Page 26 of Lover
A creature I loathed with a near religious devotion had come into the dining room, glinting like the pin of a grenade in her coin-encrusted gown, absent the man who she should have been accompanying.
“Margaret,” I greeted her with marked displeasure. “Where have you left Jack?”
“The poor dear’s in a dreadful state.” She pulled off her gloves and flung them onto the furniture. “A cold, I’m sure, but you know how men are.”
She smiled at me, and I recoiled internally, taking a drink of wine to hide my disgust.
“I had him stay home and came to pay my respects to Willowfield.”
Margaret hadnorespect for Willowfield and had hated the very ground I walked upon from the first day we met, for reasons concerning my disapproval of her lifestyle—which was to find the richest man in the room and cling to him until either heshook her off or she bled him dry. In Jack’s case, he’d never been interested in shaking free, believing her to be a wounded soul he could heal, and was wealthy enough that she hadn’t yet found a reason to let go. Their match still might have worked had it not been for the fact that her sensual affections extended to every man or woman who showed an interest in them.
I’d never been openly hostile to her until she’d begun whispering to Millie about seances and spirits of the dead, encouraging my wife to do cleansing rituals to protect herself, insisting her miscarriages were acts of a jealous spirit, and that Willowfield, and I, would be her doom.
I’d spoken to the police about the part I believe she’d played in the gradual deterioration of Millie’s mental state, but there was no proof of ill intention, and therefore nothing they could do. That she was here now, knowing how I felt about her, knowing I’d forbidden her from ever stepping foot here again, meant she had something up her sleeve.
“You look a doll. You must be the new girl,” she said to Millie.
“This is Miss Millicent Foxboro,” I said rigidly, sure she was aware of the situation, wanting to reiterate to her the role she had to play by being present. “The woman who’s taken the post as my assistant.”
“Oh yes,” Lottie said, not giving Margaret a moment to respond. “How is your research on all the otherworld nonsense going?”
“All still nonsense,” I replied with meaning, “but interesting nonetheless.”
Margaret allowed the conversation to move around her, clearly finding the situation droll. I considered letting Ms. Dillard handle her, then rejected the idea, as bloodshed was fairly extreme.
The conversation continued, Millicent taking the lead with a small amount of reluctance that turned to impressive self-assurance. It surprised me when she actively shunned Margaret in conversation, and I wondered what about the woman she found charmless enough to risk being rude when she’d loved her so dearly before.
Despite Margaret’s presence, dinner was a delightful event and Millie thrived, her smiles coming easy, her brazen flippancy toward me encouraging Lottie to turn her head several times to hide a smile against her hand. It was rare for someone to get the best of me, and Millie had me in a corner.
As dinner wound down, Florence suggested a game, and the party moved to the parlor, which had seen many a late-night charade. Millie stopped in the doorway before entering, sweeping her eyes around the room.
We all grew quiet, waiting for something to happen, waiting for her to recall she’d been in this place before, with these people, played games, sang songs, and danced so many times.
Instead, she excused herself to return to the dining room for a glass of water.
Those of us who remained exchanged glances.
“She’s not aware of who any of us are,” Florence said.
“We knew there was a chance of that,” the doctor reasoned.
“Well, the night’s not done yet,” Lottie chimed in, looking less chipper than she sounded. Burt put an arm around her, comforting.
“Slow and steady,” he said, nodding.
“Let’s get the game going in case she decides to come back,” Hannigan recommended, beginning to move the chairs around to better suit the setup. Everyone was moving to help when I noticed someone else was missing.
“Hell…” I muttered, hurrying out into the hall and toward the dining room.
As I approached, Margaret’s voice, sweet and insincere, and Millie’s, sharp and distant, met me. I slowed.
“Listen, dove. Just keep your wits. Callum has a way with women like you.”
She was still on with her old song and dance. I was about to intervene when Millie delivered her reply, white hot.
“Like me?” she bit out.
“Sure. The kind that takes strange secretarial assignments for recluses in practically empty mansions. In a word, mad.”
