I hurry back to the library, two lamps clutched in my arms. Beckett takes them from me and places them on the side tables near the sofa, removing their glass chimneys and lighting the wicks with a match. Marguerite watches him, her eyes heavy. I nudge her with my knee. “You can’t go to sleep, Aunt Marg. It’s not safe.”
“I’ll go change clothes and make some coffee. Should I call Doc Gallagher?” Beckett asks.
“You might. I’m worried. Even if he can’t come, he might tell us what we should do.” He squeezes my shoulder, and I place my hand on his, grateful for his calming presence.
Marguerite stares vacantly at the fire. “I remember now, why I went in there. I was looking for my penny.”
“Your penny?” It’s the second time I’ve heard Marguerite mention a lost penny. I wonder what could be so special about a single coin, worth very little, that could have her so fixated on finding it.
“Yes. Her portrait. Penny was beautiful. Did you know her?”
Realization dawns on me. Penny was a person. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“That’s too bad,” Marguerite says.
“Tell me about her.”
“She was tall. Willowy. She had the most beautiful voice. I used to go to Our Lady of Sorrows in secret to watch her sing in the choir. She was in the novitiate. I talked her out of taking her final vows.” Marguerite chuckles. “She was so lovely. So sweet.”
Penny must have been another of Marguerite’s lovers. This one young and a novice nun. Had Marguerite seduced her away from her order? The thought makes me slightly uneasy.
“I started painting Penny months ago, but I put her portrait in that room, and I can’t remember why. Something happened ...” Marguerite shakes her head, the heels of her hands digging into her forehead. “Oh, why can’t I remember anything?”
I coax Marguerite’s hands into mine to keep her from hurting herself. “Try to keep still, Aunt Marg. I’m sure you’ll remember where her portrait is. I can help you look for it once you’re feeling better.”
Her agitation eases and I shift our conversation to more pleasant things—Louise’s children, Beckett’s plans to build a greenhouse, and her painting of Hugh, which is nearly finished.
“Tell me more about Hugh,” I ask. “I remember you saying he was your first love. How old were you when the two of you met?” I’ve started asking Marguerite more questions lately—especially about the past. Not only to satisfy my curiosity, but to exercise her mind, to keep her thoughts agile. I’ve learned that boredom brings about agitation in Marguerite. Frustration.
“I was eleven when we first met. That’s when the Nolans came to work for us. We were fast friends almost immediately. I didn’t have any friends until Hugh, you see, only my sisters. We had a governess, so we didn’t go to school. When Hugh came, my world opened a little more. We both loved horses ...”
“Yes, you told me. You’d ride Pepper together.”
“Yes, Pepper.” Marguerite smiles. “I was quite the equestrienne. I won several ribbons riding Pepper. Show jumping. That’s what we did best.”
“What else drew you to Hugh?”
“He was fun. Ever smiling and happy. My homelife was lonely and depressing, before Hugh came. Papa was often at Annie Chambers’s brothel, and Maman was miserable because of it. Her misery carried over onto us, and Florence’s demands didn’t help matters. She was always ordering Claire and me around.” Marguerite frowns, her good mood souring.
Thankfully, Beckett returns, carrying a tray with coffee and scones. He’s dressed in clean clothes, his hair attractively mussed. He sets the tray in front of us, and I pour a cup for Marguerite and myself, flavoring hers with cream.
“I phoned Doc Gallagher,” he says, sitting in the chair closest to me. “He can’t come until tomorrow morning, but said he’d ride his mule here if he had to. He said we should keep Marguerite as calm as possible and watch her closely. If she starts having seizures, he wants us to call him immediately.”
I look over at Marguerite, whose eyes have grown heavy. She seems likely to fall asleep at any moment, even with the strong coffee. I wonder how long she’s been up, or if she even really slept at all last night. “Shouldshe sleep?”
“He said she could.” Beckett leans forward and lowers his voice. “But we’ll need to wake her every few hours to make sure she doesn’t slip into a coma.”
“All right. We’ll take shifts.” I rise, stretching. “I’m going to get a washcloth to clean her face.”
I see Beckett’s eyes trace my body, then flick away. I tip his chin up, forcing him to look at me. “I don’t know what I would do without you, truly,” I say, letting my thumb brush his lower lip. “And I promise, when wedohave time to be alone together again, I’ll make it worth the wait.”
He closes his eyes, a faint smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “I’ll hold you to it.”
I take a lingering look at him, over my shoulder, then make my way to the downstairs powder room. The rains have slackened a bit, but the light outside the windows still holds a sickly, green tinge. I warm a cloth under running water, then wring it out. I study myself in the mirror. I look tired. Haggard. My overlong hair has escaped the coronet braid I’ve been wearing of late, unruly waves sticking out here and there. There’s an unidentifiable stain on my Peter Pan collar. I look a sight worse than I did a year ago, when my face was plump with steak dinners and I dressed to the nines on Ted’s money. He’d kept me in the latest fashions while I otherwise lived in squalor. I think of all those beautiful, beaded dresses I abandoned at the boardinghouse, and how, by this time, Mrs. Dunlop and the other women living there surely have picked through my belongings like vultures. And why shouldn’t they? I have no use for fine dresses anymore.
I’m on my way back to the library when I hear the radio kick on in the parlor. It screeches, then settles on a channel. “Beckett! The current’s back on!” I call. But then I notice that none of the lights are on. I switched them all on when I was searching for Marguerite before we lost power.
Something isn’t right about this.
