Page 62 of The Dravenhearst Brides
Ruth’s smile dimmed. “That’s how they always were. Everything about their relationship was the loudest show. When they were in love and happy, it was larger than life, in your face. When they weren’t happy…well, their fights were fierce enough to rock the foundation of the house. But they always came back together in the end.”
Margot considered this. It didn’t add up with what she’d seen. Both memories Babette had shared were focused more on the brown-eyed mystery man than Richard. Which was curious.
“She must be trying to tell you something with these dreams,” Ruth mused. “And part of me has always wondered…”
“Wondered what?”
Ruth thinned her lips. “No, I shouldn’t.”
Margot gripped her wrist. “If it’s peace she’s searching for, I want to give it to her. The sooner the better.” Because she couldn’t live in a haunted house forever, and Merrick would never leave his distillery. She was sure of it. If she wanted to be with him, she had to free this house of its ghosts.
Ruth took a deep breath. “There was always something about Babette’s death that didn’t sit right with me. I knew she had bouts of melancholia, but at her core, she was fierce. Nothing made that woman shrink. Except…sometimes…”
“Sometimes what?”
“Richard. He had a power over her I never understood. The house did too, after we moved here. Theirs was a…volatile relationship. One that ended in tragedy.”
“Are you suggesting Richard drove her to suicide?”
“Suicide? No.” Ruth chewed her bottom lip. “I’ve always wondered if there was more to the story. If perhaps Richard did something to hurt her—in the heat of the moment, of course. He wasn’t a bad man, but he did have a temper. It runs in the family, you know. In the bloodline. Bad blood will always out.”
“What do you mean?” Margot shifted in her seat.
“Eleanor showed Babette things from her own marriage, things that warranted being leery of the Dravenhearst men. Looking back through the years, I’ve wondered if something happened behind closed doors in thathouse, in that marriage. Something I missed.” She looked away, knotting her hands in her lap.
Margot’s heart filled with sympathy. “You were an incredible friend to her. I’ve seen as much with my own eyes. Whatever happened, it doesn’t rest on your shoulders.”
“It’s only…Richard was a different man after Babette’s death. Maudlin, morose. He died a few years later, when Merrick was sixteen. Just wasted away. Guilt wears on people, you know.”
Margot knew a thing or two about guilt. If Babette didn’t commit suicide, if foul play had been involved in her death, it would certainly explain why her soul was restless. And if Richardwassomehow involved…
Perhaps what Margot had mistaken as haunting and intimidation—the sleepwalking, the veiled threats with her wedding gown—was something else entirely.
A warning.
20
July 14, 1933
Dearest Pa,
I understand the rumors of which you speak, and there is history in this house, true. But I find myself growing rather attached. It has not always been a happy home, but I’m no stranger to sorrow. Perhaps there is common ground to be found here.
I think of you often. How do you fare?
Forever yours,
Margaret
“SoI’vebeenthinking…aboutlast night.” Merrick lifted his napkin and dabbed his mouth as he finished dessert.
Margot placed her spoon down. She’d barely stopped thinking about it herself. Wondering all day on endless loop,When can we do that again?
“Which part?”
He smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t know. Which part haveyoubeen thinking about?”
She blushed and looked down.
