“I know,” I say, smoothing her hair out of her clawed hands. “I don’t want to believe she’s gone, either. But we’re going to get through this. We must.”
Beckett knocks, and asks to come in. “Everything all right?”
“No,” I say, smiling sheepishly as I wipe the tears from my eyes. “I’m going to stay with Marguerite tonight. Sleep in her room.”
His eyes bounce from me to Marguerite, his consternation at our mutual distress apparent. “Let me know if you need me.”
“I will.”
The door snicks shut. I turn down the bed, and ease Marguerite under the covers. I switch off the lights, then lie next to her, cradling her back as she sobs into her pillow. Sometime later, she drifts off to sleep, and I soon join her, the two of us bonded by our grief, by the terrible weight of love.
Chapter 32
October 10, 1925
Early the next morning, I rise without disturbing Marguerite, and cross the hall. I knock lightly on Beckett’s door. There’s a muted rustling from within, as if he’s dressing. “Come in,” he says gruffly.
I ease into the room. Birdsong ripples from the window, open a crack to let in the cool air. I linger there awkwardly, fingers laced together, still unsure of where we stand with one another and incredibly conscious of the fact that I need to figure out my place in his life before we help Marguerite settle her affairs.
“What happened last night?” he asks. “I’ve never seen Marguerite in such a state.”
“That’s what I came to talk to you about.” I perch on the chair by the window. “I found her will yesterday, in the attic. She ... wanted to leave everything to my mother. I had to tell her she died. She didn’t take the news well.” I cross my legs at the knee. “Didn’t anyone phone or write to tell her?”
“If they did, I never heard about it.”
“I’m not surprised. Aunt Grace was probably afraid to upset her.” I clear my throat. “But it’s important because my mother’s death leaves the will open to contest unless Marguerite has it revised. My brother already has designs. So does Louise.”
Beckett comes to the window and looks out, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. I cover it with my own, relief coursing through me at this show of tenderness. “We’ll call Peter Bruce on Monday,” he says. “Her attorney. Have him come here. If she wanted this house to go to your mother, then it should rightfully go to you.”
“Yes, but Marguerite needs to have the final say. Her feelings might have changed. She might want to leave it to you instead. You’ve been like a son to her.”
“Maybe. But no matter what, Sadie, this is your home.”
“And yours,” I say, squeezing his hand.
He looks at me then, with a softness in his eyes I’ve not seen in some time. Hope blossoms in my chest. I reach up, touch his cheek. He leans into my hand, his lips brushing the inside of my wrist.
I stand to face him, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears. He hesitates for the sparest moment, then pulls me to him, kisses me, his lips testing mine. Our kiss deepens, becomes hungry and needful as his fingers work loose the buttons on my dress. When the cold breeze from the window touches my skin and his hands warm my breasts, I gasp, delight fracturing my reserve. He backs me toward the bed, and I kick free of the rest of my clothing as he kneels on the floor and slowly traces the inside of my thigh with his tongue, looping my leg over his shoulder.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoes through the room. My eyes fly open. The mirror above the dresser lies shattered on the floor. Beckett lifts his head. “What the—”
Something sends him toppling sideways, with a cry of surprise. I scramble to cover myself with my discarded dress and clutch the Saint Michael medal, speaking the prayer aloud into the room:
“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle.
Be our defense against the
wickedness and snares of the Devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray,
and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts,
by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits,
who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.
