I follow, my heartbeat ratcheting higher as she turns toward the library. The air is frigid in Iris’s wake and scented faintly with verbena. Inside the library, she points to her portrait, her eyes filled with sadness. My anxiety climbs as I touch the surface and find it pliable as water. I pull in a deep breath. “Show me, Iris. Show me everything.”
Interlude
Iris
The room is completely white. Sterile. Gauzy curtains blow softly in the open window. At first Sadie thinks she’s back in the California house. But she’s not. This is a dormitory. Or a hospital ward, much like her room at Elm Ridge. She turns to see Marguerite seated on a cot, reading from a book, her skin unnaturally pale. She lifts her head, looks directly at Sadie, and smiles. “You’ve finally come,” she says, her voice musical.
“I have.” At first, Sadie thinks Marguerite has seen her, but it’s Florence who speaks. Sadie whirls to see her grandmother, dressed in striped summer poplin, a wide-brimmed hat perched on her blond curls. “Stand up, sister, so I can have a proper look at you.” Marguerite stands, her nightgown fluttering to the floor. Her belly arches out from her slender body, convex. Unmistakably pregnant.
“It won’t be very long now.” Florence crosses to Marguerite, places a hand on her belly, her wedding ring glinting in the light. “James has the nursery ready.”
“I’m afraid, Flor,” Marguerite says. “Will it hurt?”
“Yes. But our bodies are made to do it. And the pain stops once the baby comes.” Florence sits on the cot, drawing Marguerite down with her. The hem of Marguerite’s nightgown lifts, exposing painfully swollen ankles. “Next year, this will all seem like a dream. I’ve already spoken to Papa. He’s willing to send you to Europe for your grand holiday.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Florence strokes the side of Marguerite’s face. “You’ll be able to see all the places you’ve dreamed of going. Work on your art.”
Marguerite takes Florence’s hand. “You’ll let me see her, won’t you?”
“Of course I will. As often as you’d like. But remember—you must promise to never tell her the truth, darling. She needs to believe she was always mine. Do you understand why that’s important?”
“I . . . I think so.”
“Good girl.” Florence presses a kiss to Marguerite’s cheek. “I’d better go, for now. But I’m staying here, in town, until your time comes. I’ll visit you again tomorrow.” She moves toward the door, bustled skirts swishing in her wake.
“Is James here? With you?” Marguerite asks. “If so, I’d like to see him.”
“No, I came alone this time.”
Marguerite’s eyes narrow. “Ishehere, then? Is that why you’re rushing off?”
A shadow falls over Florence’s face. “That isn’t your concern.”
“Itis, Florence. If I’m to give you my child, I want to make sure she grows up in a happy home. Where is Gracie?”
“With our nurse.”
“In Kansas City?”
“Yes.”
“I see. And does James suspect anything?”
Florence sighs, her hand clutching her parasol handle. “If he does, he’s never said as much. I know James. He won’t.”
“Tell me the truth, Flor. Is Gracie James’s, or Weston’s?”
Florence whirls to face Marguerite, her face suddenly livid. “How dare you ask me that?”
“You don’t know, do you? You’re lucky she resembles you,” Marguerite says, smirking. “Lucky you can’t have another child.”
“Lucky?I should hit you for that, Marg.”
“Do it.” Marguerite stands, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “You’ve already destroyed my life. Taken Hugh from me. All out of spite.”
“You can’t see it now, but I’ve protected you. From dishonor. From a life lived in some shameful tenement or a shanty. Hugh couldn’t have given you the sort of life you want.” Florence is shaking now, her barely contained rage near the surface. “He only wanted to take what he could get. And you were so willing to give it.”
