“I understand. You’re hurting, so you want to hurt me. But you must learn to be happy with James. To begratefulfor the life you have.”
Florence shakes her head. “You tell me to be happy with James, but you can’t know what it’s like for me. No one knows how truly alone I am.”
Claire rises and places the pieces of glass on Florence’s vanity. “I think it can be repaired. This bottle. I’ll take it and try to glue it back together later.” She crosses to Florence, pats her head with a pitying look. “Now, get dressed. Marg and the others are waiting for us. We’ll have our ride this morning, then our picnic later. Everything will be all right.”
“You think yourself so much better than the rest of us, don’t you?” Florence turns away. “You madden me.”
There’s a gentle tap on the door and Iris strides in, dressed in riding clothes, her dark hair gathered in a long waterfall down her back. Iris’s eyes land on Sadie briefly, and she gives her the slightest smile in acknowledgment of her presence. “We heard a commotion. Is everything all right?”
Marguerite pushes past Iris into the room, solemn-faced in an equally somber riding habit. She takes account of the broken bottle on the vanity, Florence’s state of deshabille. “You’re indulging in histrionics again, I see. Get up, Flor. Weston is waiting with the trail guide. He’s being paid by the hour, you know.”
Weston. Weston is here with all of them.
“I’ve decided I’m staying in.” Florence stands, propped against the bedframe. “I ate something that didn’t agree with me at dinner.”
Marguerite snorts. “Very well. Stay here and pout while the rest of us go enjoy ourselves.”
Claire hedges, eyeing Florence. “Perhaps I’d better stay with her ...”
“No.” Marguerite takes Claire by the hand, turning her. “We’ve a beautiful day ahead of us. Florence will be just fine. Won’t you, Flor?”
“Yes. Go on, Clairey. I’ll come out for our picnic this afternoon. I promise.”
There’s another knock at the door. “Claire? Are you in there?” It’s Weston. Sadie stiffens as Iris opens the door a crack, whispers something to him, and departs. Weston stalks into the room, his mouth set in a hard line. His eyes skate past Sadie. He must be unable to see her in this version of events. Relief floods through her.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, his demeanor softening as he goes to Claire’s side.
“Flor isn’t feeling well,” Claire says. Sadie can hear the resignation in her voice. “I think I should stay with her. I don’t care much for riding anyway.”
“Nonsense,” Weston says. “I’ve chosen a gentle old mare for your horse. We’ll have a grand time. The guide told me he’s taking us to a redwood glade, with ancient trees, tall as giants. You don’t want to miss that, do you? Come along, darling.”
Realization dawns on Sadie. Redwoods. They must be in California. One more piece of the puzzle slots into place.
“Darling.DarlingsweetClaire.” Florence cackles, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. She brazenly sheds her ruffled dressing gown, and stands staring at Weston, clad in only her shift. Weston’s eyes trail to the beamed ceiling. He runs a hand through his hair, his jaw clenching. “Why so shy, Mr. Chase?” Florence says. “You saw me in far less last night.”
“Enough!” Marguerite shouts.
Weston hurriedly leads Claire from the room as Florence’s eyes spill over with tears, her fragile hauteur fading as she falls onto the bed, muffling her sobs in a pillow. Compared to the last scene Sadie witnessed between Marguerite and Florence, just a few years in the past, where Florence was steady, calm, and determined, it’s now Marguerite who dominates the room, and her sisters.
“Why must you be so self-centered?” Marguerite scolds. “You act as if you’re some long-suffering martyr, and I’m sick to death of it. Ihatethe thought of them together. I do. But this is what she wants, andClaire deserves a chance at happiness. Let him go, Flor. For everyone’s sake.”
“Oh, let her believe she’s won, then! But Weston and I will never be parted. Not in life, and not in death. I swear it.”
“Death? I hope you’re not planning anything rash.”
“What would it matter?” Florence says. “No one would miss me. I should throw myself into the sea and be done with it.”
“Yet more selfishness.” A hard shadow drifts across Marguerite’s face. “Laura and Grace.Theywould miss you. Terribly.”
“You hate me.”
“No, I don’t, Flor. But you’re acting like a spoiled child who’s lost her plaything. Now. Get hold of yourself. I’ve had quite enough of your moods, and so has everyone else.”
Florence wails pitifully, burrowing beneath the eiderdown. Dread spills toward Sadie after Marguerite leaves the room, spreading like black ink across paper as the light fades and the sea whispershush-hush.
Chapter 30
I come back to my senses, the last vestiges of my trance fading as the present overtakes the past once more. Yet the feeling of dread lingers, haunting my thoughts. I remember asking Marguerite whether Claire had ever been to the ocean, on the morning after my strange dream where I’d seen Marguerite with the bloody knife. She told me Claire had never been to the coast, that she was terrified of water. Yet in the scene I just witnessed, Weston, Claire, and her sisters had obviously been somewhere near the Pacific.
