“It wasn’t the bed. Someone came into my room in the middle of the night. He woke me. Do you have another servant here? A man?”
I freeze in place, goose bumps trailing up my arms. “Yes,” I lie. “He sometimes works nights. A friend of Beckett’s.”
“Well. You should tell him not to come into rooms unannounced. He just stood there, staring at me. I screamed. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me. It gave me quite a fright.”
“Oh,” I say, composing my face. It must have been Pauline I heard screaming in my dream. “That won’t do at all. I’ll speak to him about it.”
I have no doubt that Weston was Pauline’s nocturnal visitor. He’s letting me know he’s still here. Watching.
Louise comes toward us, sunlight filtering through her breezy dress. The twins trail her. Philip shoves crumbling bits of pastry into his mouth, his hands grubby with jam. “Good morning, dear,” Louise says cheerfully. “Before you ask, Aunt Marg is just fine. She’s in the dining room. Beckett laid out breakfast for us.” She leans close to me, her cheek resting on mine. “He and Harriet spoke to me at length this morning,” she whispers. “It’s good that you’re here, Sadie. I mean that. And don’t worry about Pauline. She was completely out of line last night.”
She squeezes my hand and bends to lift her suitcase from the floor. I stand there, speechless, shocked by her goodwill.
“We’ll be off, then,” Louise croons. “Tell cousin Sadie goodbye, children.”
I pat the twins’ heads, and kiss Katie’s chubby cheek, and then they’re gone, leaving blessed silence in their wake. I collapse against the wall, letting out a long breath of relief, then go to the parlor, where Marguerite is sitting at the window, enjoying her coffee in a shaft of sunlight.
Harriet is making notes in her journal at the dining room table. She looks up with a faint smile as I enter. “Morning, Miss Halloran. That bunch was a lot to handle.”
“They really were.”
“I’ll help you clean up that mess in the hall, later.”
“You don’t have to. It’s not your job.”
Harriet smiles. “I know. I’moffering. But I need my coffee first. My youngest kept me up half the night.”
After Harriet excuses herself to the kitchen. Marguerite comes to the table, her eyes lighting on me. “Oh, there you are, Sybil. I was wondering where you’d gone.”
“Sadie, Aunt Marg. I slept in. I have a bit of a headache this morning. Too much wine.”
“Merlot does that to me, too. Papa favored it with dinner.”
She sits next to me, and I take her hands. “I’ve been wondering something. Do you remember how Claire died?”
“Yes,” she says, her brow furrowing. “She caught the measles. She got better, and then she got worse, all of a sudden.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure there wasn’t an accident? She didn’t fall from a cliff? Near the ocean?”
Marguerite’s eyes widen for the briefest second. I catch the look and mark it. “No. Claire was terrified of water. She never even went near the river, much less the ocean.”
“You’re certain?”
“Of course. I’d remember.”
Harriet returns and places a steaming cup of coffee and a packet of soda crackers in front of me. “Iheardyou say you had too much wine.” She raises a brow, and I know she’s silently judging my overindulgence. “The crackers will calm your stomach.”
After she leaves us again, I clear my throat gently. “You’re absolutely certain something else didn’t happen to Claire?”
“Why are you asking me about this?” Marguerite’s expression hardens.
I grasp at anything to get her to open up, anything to trigger her memories. “I remember something Grandmother told me once. That after Claire died, your mother was so affected she went to an asylum.”
“No. Maman grieved Claire, of course. Any mother would. But Florence was the one who went to the madhouse. I told you about that when we had coffee the other day.”
