“Yes, that would be lovely, dear.”
I put a record on the Victrola and settle on the sofa, taking up my half-hearted attempt at cross-stitch. Without Harriet here today, I’ll have no respite from my watch. Even going to the powder room and leaving Marguerite unattended carries risk I’m not willing to take, given yesterday’s events and her increasing frailty. I try my best to push my concerns to the side and concentrate on my needlework, but I can’t help thinking of all the things I should be doing instead—namely, searching for Marguerite’s will or anything else that might clue us in to her wishes. Dr. Gallagher’s words were sobering. We’re running out of time. Perhaps tonight, after Marguerite retires to her room, I can finally search through the trunks in the attic.
But part of me is afraid to be up there, alone, in the place where I first encountered Weston’s spirit. My back still aches from him throwing me to the floor.
“He’s not going to leave you be, dear,” Marguerite says, startling me.
“What?”
“Weston. He’s not going to leave you be.” She wipes her brush on her smock, leaving a smudge of yellow. “Florence wanted to be free of him, too, but he kept drawing her back in, over and over. She was afraid of him. She couldn’t go to sleep without the lights on.”
“I remember that. She’d fly into a panic if the electricity went out during a storm.”
“Yes. I offered to take the painting. Asked her to send it to me. Yet she never would. I tried to help her. Tried to reason with her. But he had her captivated until the day she died.” Marguerite turns to me, the clarity in her eyes as sharp as the needle in my hand. “My sister ... didn’t understand what she did. What she called forth. What she made me a party to.”
“What she called forth?” The hair on my arms rises as chills dance over my flesh. “What do you mean by that, Aunt Marg?”
Marguerite chuckles softly under her breath. She shrugs and turns back to her painting. “There are so many things you don’t understand about my sister, Sadie. About Weston. But you’ll see. In time.”
That night, after the house has settled deep in its bones, I go to the library. I flick on a single light and stand before the portrait of Hugh. Marguerite’s love for him is apparent in his likeness—she’s captured him in the peak of his youth, with his sparkling brown eyes and wide smile. I wonder where he is now. Whether he’s still alive. Marguerite is only in her midsixties, so the chances are high Hugh is still out there, somewhere. Did he move on? Marry someone else? Perhaps, if I knew more about him, I might be able to find him again and help bring a sense of closure to Marguerite before she passes. I step closer to the canvas, curious to see whether Hugh’s portrait has the same uncanny quality as the others. It does. As soon as I reach out, my fingertips tingle, and the tawny leaves in the background begin to flutter. I take a deep breath, prepare myself for the free fall into the past, and close my eyes.
Interlude
Hugh
It is late in the day—near sunset—the clouds tinted pink. Sadie sits up, getting her bearings. A brisk chill barbs the air. Autumnal gold and scarlet cloaks the trees. As she makes her way through the underbrush, Sadie slowly recognizes the area from her girlhood—when it was the golf course and country club Papa James belonged to. Now, in this time, the road that will one day become Ward Parkway is nothing more than a dirt lane winding alongside Brush Creek, cutting through a swath of picturesque but still wild land, where one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War took place. Her family’s Brookside mansion had served as a field hospital in the aftermath.
The clatter of hoofbeats rings on the packed earthen road. Sadie steps back into the trees as two horses bolt past her. She recognizes Pepper’s Appaloosa coat immediately. Marguerite sits astride him, trailed by Hugh on a bay mare. Marguerite reins in her horse and glances over her shoulder, smiling playfully at Hugh, then steers Pepper onto a path through the woods.
Sadie races to follow as they ride side by side, talking in low voices. She can hear the creek’s muffled rill, Marguerite’s girlish laughter in harmony with the water. Sadie catches up and inches forward, peering through a maple tree’s branches. Marguerite and Hugh sit at the edgeof the creek, his arm draped around her waist, her head resting on his shoulder as the horses drink from the creek’s crystal clear waters.
“I don’t want to go. I’ll plead sick,” Marguerite says.
“But you must, Maggie,” Hugh says. “They’ll be suspicious if you beg off.”
“Florence said the same thing.” Marguerite sighs. “Papa won’t let it rest. I’m a burden on his finances. So is Claire. He’s bound to see me betrothed by year’s end.”
“Try not to think about that.” Hugh raises Marguerite’s hand to his lips, presses a kiss to her skin. “Play their game while I figure things out. I’ve been saving everything I can. I almost have enough for a wagon and a team. There’s a group of Irish going to Colorado this spring. We can head out West with them once winter breaks.”
“That long?”
“We can’t make the journey this late in the year. It’s too dangerous.”
“Does your da know your plans?” Marguerite asks.
Hugh shakes his head. “No. Only Mam, and she swears she won’t tell him.” He turns to Marguerite, cupping her face in his hands. “It’s all going to work out, Maggie. You’ll see.”
Sadie turns her head as their affections become more needful and passionate. Hugh stands and leads Marguerite deeper into the forest. The scene flickers, the trees fading, replaced by the Brookside mansion’s gravel drive. It is twilight now, and the front gardens are drenched in a deep, gloaming blue as Marguerite trots past on Pepper, alongside Hugh on his horse. Florence stands in front of the mansion’s raised porch, her arms crossed. She’s dressed in a modest lavender shot silk gown—half-mourning, probably for Papa James’s father, who died in 1878. Her pale hair is gathered becomingly atop her head. Diamonds sparkle at her neck. In her ears. “Where have you been?” she scolds, eyes narrowing as her gaze travels up and down Marguerite’s form. “James will be here with our carriage any minute.”
Marguerite dismounts, and Hugh leads Pepper away, still astride the bay mare. He sends a lingering look over his shoulder at Marguerite.An inexplicable shudder travels through Sadie’s stomach. Something terrible is going to happen tonight.
Florence grasps Marguerite by the arm and marches her inside. “Papa is upset with you. I heard him arguing with Maman earlier. We need to get you into your gown and do something with your hair before he wakes from his nap.”
Marguerite pulls free from Florence’s grasp. “I haven’t been feeling well, Flor. I don’t want to go.”
“You must, you little fool. It won’t be long beforeeveryoneknows what you’ve been doing. I’m trying my best to protect you!”
Marguerite flounces past Florence and rushes up the stairs. Sadie trails them as they go to a bedroom she slept in many times when she was little, when Mama and Da went out for the evening and Grandmother tucked her into the plush bed with its pleated, satin tester.
