“Use your imagination, Marg. I’ll give you all my penny candy if you do this for me.”
“Fine, but you’d better give me the candy first.”
The scene shifts, morphs. Marguerite sits before an easel, painting, covering the original pencil lines of a sketch with careful brushstrokes. Sadie recognizes the subject instantly. It’s Weston, his dark features unmistakable on the canvas. There’s a knock at the door, and Florence enters.
“Oh, Marg,” she exclaims, “he’s just as I imagined. You have such a gift.”
Marguerite smiles. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes. If you finish it for my birthday, it will make me so happy.”
“That’s just five days away ...”
“You can do it. I know you can. It’ll make the perfect gift.” Florence comes nearer, her lips softly parted. “Goodness, he looks like a real person—like you’ve captured him from life.”
Marguerite frowns. “I’m not sure I like him. He looks dangerous. Like a scoundrel.”
“And dashing and remarkable. Just as I wrote him.” Florence’s eyes close, her hand trailing over her collarbone, the color flowering on her cheeks.
“James would be jealous, if he could see you right now, all moony over an imaginary man.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“What happens, in your story, Florence?”
“Oh, it’s a tragic romance. Just likeWuthering Heights.”
“And he’s your hero?”
“Yes,” Florence says. “And the villain, all at once. I’ll give you one of my Meissen figurines, as payment, once you’re finished. Consider it your first commission.”
“Oh!” Marguerite’s eyes light up. “The pink dancer, with the fan?”
“Yes. If that’s the one you want.”
Marguerite cleans her brush on her smock, then dips it in lampblack. “All right, then. I’ll do my best to finish it before your party. Now, leave me alone. Let me work.”
Sadie watches young Marguerite paint as the scene slowly fades from view, and an uncomfortable understanding breaks over her. She remembers the scene she witnessed at Florence’s coming-out party. The same night Florence and Weston met, in that other time and place. Had it all begun because of this painting?
Was Weston ever a real person? Or did Marguerite’s painting and Florence’s words bring a figment of imagination to life?
Chapter 36
October 31, 1925
I discover Weston’s portrait by accident. Beckett and I are in the old barn, making cider with the ancient press, when I see a bit of purple velvet peeking out from behind a stack of baled hay. I do my best to ignore it, handing him apples as he works the press, forearms straining below his rolled sleeves. We’ve begun to ready ourselves for Harriet’s departure, finishing the last of the outdoor tasks before winter’s sharp lash descends.
When Beckett goes to fetch more cider pails, I ease the painting from its hiding place. Ever since the last scene I witnessed with Marguerite and her sisters, my questions have multiplied. Louise always claimed our grandmother was a witch—that she’d seen her doing strange things, late at night. After the events of the past few months, I’d almost believe it. Marguerite’s words from a few weeks ago haunt me.My sister ... didn’t understand what she did. What she called forth. What she made me a party to.Is Weston the ghost of a man who once lived? Or some sort of demonic entity my grandmother summoned in the guise of a man?
I uncover the painting. Weston’s deep-set eyes greet me, his expression mocking mine. The old, uncomfortable desire blooms low in my belly, and I quickly cover the portrait with the velvet drape, replacing it behind the hay bale just as my husband returns.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You look upset.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I only thought I saw a rat. It startled me.” I’m not sure why I lie. I should tell him I’ve found the portrait, so that he might hide it somewhere else before my irrepressible curiosity gets the best of me. The temptation is still there—to abandon my senses and return to Weston’s world and all its dangerous charms. Whether my grandmother invented or conjured him, his allure is potent. Seductive.
Beckett hums beneath his breath, interrupting my thoughts. “I’ll get some traps the next time we go to town. We don’t want them burrowing in the hay and making nests.”
“What?”
