Page 95 of The Dravenhearst Brides
The hallway was dark and chilled. Margot shivered. Richard’s specter blew straight through her, giving chase. Margot convulsed from the burst of cold. So sharp, so painful.
Babette rounded the corner, heading for the stairs. As Margot staggered down the shadowy corridor, raised voices argued on her left. A door swung open of its own accord, hinges whining. Slow. Light spilled into the darkness.
Margot froze as a fresh burst of frigid air exploded into the hall. Hesitantly, very hesitantly, she edged forward. Peered inside.
Eleanor was in the parlor. Eleanor and another dark-haired man. Twice her size with a scruffy jaw carved from marble. Long-fingered hands.
Another Dravenhearst man. Bearing down on her.
The smack of a backhand stole all the breath from Margot’s lungs. The power of it so strong, it knocked Eleanor off her feet. She flew, tumbling onto a wingback couch. For the first time, she wasn’t wearing her bridal gown and veil. Just a housedress. Simple. Pale pink. When she lifted her head, fearful eyes trained on her husband, Margot understood.
Eleanor’s face, finally exposed, was littered with bruises. At the temple. Beneath her right eye. Fingermarks on her neck. Her cheek was bright pink, and what was pink today would be purple tomorrow.
The man grunted with exertion, then lumbered forward.
Eleanor’s shriek was powerful enough to blow the door closed in Margot’s face. She stumbled away. Running from the nightmare.
Another door flew open, to the right this time. Another scream.
Eleanor again. A blue dress and an arm across her throat, pinning her to the wall. Her husband’s hand twisted in her hair, wrenching her face up to look into his eyes.
“Tell me you love me,” he said.
Margot flinched away from the familiar words.
“I love you,” Eleanor whispered, voice hoarse but earnest. Eyes shining with it, the terror and the love.
The door slammed shut.
Four more steps, another door.
Eleanor on the floor of a dark, empty nursery. Sobbing. Her fingers latched around the bars of a crib, clenching tight enough to splinter wood.
A kick to her ribs from a foot in shiny black shoes. “What good are you? What good are you if you can’t give me a son? Locked in this room all day, crying. You take everything from me.Everything!”
“I’m sorry,” Eleanor screamed. “I’m trying. I’m trying so hard. Please. We can try again. Let me try again.” She spun, hands latching at his waist. Undoing his pants. “We’ll try again.”
The door blew shut. Margot ran. She wanted to close her eyes. She was almost at the end of the hallway. Only one more door. Only one more door to pass. Only one more door in this house of horrors.
It opened with a slow, ominouscreak.
“No more,” Margot whispered. No more windows to the past.
She didn’t want to see, but she looked anyway.
A four-poster bed with bloodstained sheets. Eleanor, panting, sweaty, wild hair and even wilder eyes. Her husband at the foot of the bed. A physician crouched on his haunches, a newborn baby in his hands.
But the room was silent.
The room.
Was silent.
Margot covered her gaping mouth with a tremulous hand. The baby was blue and still. And far, far too small.
“My baby,” Eleanor gasped, forcing herself upright. “Give me my baby!”
The physician looked at the Dravenhearst man beside him and shook his head. In that moment, the man was just a man. A man not yet a father. Not yet, maybe not ever. He crumbled, grabbing the bedpost for support.
