He chuckles. “Yes. I know. But if you come visit me, you’ll have to be much quieter than you were tonight.”
“Perhaps we’d better use the stone cottage, then,” I tease. “Nice thick walls.”
He pulls into the driveway, the windows of Blackberry Grange shining like half-shuttered eyes. I tidy my mussed hair as best I can as Beckett helps me out of the car, then drives away to garage the Duesenberg. Harriet opens the door, her lips curving into a smug smile. “Have fun?” she asks lightly, sauntering into the kitchen.
“We did.”
“I’m glad.”
“How’s Marguerite?”
“She’s been agitated most of the night. Kept wanting to go to the attic to find her penny. Do you happen to know what that’s all about?”
“A little. I thought she was talking about a lost coin, but Penny was a person. Marguerite was looking for her portrait when she got locked in that closet. I think she and Marguerite were ... friends.”
Harriet pours a cup of coffee and pushes it toward me. “Something else happened while you were gone. I wasn’t going to say anything. But after I put Marguerite to bed, I heard some noise up in the attic. At first, I thought it was my imagination.”
I brace myself, a sense of foreboding falling over me.
“The maid before Melva was always hearing things. Amanda. Seeing things. I never have, so I didn’t think much of it. But when I went up to the attic, there was a man there—just as real-looking as you or I. Dressed in old-time clothes and sitting at that rolltop desk, writing.” She takes a drink of her coffee, pursing her lips. “I closed my eyes, for just a second. When I opened them, he was gone.” She snaps her fingers. “Just like that. Now explain that to me.”
I choose my words carefully, pondering them at length before I speak. “I’ve seen him, too. On my first day here. I thought he was a servant. I asked Melva about him, and she said the other girls had seen him as well. I ... I think he’s harmless.” I feel bad about lying toHarriet, now that I know Weston is anything but harmless. But I don’t want to scare her away. We need her too much. Hopefully her seeing him will be a one-time occurrence.
“I’m not so sure that he is. Harmless.” Harriet frowns. “Amanda told me a dark-haired man locked her in the linen closet. Slammed the door on her while she was sorting laundry. She couldn’t open it for several minutes. She left after that. Melva told me he’s the reason y’all can’t keep any help. Word gets around about things like that. Folks are superstitious in these parts. People talk about Sybil Vaughn, too. They say her fall wasn’t an accident.”
“Did you know her?”
“All of that happened before my time with Marguerite. But I’d seen her around town. Young. Pretty. Beckett told me she was his cousin. She was English, so she stood out here, as you can imagine.” Harriet shrugs. “There was lots of talk when she died. Some folks say it was suicide. Some say she was pushed. Beckett saw it all happen. The sheriff suspected him, for a while.”
“Surely not.”
“There was no one else around. They had to question him.”
Even though Harriet’s words give me pause, I have no reason not to believe Beckett’s version of the story. And after Weston’s violent assault in the parlor, his angry outbursts in the other world, I know too well what he’s capable of. “Do you remember seeing a portrait of a man, with dark hair?”
“I recall seeing it a time or two.”
“It’s ... haunted.” I pull in a deep breath. “That man, in the painting, he’s the same one you and I both saw. Marguerite painted him when she was young, and his spirit is tied to that painting somehow. He was my grandmother’s secret lover for years. None of us ever knew about him.”
“That’s quite a story.” Harriet shakes her head, looking skeptical. “I don’t like to mess around with spirits and things like that. But whoever he is, he’s not going to run me off. I can promise you that.” She standsand stretches. “I’m off to bed. I’m going to sleep in Marguerite’s dressing room tonight. Hope that’s all right with you.”
“Are you comfortable in there?”
“Have youseenthat dressing room?” She laughs. “It’s bigger than my house.”
“I think I’m going to move downstairs for the winter. Across the hall from Marguerite.”
“Next to Beckett?”
“Yes, Harriet,” I say, smiling. “Next to Beckett.”
“Good,” she coos. “I’ll see you lovebirds in the morning, then.”
Beckett comes in the kitchen door a few moments later. I go to him, pull him in for a lingering kiss, the memory of our lovemaking still hot in my blood. He smiles against my lips. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Not at all,” I purr.
“Me neither.”
