’s eyes bore into mine, seething with the promise of passion. I waver, the temptation to fall back into his world—into his arms—strong. But at what cost? I’ve already lost my dignity. My self-respect. What will be next? My frail sanity, already tested and found to be lacking? My life? No. It’s time to face reality. To give all my attention to the living. Those who care about me: Marguerite. Beckett.
I take the portrait from the attic and make my way to the edge of the bluff. I waver again, briefly, and then pitch the painting over. I watch it tumble through the air, hear the distant shatter as it hits the rocky ground far below. Tears prickle behind my eyes. It feels wrong to destroy the portrait. Cruel, even. As I turn to go, an icy-cold wind buffets me, chilling me to the bone despite the day’s warmth. I almost swear I can hear Weston’s laughter on the wind.
Chapter 19
September 5, 1925
If I thought disposing of Weston’s portrait would bring me peace, I was wrong. My body still craves him like a drug—like an opium-eater craves their next dose. I need and want him as much as I fear the consequences of my desire. My ambivalence is maddening.
But I hardly have time to worry over carnal matters. Caring for Marguerite and the house now takes all I can give. Blackberry Grange seems to be crumbling in concert with Marguerite’s decline. Mold grows in the corners of ceilings, where it wasn’t before. The dust and cobwebs seem to multiply before my eyes.
I’m mopping the kitchen floor when I hear the doorbell ring. I glance at the clock. Perhaps it’s the milkman, or the iceman, come with their deliveries. I comb over the days, which have all blended together in a blur, alike as they are for me. It’s Saturday. Not Monday or Tuesday, when our deliveries usually arrive. Perhaps it’s Georgia Merritt, or one of the other neighbors, come to call.
I place the mop in the pail, pat my mussed hair, and smooth my stained apron over my dress before going to the door and opening it. Louise stands there, blinking at me, dressed in airy summer lawn, her younger sister, Pauline, at her side, dour as usual. “Sadie, my goodness!Lookat you.”
“Louise. This is a surprise.”
“I told you we were coming for a visit weeks ago, over the telephone. Don’t you remember?”
Oh yes. The call where she gloated over telling me about Ted and his new mistress. Shedidmention visiting around Labor Day, but I’d forgotten entirely.
