Page 25 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“I’d like to pray now,” Margot said, her voice prim. She didn’t want to fight with him. Not again. Not here.
“By all means.” He gestured, quite magnanimously, to the altar. “May you bend the ear of Christ himself to make all your wishes come true. If that fails, we can try rubbing some of my grandmother Eleanor’s antique bottles and lamps, see if we can’t summon ourselves a genie.”
She couldn’t help herself. She whipped her head around and glared.“What?”
“Surely you’ve readArabian Nights?” He widened his eyes as he sat back in the pew…sprawled, more like, his legs spread impudently wide. “It’s a classic.”
“Of course I—”
“Shh.” He put a finger to his lips. “Father Simmons is ready to begin. I don’t want to miss a single Machiavellian word.”
Appalled, Margot turned to face front. “I’ll pray a decade of the rosary for your black soul,” she muttered under her breath.
“From your lips to God’s ears, love,” Merrick whispered back.
8
June 18, 1904
Jean-Philippe,
I’d like to commission a gown. I’m thinking…peacocks.
Do what you do best, darling.
Yours,
Babette Dravenhearst
Merrickreturnedfrommorningservices in a dour mood and made himself scarce, heading straight to the bourbon rickhouses. Margot was more than a little curious after his edict banning her from the distillery, but the glower on his face made her think twice about following.
Instead, she spent the afternoon quarantined on the floor of her closet, tossing the gowns, day dresses, and perhaps most flustering of all,lingerieof her predecessor into various piles on the floor and bed. Most were destined for donation, but she earmarked a select few to save. Several gowns were of such exquisitely detailed and ludicrous construction, it seemed a crime to part with them.
Margot stood with both hands on her hips and let out a tired but satisfied sigh as she surveyed her work. Seven piles earmarked for donation—truly a Herculean effort.
The door to her bedroom gave a whining creak.
“Gracious Lord in heaven above.” The aging butler, Xander, poked his tufty head into the room. His face was aghast. “What in tarnation is going on in here?”
“Ah, Xander.” Margot gave him a pleased smile. “I was just thinking of locating you for your opinion. I’ve been sorting through the closet, and—”
“The Chantilly lace mourning gown—this requires hanging to prevent creases.” He sprang into action, pulling a black dress from a pile. “And gracious, whatever is the ermine cloak doing out? It’s far too warm for this right now, m’lady.” He scooped it up with his tremoring hands. “And is that the House of Worth peacock gown?” He positively shivered in fright. “Whyever have you removed the couture from its protective casing? The feathers aren’t meant to be exposed to open air—they’ll wilt and molt!”
“Wilt and molt?” She furrowed her brow. “But surely, on the bird itself, the feathers are exposed to open air all the time, are they not?”
“Babette, what has gotten into you?”
“I’mMargot,” she corrected, looking directly at the butler. Did he truly not know who she was? Or was this merely a test, a perverse battle of wills against an outsider?
“Margot?” His brows drew inward. His confusion seemed genuine, but she was not reassured. Quite the contrary.
“Yes. Margot. Merrick’s wife.”
“Merrick…Merrick’s wife?” Slowly, awareness dawned. Xander’s bemused concern twisted into horror. “Why have you been touching Babette’s things? What right have you?”
“It’s my bedroom now,” she said, instantly defensive. “My closet. I need to hang my things,mydresses.”
Xander’s jaw quivered as he looked around the room. “This is grave robbing, this is.”
