Marguerite squeezes her eyes shut as the next contraction sets in, a throttled scream escaping her throat as she bears down. The nurse presses hard on her belly, elbows locked.
“Aha!” the doctor exclaims. A thin, reedy cry floats over the din, the excitement in the room palpable as the doctor raises the baby up where Marguerite can see. “A girl. You’ve done well, Miss Thorne. You’ve done well.”
Marguerite raises herself onto her elbows, her eyes lividly green against her pale face. “Let me have her. Please.”
The nurse clambers off the cot, takes the baby from the doctor, and swaddles her as he clamps and cuts the cord. The baby is red-faced and angry, her bright copper hair contrasting with the linen sheath they’ve wrapped her in.
Sadie is crying, watching her own mother come into this world, watching her take her first, greedy gulps of air, all the puzzle pieces of the past slotting together in this singular, shocking moment.
“You’re bright as a fresh-minted penny!” Marguerite exclaims, clucking her tongue at the little girl, who soon quiets in her mother’s arms, puckering her lips. On instinct, Marguerite opens her gown, brings the babe to her breast. The nurses and the doctor are too distracted to notice, busy as they are with delivering the afterbirth.
And then suddenly, as if time has sped up, the room goes quiet. It is nighttime. Only a single nurse keeps vigil, the room lit dimly with oil lamps.
Florence and Weston enter. Sadie startles at the sight of him, her fear and her dread as one, but he doesn’t seem to notice her, not in this timeline. She’s as invisible to him as she is to Florence.
“Why is he here?” Marguerite growls. She holds the baby closer.
“It’s nighttime. I needed an escort.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have come. You can’t have her. I’ve changed my mind.”
“Marg, please,” Florence entreats, extending a hand to Marguerite. “It will only be harder, the longer you wait.”
The nurse rises from her chair, clears her throat, her dark eyes creased with care as she goes to Marguerite’s bed. “Miss, if you’ll give her to me now, I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Get away from me.” Marguerite’s eyes go wild. The baby cries, softly, in her sleep.
“Now, don’t make this more difficult than needs be.” The nurse’s voice grows stern. “We’ve given you long enough with her.” She reaches for Laura—for Penny—and Marguerite strikes her. The nurse steps back in shock.
“I’ll claw your eyes out if you come any closer,” Marguerite threatens, baring her teeth.
“You signed the papers months ago, Marguerite,” Florence says, her voice wavering. “You can’t change your mind.”
“Can’t I?” Marguerite swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands. Weston and the nurse surge forward. Everything happens so quickly. The baby wakes, cries. Weston swears, and the nurse gives a frantic shout as Marguerite thrashes like a wildcat. An orderly rushes into the room, wrestles Marguerite to the gurney, holds her down as the nurse transfers the baby into Florence’s arms.
Marguerite screams her baby’s name, then a string of curses as the nurse hurriedly ushers Florence and Weston from the room. The scene fades, grays out around the edges, and Sadie finds herself standing in the library with the morning sun flaming white through the windows.
Chapter 34
October 22, 1925
I sit by myself for a long time that morning, thinking over everything I witnessed. I have no reason to doubt the truth of what Iris showed me—that Marguerite is my grandmother by birth. It’s no wonder that she took the news of Mama’s death so hard. After my tears are spent and I’ve considered the words I want to say, I wipe my eyes and go to Marguerite. Harriet looks up from her knitting as I enter the library, which has become our favorite room as fall’s chill sets in. I ask Harriet to leave us, and she does so graciously, eyeing the items cradled in my hands. I pull a chair next to Marguerite at her easel and sit, but her concentration never wavers. Her brush makes smooth, delicate swirls through the paint. Even though her hand often trembles when lifting her fork or a teacup, the tremors seem to dissipate when she paints. The self-portrait is nearly done, Marguerite’s young features fully formed. The figures in the background have taken on more presence as well—two girls dressed in summer muslin, one blond, the other redheaded. Though their features are still vague, I know it’s Florence and Claire.
“Aunt Marg,” I say softly, “I was hoping we could talk. How are you feeling today?”
“Oh, hello, dear. I’m well enough, I suppose.”
“You’re almost finished.” I gesture to the painting. “Tell me what’s happening here, in this moment.”
Marguerite smiles. “The beginning of everything,” she says cryptically.
“Everything?”
“Yes. I remember that daysowell.”
“I found something you were looking for.” I lift the unfinished portrait of my mother from my lap and show it to her, along with the lock of red-gold hair.
Her hands fly to her face. “Penny.”
