Page 1 of The Dravenhearst Brides
1
Louisville, 1933
You are cordially invited to a formal
soiree at the Anderson residence.
Thirteenth of June, half past nine
402 Belgravia Court
Thenoosewastighteningaround Margaret Greenbrier’s neck. It had been for quite some time—slowly, infinitesimally, but surely. As unstoppable as the current of the Ohio River outside her window. As steady as the hum of the cicadas on this sticky midsummer Kentucky eve. The sun would sink in the west tonight, rise in the east on the morrow, and the noose ’round her neck would be another crick tighter come dawn.
Margaret could scarcely breathe as she fastened a strand of plump pearls at her throat, fingers trembling at the clasp. Despite a plunging open back, the champagne silk of her evening gown was cloying. The pearls rubbed her collarbone, all softness and sensual luster. Was she imagining the tightness? Was she imagining, perchance, an insidious twist of smooth gemstones turning scratchy? A serpent twining around her airway…
Noose-like.
The pearls fell from her tremulous fingers, plummeting to the ground like shells ejected from a smoking shotgun. A flush rose on the back ofher neck, beneath her pinned-up strawberry-blonde hair. This was how it always started, that damning, rushing flood of hot blood at her neck.
Tunneling vision came next.
Margaret’s breath turned ragged, as distant to her ears as the rumble of thunder heralding a summer storm. The fallen pearls forgotten, she groped blindly for the safety of her bed, sinking onto the mattress, eyes tightly closed.
Vasovagal,the doctors called her, but that was only recently. Several years ago, when the episodes first started, she was labeledanemic. Low iron. Dietary adjustments were suggested—fish, spinach, the like—but when the fainting spells began to coincide with eruptions of tears and harsh guttural breaths that impeded speech and reason, the doctors branded her something else.
“Weak constitution, prone to fits of hysteria,” they said, hushed, as though speaking filthy words. Had she not been the daughter—correction, heiress—of Kentucky cattle-ranching tycoon Samuel Greenbrier, a sanatorium, possibly even aninstitution,might have been delicately suggested. As it stood, she was prescribed laudanum, a drug her housebound and pinpoint-pupilled mother had known all too well.
Respite at their Bluegrass country manor, Greenbrier Estates, was also suggested. Fresh air, the physician was most certain, would do her good. But Margaret’s feet remained firmly planted at her family’s Louisville townhouse. Greenbrier Estates was far from bucolic; it was the root of her problems. This ascetic doctor with his crisp, patronizing speech and leather satchel full of scientific diagnoses…this man knew nothing of ghosts.
Margaret opened her eyes, her gaze tracing the sweeping folds of heavy maroon drapery flanking the bay window. For months on end, she’d sat on the cushioned seat of that window, watching through thick glass panes as life in Louisville unfolded without her. It was almost a comfort, learningthe world didn’t need her to keep turning. It made her feel small in a most reassuring way. Invisible. Half a ghost herself.
The flush behind Margaret’s neck receded. She retrieved the pearls from the floor, then placed two fingers at her throat to check her pulse.
You’re not hysterical,she reminded herself as gooseflesh broke out, hot sweat turning cold.
No. Margaret Greenbrier wasnotcrazy. Being vasovagal was a legitimate medical condition, albeit one exacerbated by “distressing circumstances.” Those were the careful words the most recent physician had used. Evidently, Margaret would rather flee her body—flee the conscious world altogether—than face trauma head-on. She’d been through enough.
“You arenotcrazy.” She whispered the words, a talisman against the fear, and draped the necklace once more.
The pearls should have settled smoothly, but they rubbed like braided rope on the pale white, near-translucent skin of her throat. She didn’t look in the mirror, terrified of what she might see. The sensation was real enough; she couldn’t risk actually seeing a noose around her neck.
It would be awfully hard to prove her sanity if she startedseeingthings. Her mother saw things near the end, things most certainly not there. Elijah, for one.
But Margaret was not so far gone as that. No, ma’am.
She could—would—wear the pearls tonight. Everything was fine.
A knock on the door granted her deliverance. Margaret rose to her feet as her father entered. The warmth of his presence could chase away any ghost, for not even the occult would dare cross Samuel Greenbrier. A native Kentuckian through and through, Pa struck an indomitable figure in matters of both business and home.
“Margaret.” His indulgent smile was broken by a hacking cough. He turned away, pressing a handkerchief to his lips, his chest heaving. When the fit subsided, he discreetly folded and secreted away the evidence.
But Margaret didn’t need to see the blood to know it was there.
Samuel Greenbrier smiled again before extending his tuxedoed arm. “My beautiful gal, are you ready? Shall we?”
“We shall.” She placed her hand in her father’s.
Another night on the town. Another ballroom. Another promenade on Pa’s arm, masquerading as the most prized of his cattle, healthy and whole.
