Kate clears her throat. “Now, Mary. Tell me aboutyourpast.”
“My real one? I already have. Most of it, anyway.”
“No, the fictional one. It needs to feel just as true as the other.”
My breathing returns to normal, and I close my eyes, letting a story unspool behind them. “I’m Mary Jones. Aged four and twenty,” I say, broadening my vowels, “from Wishew, Lanarkshire. I was married, but my husband died, three years past.”
“Good. Very good.” Kate laughs. “Almost Glaswegian. I could barely understand you.”
“My mother used to say that very thing to Papa. She was ever telling him to slow down when he spoke to her.”
“All right then. Jones is your married name, but your maiden name is Wallace. Can’t get much more Scottish than that.” Kate grows serious. “Is any of your story true, Lillian? Did you have a husband?”
“No. But I was betrothed for a short time. A very short time.” I look down. “To a naval lieutenant.”
“Was he killed?”
“No.” A whisper of sound comes from behind me. My skin prickles. I turn away from Kate and see Rebecca’s ghost standing in the open doorway. She glares at me accusingly. The memory of last night’s horrid dream accosts me. How dare she intrude on me here, in these waking hours, in this new life I’m making? Rage simmers beneath my skin. “My sister ... he fell in love with my sister instead.”
“The one you’re accused of killing.”
“Yes. He took the ring from my finger and gave it to her. Said she needed him more than I did. That she was softer, more suited to his temperament.” I bark a bitter laugh. “How ridiculous. He’s a soldier. He needed a stalwart, practical wife, who would be able to endure his long absences during times of war. But Rebecca fawned over him. He didn’t see the value in my strength of character.”
“So. You were jealous of her. I’m not surprised.”
I stiffen, whirling to face Kate. She gasps.
“What?” I ask.
“You looked like someone else, entirely, just then.”
“I did?”
“Yes. Whatever you were just feeling, Lil, nurture it. That woman ... is formidable. That woman is someone no one will cross. She’s your Mary Jones.”
While her praise invigorates me, Kate is wrong. I don’t feel jealous of Rebecca anymore. I’m angry. An emotion I’ve never been allowed to feel. Anger that my entire life revolved around Rebecca and her needs. That I was ignored, rejected, and finally made the scapegoat for her death.
Anger, then.
Anger is my key to becoming someone else.
A Vampire’s Diary
Arabella
I’ve devised a solution to my conundrum. It’s brilliant, really. What happened with Marjorie will never happen again, and my progress will march on, unimpeded. Especially now, thanks to Miss Carmichael’s misfortune. I chuckle every time I read the newspaper. It’s laughable that anyone could believe her responsible formywork. Still, the attention is on her. The limelight. Which affords me the luxury of time, and opportunity. I will relish it for as long as I can. Let them have their silly superstitions. Their idle gossip and imagination are potent tools for my gain.
For tonight, I will have the lovely Arabella. I try out her name on my tongue, my voice stroking over each syllable. While I’m disappointed that I won’t enjoy the pleasures I’ve enjoyed with my other conquests, discretion has become necessary. It will be easy to isolate Arabella. She knows me well. She trusts me. Has trusted me for many, many years. I look forward to claiming the spoils of victory, while remaining safely in the shadows.
Fifteen
On Friday evening, Kate readies herself to go to the Kincaids’ party. This will be the first time I’ve ever been left alone at Angel’s Rest—something that makes me nervous but also demonstrates Kate’s growing trust. My strength has returned to a point that I can manage the stairs without assistance, thanks to my new chore routine.
I’m playing the piano in the parlor when Kate descends, dressed in a subdued shade of rose pink. The blond wig cascades over her bare shoulders in long, freshly ironed ringlets. Her cheeks are flushed with rouge, eyes belladonna bright. Her transformation as Varina is stunning. She goes from rangy, loose-limbed Kate, with all her rakish charm, to a vision of such loveliness she makes me swoon at the sight of her. I lift my hands from the keyboard and rise to greet her.
“You play beautifully, Lillian,” she says. “You needn’t have stopped.”
“Not nearly as well as you. And I can’t sing to save my life.”
