Page 29 of The Dravenhearst Brides
She cared only that her husband loved another. Was choosing another at this very moment. Committing adultery a mere day after exchangingvows.
She should never have married this devil of a man. What a curse it was, to be a Dravenhearst bride.
10
July 7, 1933
Dearest Pa,
I hope this letter finds you well. I miss many things about Louisville, but you most of all. It is strange to be back on a country estate. The house is rather lovely, though I’m still getting lost amidst its many rooms. Merrick has been attentive. I’ve not seen the distillery yet, perhaps next week.
All is well, more soon!
Forever yours,
Margaret
Overthecourseofthe next few weeks, Margot fell into a routine. Her mornings began with a search for her roving wedding gown. One daybreak, she might open her eyes to find it strung up on the curtain rod over the French doors. The next, it would be draped over her cushioned vanity seat. Then there was the memorable morning Margot awoke with the dress clutched tightly in her hands, warm from the heat of her body, pulled to her chest while she slept.
She spoke of this mysterious morning game to no one, assuming she herself must be moving the gown during the night. Never mind she didn’t recall doing so. She was preoccupied with the lackluster state of her marriage, that was all, and her wedding gown was a symbol of that, one her subconscious had clearly fixated on.
Since the night Merrick had snuck out of the manor, Margot had seen very little of him. He worked from sunup to sundown at the distillery. On one of the many days spent exploring the manor, she discovered the east tower, which featured a cozy little cupola with a wide-paned bay window framing a clear view of the bourbon rickhouses. She could sit on its cushioned seat for hours and watch Merrick stride in and out, Beau close on his heels, as he rolled barrels, moved equipment, took inventory, performed repairs, and went through his ledgers.
Just like back in Louisville, Margot learned much from window-watching. The distillery may be defunct, but that hardly stopped Merrick from working. He was endlessly preoccupied, and barrels were his prime fixation. Obsession, even. She’d never given them much thought before, but Margot soon realized barrels, like everything else in this world, were crafted by the hands of man. And watching her husband’s hands shape wood…nowthatproved a mesmerizing affair.
The process began with large chunks of lumber, which Merrick sanded until smooth, then carefully cut into thin planks. He laid the planks side by side on the ground, moving them around as though slotting pieces into a puzzle. Once satisfied, he fitted the planks to the inside of a metal hoop, forming the bones of the barrel.
The interior was warmed over a small firepit while Merrick hammered more metal hoops around its length. This was Margot’s favorite part, watching sparks shoot off from the intense friction, seeing the heat-softened wood bend in the hands of her iron-willed husband. The tight lines of his muscled body as he worked, full of tension and purpose.
Something from nothing, that was what he could create. The longer Margot watched, the more she ached for a closer view. To see his broad hands sliding along the wood’s grain, feel the heat of sparks fanning her face. Hear his grunting exhalations of exertion, thechinkof his hammer meeting iron. She’d thought she might question him about the barrels over dinner, but Merrick stopped showing up for meals altogether. If Margot didn’t know better, she’d think her husband was avoiding her. And in his absence, the house became her constant companion.
Margot spent her days wandering from room to room, exploring labyrinthine passages and learning where the very best window perches were hidden. Aside from the cupola, there was a second-floor sitting room with a stunning view over the magnolia-lined drive.
And Margot fell in love with the solarium, with its glass ceiling and long wall of windows overlooking the back gardens. The furniture was made of wicker—perfect for soaking in sunbeams—save for an old oak escritoire tucked in the corner. Within its drawers, Margot found several groups of bound letters, with different but equally sweeping feminine penmanship lining the pages. Margot traced her fingers over the swirling ink and resolved to write her next note to her father from this very desk.
She stumbled upon the most opulent room in the house quite by accident. She’d been on her way to the solarium when she made a wrong turn from the main hall. She walked through a double-wide archway and lost her breath as the floor turned to marble.
The ballroom was immense, its ceiling pitched high and lined with elaborate crown molding and pilasters. Two crystal candelabra chandeliers, one at each end, were suspended overhead. The walls featured decorative raised panels trimmed with gold. Clusters of furniture gathered in corners, blanketed in white sheets and dustcovers. Most stunning of all was a lineup of mirrors running the length of the western wall. Mirrors with round edges, sharp corners, scalloped trim. All different shapes and sizes—rectangle, gilded rococo, convex, heavy baroque. Frames of gold and silver. As she paced down the room, a dozen reflections moved alongside her. If another transient form slipped in amongst them, that of a red-haired former mistress perhaps…well, Margot did not notice.
An honest to goodness ballroom,she marveled. Here—in her house!
She could only imagine the gatherings held when the estate was at its height of glamour and glory. Margot would dream of the parties at night—or try to, at least. Anything to block out the anticipation of staring at her husband’s adjoined door, listening to the grandfather clock ticking down the minutes until unconsciousness claimed her. Alone.
Slumber always descended, in the end. Thick and deep. Inexplicably, there came a time every night when the temperature in her room plummeted. Margot’s teeth would chatter. She would cling to the sheets, her eyes squeezed shut, counting the seconds until the unsettling freeze passed.
And it would always pass. Her muscles would unkink, thaw, grow languid with midsummer heat once more. And she would drift away.
Bang, bang, bang!
Margot’s eyes sprang open with alarm, early morning rays of sunlight streaming into her bedroom. She was startled to realize she’d awakened standing upright, not nestled in bed. Her white nightdress was cool and silky around her legs. Abnormally so. As her vision slowly cleared, horror set in.
She wasn’t wearing her cotton nightdress at all; she was wearing herwedding gown. Standing in the middle of her bedroom like a ghostly sleepwalking bride. Her hand flew to her mouth in shock.
Bang, bang!“Margot? Are you in there?”
It was Merrick, calling through the adjoining door.
Margot stifled a curse. Silence and avoidance from the blasted man for weeks, andnowwas the moment he chose to seek her out? Margot darted to the door, pressing her hands against it. She couldn’t let him see her like this. He’d think she’d lost her mind.
