“Thank you. We’re going to stay here with my father and Nonie. Michael’s been through enough these past few months. And now Press is gone. I can’t take him away. He doesn’t really know anywhere else.”
She slid the glass of sherry in front of me.
“I think you should have several of these.”
I shook my head.
“You didn’t eat any breakfast either, did you? At least it’s something.”
Marlene had come from the dining room into the other end of the kitchen with a tray full of dishes. I lowered my voice so she wouldn’t hear me, but it didn’t really matter. I wouldn’t be able to hide it much longer, anyway. “Just the smell of wine turns my stomach. I think I’m pregnant.”
J.C. covered her mouth. “Oh, God, Charlotte. How is that possible? Not. . . .”
“No. At least two months. That’s when I started getting sick with both Eva and Michael. I wasn’t paying any attention to the dates. I guess I assumed the stress had affected my—you know. My cycle.”
“What will you do?”
“Michael will be happy. He’s missed Eva so much. Maybe it will be a boy. He’d like that.”
When she leaned forward, I saw a glimmer of the old, cynical J.C. in her eyes. “Will you name him after Press?”
I laughed. It seemed like such a peculiar question to ask so early. But people would want to know.
“Randolph.”
“You can’t! That’s . . . I don’t know. It sounds insane, Charlotte. Why would you do that?”
“I’m staying here, aren’t I? It’s only fair that if I’m to stay and try to heal this house, heal my family—or what’s left of it—then another Randolph might help make it right.”
“I don’t think you should do this to yourself.”
“I’m not doing anything to myself. I’m going to live my life and raise my children here, where they belong. It would take a hell of a lot to drive me away now.” And I meant it.
Michael and I watched from the front door as the driver helped J.C. into the long black Lincoln that would take her back to The Grange. She turned to wave from the back window as they headed down the drive. Michael blew her a kiss. The only time I ever saw her again was at The Grange when we both chanced to be there at the same time. She had said she would visit us, but I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to come back to Bliss House.
The day after she left, Nonie and I went down the hidden staircase to the rooms below. I was trembling. Nonie was silent.
The rooms told a vile story. There were magazines and books and photographs and drawings—filthy things. Much of it was even older than Press. But he’d clearly spent a lot of time there. There was evidence of women besides J.C., too. Or at least one. I suspected it was Rachel.
The rooms could be reached from the outside by a tunnel that began behind a door hidden in a wall of the springhouse. I sealed it up myself, not wanting to trust the job to anyone else. Then I closed the panel beside the fireplace and locked the ballroom doors.
No one is allowed in the ballroom at all. The boys, teenagers now, know this. We have rules. Rules to keep them safe.
You will wonder about Rachel, of course.
Old Gate is a small town, so we get in each other’s way sometimes. But we’ve developed the skill of not actually seeing each other even when we’re in the same store or restaurant. I’m not sure what she tells people if they ask about our friendship. I just pretend I haven’t heard and change the subject.
That following spring, I saw Holly at a garden party. She was showing another woman a picture of Seraphina, and exclaiming what a wonderful mother Rachel was becoming.
Something rose inside me, a desperate desire to tell her to remind Rachel to keep her little girl away from the geese that settled so prettily beside her pond. I wanted to imagine the sick fear in Rachel’s eyes. Does she love Seraphina now? Is Seraphina precious to her, now that she will never have another child for Press? Somehow I doubt it. Rachel is Rachel.
We hold each other at bay: a murder for a murder. It would always be so.
But does she ever wonder about Press? Where he is?
I have no need to wonder. I know he is here. With me. With us.
Epilogue
The May sun beats upon the roof and windows and solid outer walls, and I can feel it all. But the sun and the heat can’t harm me. It may weather the brick and fade the gray tiles, but that is nothing. I am here inside the house. I am one with this house.
I feel the car approaching, the flattening of the shells and stones in the drive. My sense of them is faint at first; but as the car comes closer, I can smell the heated exhaust, the odor of disinfectant, of a wet diaper, of Charlotte’s hairspray and her favorite hand lotion. I can smell my child, new and alive. They are driving carefully with their precious cargo, as I would have them. Charlotte comes to me scented and lovely and cruel, as I always knew she might be. Did she imagine that I thought her helpless? I feel her strength as she approaches, the strength that threatened me, that took my life. But I am not interested in you now, my faithless wife.
I watch as that filthy saint, Roman Carter, limps to open the car door for her, and my anger swells. Can he feel it? See how complacent he is, smiling at my wife and new son. His sanctimony smells of dried ink and stale coffee. Jack, my dearest Jack should have killed him with that car. My hatred makes me want to tear loose an arrow of ironwork from an upper floor and shoot it into his heart. Let him collapse on my step, his eyes open to the thing that killed him, understanding. Finally understanding. But I will do nothing now. He will wait, as I have waited.
Now she puts that lovely leg out of the car. Still, I would touch that leg, wrap it in mine, and press naked against that yielding ivory skin. I might whisper in her ear, telling her what I was about to do so I could see the terror in her once-adoring eyes, then tear at the curve of her proud neck with my teeth, rending her flesh, exposing her lying throat to the flies.
But I am patient. I have no need of that sort of violence. Once I needed a stage, but now my breaths, my words are the creaking of a door and a draft in the great hall where I once loved to play. My sighs are the glinting of the stars covering the dome. My audience is every thing, every person who lives and has died here. And there are the others. The ones who have never lived but are welcome in this place.
Look how carefully she cradles my newborn son, tucking the corners of the blanket around him despite the heat rising in waves from the hood of the ticking car and the patio stones. So precious to her. Precious to me.
I can sense my father smiling at his name.
There’s so much I need to show my son. So much I need to teach him, as I was taught. My need to touch him swells, pushing against the inner walls of the house, causing even the paintings to shudder with my frustration. For an eternity I have kept my peace, waiting for him. Even now, there is no one inside to hear. Everyone is outside, anxious to greet him.
Charlotte, look what you have stolen from me! I would be there beside you, but you were selfish. Like my mother, who plagues me still. Yes, she is here with me. With Eva.
Hold my son just so, Charlotte. Will you give me that? I want to see his eyes, and he’s hiding them from the brutal sun. He will have my eyes. He will have my strength because I will give it to him. You will not stop me.
Finally, finally! The odious Roman opens the front door. Can you hear me, my son? Can you hear me welcoming you? Can you hear the chorus of voices welcoming you home? Now that you are inside me, I will sigh, cooling you with my breath.
Welcome, my son. Welcome, Randolph.
Acknowledgments
Charlotte’s Story comes into the world borne by so many lovely people who deserve far more than my grateful thanks.
Susan Raihofer, my most wonderful agent from the David Black Literary Agency. We’ve grown into this business together, and I couldn’t have a better partner in literary crime. Sometimes we even talk about work when she calls.
Maggie Da
niel Caldwell, the friend of my heart, who tells me tales of the beach and life and love, and always makes me laugh.
J.T. Ellison, who keeps me sane and wondering how she has time to do all the amazing things she does while also being the perfect friend, therapist, and publishing mentor.
Carolyn Haines, who has the best stories, a generous heart, and a contagious enthusiasm that overwhelms even my darkest moods.
The brilliant group at Pegasus, especially my thoughtful editor, Jessica Case, who made my dream of a haunted house full of stories come true, and always makes the stories better. Also, publisher Claiborne Hancock and marketing maven/editor Iris Blasi.
Henry Sene Yee has produced yet another cover that haunts me in just the same way that Bliss House does. Maria Fernandez created the elegant interior design.
Living the life of a country mom and writer, I don’t get out much. My days are always enriched by the delightful women who give me so much online and handwritten encouragement, including Elizabeth “Lyzz” Pickle, Sue Spina, Leta Sontag, Judy Daniel, Lauren Winters O’Brien, Brandee Crisp, and my dearest Jen Talty.
All hail the Nashville literary crew: editor Blake Leyers, and writers Paige Crutcher, and Ariel Lawhon, who crack me up every time.
Jennifer Jordan, editor, writer, and encourager, who keeps me cheered with all manner of critter cuteness and reminded me that Emily D. always has just the right words.
Writer Ashley Malick, who cleverly named the town of Clareston.
My parents, Judy and Jerry Philpot, who cheer me on and inspire me every day.
Ann and Cleve Benedict, whose Virginia/Other Virginia love story always makes me smile.
My sisters, Teresa McGrath and Monica Wilmsen, who—after years of my tormenting them with big-sister advice—still tolerate me and take my calls. Thank God for them both.
Cleveland Benedict II fills my day with joy and jokes. Plus, he still gives me hugs, though he wouldn’t want me to tell you that.
Nora Benedict is the music in my life. Play on, sweet girl.
There would be no books without my dearest Pinckney. No sunshine, either. He has all my love.
Coming from Pegasus Books in 2016
The
Abandoned
Heart
A BLISS HOUSE NOVEL
LAURA BENEDICT
PEGASUS CRIME
NEW YORK LONDON
Three women.
One troubled man, and a cursed house.
Generations of lives at stake.
It’s 1899, the cusp of a new century, and Bliss House, the proud creation of Randolph Hasbrouck Bliss, has stood for twenty years, casting its unsettling shadow over Old Gate, Virginia. Already the house has a reputation for trouble, but there are those who can’t keep away, drawn by rumors of strange goings on beyond the public entertainments—traveling troupes, preachers, spiritualists, and musicians—that take place in the house’s third floor theater.
Now Randolph has a new wife, Lucy, a rebellious daughter of Old Gate society who defied her family by marrying him in secret. She’s made a blithe promise to him that she will give him the legitimate son he has always wished for, without understanding what it will cost her. Randolph is a man of peculiar—even hellish—appetites that leave their mark on everything and everyone around him. This is especially true for Lucy and the other women he has pulled into his orbit, promising them stability, wealth, and freedom.
Lucy soon comes to realize that she is simply his latest conquest. Quiet, plain Amelia, Randolph’s first wife, and the very young Kiku, who was virtually unknown in Old Gate—both came to Bliss House long before her, and left their own marks.
For Bliss House never forgets what happens within its walls, and nothing that dies there can ever leave.
ALSO BY LAURA BENEDICT
NOVELS
Bliss House
Devil’s Oven
Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts
Isabella Moon
ANTHOLOGIES
Surreal South ’11
Surreal South ’09
Surreal South: An Anthology of Short Fiction
CHARLOTTE’S STORY
Pegasus Books LLC
80 Broad Street, 5th Floor
New York, NY 10004
Copyright © 2015 by Laura Benedict
First Pegasus Books cloth edition October 2015
Interior design by Maria Fernandez
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without
written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts
in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may
any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without
written permission from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-60598-878-8
ISBN: 978-1-60598-879-5 (e-book)
Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
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