Page 18 of The Dravenhearst Brides
She’d known what she would tell him from the first second he asked. It had felt wrong for so many years. No one had used the name since Eli.
A new beginning,her mother said.
A fresh start,Margaret hoped.
But could one ever truly start fresh? The past was always there, bleeding into the present. Tainting all it touched. Perhaps the best she could hope for was to come full circle. To work on becoming whole again.
And so, being either very brave or very stupid, she invited her own ghost into the house.
“You can call me Margot.”
As they descended the stairs together for dinner, Margot Dravenhearst took inventory of her new home.
The two-story entry hall was cavernous, the grand staircase curving in sections around two walls of the room. The banister was carved from wood so dark it could only be ebony. The balusters were equally somber and elaborate, twisting in a serpentine design that proved disorientingly undulous when viewed in succession. Margot trod with near-silent steps over the worn wood as they slowly, so slowly, circled the room in descent.
The central chandelier must have once been grand, but its gold limbs and finials slept beneath heavy tarnish now. A layer of film coated its crystals, light unable to penetrate the thick shroud of dirt and cobwebs clinging to each pendeloque. Multicolor dust motes circled through the air, reflecting the fading rays of daylight from the large stained-glass window above the front door. Margot stared at it as they approached. Weaving, curling sprigs of purple flowers with soft yellow centers…
“Are those violets?” she asked.
“They are,” Dravenhearst confirmed. “My mother had the window installation changed when she came here as a bride. My grandmother Eleanor had marigolds there. That color seemed fitting—quite close to the bourbon the distillery makes—but my mother…er, I’m told she didn’t like it much.”
“The flowers or the bourbon?”
“Well, I suppose…neither. If I’m being honest.”
“Oh.”Interesting.
He gestured to the window. “If you don’t care for violets, we could commission a new installation. This is now your home as much as mine.”
“No.” Margot shook her head. “I’m sure you’re quite attached—”
“I’mnot.”
She was surprised by the vigor in his tone, the bite. “Okay. I…I’ll think about it.”
The hallway leading to the dining room was dark, illuminated by flickers of candlelight in ornamental gold wall sconces. Curiously, only every other pair was lit.
Inside the dining room, heavy drapes partially concealed the windows. The table was set for two—she could see that much in the flickering candlelight of yet another pair of long tapers.
“The house is wired for electricity, is it not?” She looked at the mahogany paneled wall and spotted a light switch. “Ah.”
“Of course it is.”
She walked several paces and reached for the switch.
“Er, is that necessary?” Dravenhearst moved to stop her.
“Necessary?” she repeated, confused. “Well, I do quite like to see what I’m ingesting for dinner.”
“It’s only…”
“Only what?” Her finger hovered beside the switch, itching to flip it.
“Electricity costs money.”
Margot wasn’t sure what she’d expected but most certainly not this. “Electricity…costs money?”
He shifted from foot to foot, then walked to the bar. It hosted an impressive lineup of decanters and carafes. He poured out a large glass of amber liquid. Bourbon, no doubt.
