Page 22 of The Dravenhearst Brides
Margot had spent many nights alone in bed, and she’d never once minded before. But as she stared at the door between their bedrooms—closed and still and final and mocking—she found tonight, on her wedding night, she minded much more than she cared to admit.
7
June 18, 1933
My dearest Margaret,
The house was quiet this morning. Well, truthfully, it’s been quiet for years. But this morning was a different quiet. This morning, the quiet was in the knowing. Knowing you are gone. It is as it should be, for a daughter to grow and leave her father’s arms. But though you are gone from my home, you are never gone from my heart.
Please write soon and tell me of your new life and family.
Forever yours,
Pa
Asshealwaysdidon Sunday mornings, Margot rose early. She hadn’t lived near Frankfort for many years, but she recalled Sunday Mass began at half past eight, and God help the family who straggled in late. Father Simmons could send your soul straight to hell with a single look.
She slipped into the closet to select a suitable church dress and noticed her wedding gown had fallen to the floor. It rested in a crumpled heap near the corner of the closet.
How did that happen?
She reached for the clothes hanger, then strung up the gown once more. Margot cast a wary eye around the closet. She would need to go through this space and hang up her things today, lest they all become hopelessly wrinkled in her trunks. But the racks were already filled with clothes—day dresses and exquisite evening gowns—from another era. Another woman.
Merrick’s mother,she realized, breathing in the perfumed jasmine in the air. TheotherMargaret, as she’d begun to think of her.
Margot sighed as she backed out of the closet. She dressed hurriedly in a periwinkle floral dress cut on the bias before pressing an ear to her husband’s bedroom door. Naught but silence. Perhaps he was already awake and breakfasting? Yes, that’d be it.
Margot slipped into Oxford heels and church gloves, then hurried from the room. She was single-minded in her rush—so much so, she almost missed the oil portrait hanging atop the grand stairwell.
Almost.
She skidded to a halt. The painting was as tall as Margot herself and depicted a man and woman, both formally dressed. The man’s countenance was stiff, as though he’d been forced into his tailcoat and disliked every minute of it. His hair was black and thick, the sharp cut of his jawline identical to Merrick’s.
His father.Evidently, scowling was hereditary.Which must mean…
The woman, theotherMargaret, was the real draw of the portrait. She stood beside her husband with one hand resting, casually possessive, on his chest. Her fingers dazzled with gemstone-heavy rings, sparkling even through painted oils. Her smile was close-lipped, the angle of her jaw tilted just so to set off her feathered hat, the plumes stained a deep plum to matchthe folds of her dress. Her skin was porcelain smooth, her eyes catlike and alert. Two locks of curling golden-red hair—the color identical to Margot’s own—escaped the pins beneath her Gainsborough. And her stature—oh, her stature! Gossamer perfection with delicate wrists, a shapely bustled bottom, a full bosom, yet a waist so narrow, a stiff wind might simply blow her over. Margot leaned closer, envious. What witch had this woman bribed for a figure like that?
A flash of sudden movement, and she backed away. A trick of the light, perhaps…she thought she’d seen…no.
She stared deep into the woman’s green eyes, searching for the twinkle, for the wink she’d surely imagined.
An abruptbangechoed through the house. Margot jumped, her hand clutching her chest. The echo continued, reverberating like a slammed door. Breathless, she leaned around the corner, but no one was there.
A draft, perhaps?She shivered. Merrick had mentioned that, hadn’t he? That the house was drafty?
Casting a final nervous glance over her shoulder at the portrait, Margot descended the stairs. She recalled Ruth, the equestrian trainer, mentioning a resemblance between her and the former lady of the house, but Margot didn’t flatter herself to see it. It was the hair color, nothing more. She—the other Margaret—was the picture of vitality and perfection.Shecertainly hadn’t been spurned on her wedding night. Not a chance in hell.
Babette.A voice rose, whispering the surname in Margot’s mind as she hurried down the final steps. Her gaze moved to the stained-glass violets as she crossed the foyer. The aperture was dim, morning light just beginning to peek through.
When Margot entered the dining room, the table was set with fresh fruit and oatmeal. A bowl of the latter was placed before Merrick’s empty seat, steaming as though he was expected any moment.
She heard footsteps before she saw him, heavy and steady in the hallway. She turned just as he rounded the corner.
“Oh,” he cried, colliding with her. He grasped her arms to keep from stumbling.
“Sorry.” She leapt away from his scalding touch. The specter of last night’s rejection twisted her gut. She imagined her shame laid out before her as plainly as the breakfast spread. Margot knew it wasn’t normal for a woman to sleep alone on her wedding night. Everyone knew it. And just once…oh, how she longed to be normal.
“The fault was mine,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone…youto be up this early. And so well-dressed, to boot. Do we have a morning engagement I’ve forgotten?”
