“No. It came after your grandmother died. She left it to Marguerite in her will.”
I scrape my memory, trying to recall whether I’d ever seen Weston’s portrait in my grandmother’s house in Kansas City. I hadn’t. But once, I wandered into a room when I was very young, while I was playing hide-and-seek with my cousins—the old schoolroom on the third floor, where Grandmother and her sisters had studied under a governess as children. Apart from three dusty desks and a chalkboard, a shrouded picture leaned against the wall. I’d started to lift the velvet covering, exposing the gilt frame, when Grandmother stormed into the room, snatched me up, and put me in the hall, locking the door behind her. “You’re never to go in that room again! Do you hear me?”
Had it been the portrait of Weston? Had she kept it locked away, all those years, so she might go to him whenever she liked? I think of the scene I witnessed in the gallery, the first time I entered Iris’s world—the art show where Marguerite had debuted her work. Marguerite told Iris she was going to send the portrait to Florence. She obviously had. Her deep-seated anger toward her eldest sister was apparent. Florence’s betrayal over Hugh, and her continued dalliance with Weston had left a wound that Marguerite couldn’t forgive. Everything that’s happening to me, everything that’s happened to our family, points back to my grandmother and her sisters and all the secrets they kept for all these years. I think of the granny woman’s parting admonition to me:You must confront the wrongs of the past and make atonement—or the one who wronged him must, if they’re still alive.
My grandmother has been dead for almost three years. Aunt Claire for much longer. If either one of them was the source of the curse, it will never be finished. That leaves Marguerite.
“Did your aunt ever talk about anything tragic that happened to Marguerite, in the past?” I ask, pushing back my growing apprehension.
“Nothing of note, that I recall. They became companions for a few years, traveled, studied together, before Iris met my uncle in London.”
“When did she die?”
“Nearly ten years ago. She had a stroke. It was sudden.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “I barely remember her. She and my cousins would come for the holidays occasionally when I was young, with piles of steamer trunks loaded with presents. She brought me those blocks I gave your little cousin to play with. She came to see my father, of course, but she was mostly here for Marguerite.”
“They were more than friends, I think.”
“Yes. My father always suspected as much.”
I glance over at the portrait of Iris, wondering whether her spirit is here, listening to our conversation. The ties between my family and Beckett’s are deep, going back generations. If Iris was anything at all like her nephew, she’s the most trustworthy source at my disposal. If I’m to get any answers, they’ll come from her. From her memories of the past.
As the liquor seeps into my bones, and weariness begins to take me over, Beckett eases me down onto the sofa and covers my shoulders with a blanket, then dozes off next to me, my feet resting on his lap. I imagine I see Iris’s spirit as I drift off to sleep, standing by the fireplace, her eyes gentle but determined. She lost a granddaughter to Weston’s machinations. Now I wonder whether Weston targeted Sybil as revenge against Iris. He obviously holds contempt toward Iris over some perceived betrayal. But for what reason? Perhaps Iris wants vengeance, just as much as I do. Perhaps together, we’ll get it.
Chapter 31
October 9, 1925
The next few days go by in a rush. With Harriet taking a much-deserved break, Marguerite’s care has fallen squarely on my shoulders. While I’ve recovered well enough from Weston’s attack to see to my many responsibilities, I’m always on edge. Jumpy. Even though I’ve never been afraid of the dark, I’ve begun leaving the lights on overnight, just like my grandmother did. The ringing in my ears and occasional headaches still plague me. Most concerningly, my memory remains full of holes. It’s mostly harmless, small things—forgetting where I placed the dustpan, or put my watch. But then, one afternoon, as Marguerite feverishly works on her self-portrait while we chat about our family history, I find myself unable to recall the year my little brother, Henry, was born.
“I ... I think it was 1905. Yes. That was the year. Mama went into labor during a snowstorm. The doctor came to the house to deliver him.” We didn’t have a telephone at the time, so she’d sent Felix to the doctor’s house, rousing him from sleep.
Marguerite smiles placidly, feathering painted shadows between the pleats on her younger self’s skirt. “It’s curious how time can make our minds slip, isn’t it? Some things that happened many, many years ago seem to have only happened yesterday. But others ...” Her brush pauses on the canvas. “Others I’d give anything to remember. I have entire years missing, Sadie. Years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well. Dr. Gallagher says that I must do my best to hold on to the things Icanremember.”
“Do you remember going to California? Or perhaps Oregon? With Claire and Florence?” I ask. “Did you see the redwoods?”
Marguerite’s brush stills again. “I’ve been to lots of places, my dear, but never out West. Hugh and I—we wanted to go to Colorado. Together. But Florence put an end to all of that.” She sighs. “I went looking for him there, after Claire died.” She shakes her head. “But that’s as far west as I’ve been.”
I don’t believe her. Not for a minute.
The next morning, I hear Marguerite talking to someone inside her room. I cross to her closed door, listening. She laughs softly, her voice low. “You always were. I adored that one. You should have shown it in Chicago.”
There’s a pause in the conversation. “She doesn’t.” A dramatic sigh. “I can’t tell her. You know that.”
A moment later, Marguerite begins to sob. “Oh, leave me be!”
I rap on the door, realizing she’s in the midst of a hallucination. I know how quickly these delusions can turn from pleasant to terrifying. “Aunt Marg, it’s Sadie. Can I come in?”
“Yes,” she says wearily.
I open the door to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, her head hanging low. She glances up as I come in, a haunted, distant look in her eyes.
