“I know,” Margot said carefully. “I was there. You remember.”
Edith blinked, and her eyes seemed to sharpen behind their blue sheen of tears. “You were there,” she said, a little louder.
“Yes, I—”
“He tried to save your office,” Edith said. An edge came into her voice. “Your clinic was on fire, and Preston tried to stop it!”
Margot put out her hand. “Mother, no. That wasn’t—”
“I told you not to do that, Margot!” Edith’s voice rose, and she shrank from Margot’s hand. “Put Grandmother’s money into that awful place! You just wouldn’t listen. You never listen! And now—now Preston is dead!”
Margot, hand still outstretched, wet hair dripping on her neck, gaped at her mother. “You can’t possibly—” she began, but her protest died unspoken. Her mother could, and no doubt did.
Blake should have spoken to Edith. She was the one he should have tried to warn. He would never have thought of it, of course. He naturally turned to Dickson, to the head of the household, the pater familias. That was only proper, and Blake had always been proper.
But it was Edith who had been the expert at creating excuses. Preston was sensitive, she had said. Highly strung. He hadn’t meant to spill a cup of steaming cocoa on Margot’s leg—something had startled him. He hadn’t intended to stab Margot with the scissors—he was trying to help her with her scrapbook. He would never have pushed her downstairs—or off the swing, or into the water—she was confused, or jealous, or selfish. Preston had been Edith’s beautiful, charming, affectionate boy. Her baby.
Margot gazed helplessly at her mother, standing there with the sapphire glowing in her hand. What could she say now that would make any difference? Preston was gone. Dead. If her mother took comfort in placing the blame on her, perhaps she shouldn’t care.
She said, bleakly, “Take the thing, Mother, if you want it.”
Edith stared at her as if trying to remember who she was. She opened her hand, letting the sapphire tumble to the floor. “I don’t like it,” she whispered, in a voice as thin as thread. Her eyelids fluttered, and she began to crumple. As her knees buckled and her head fell back, Margot took one long step, and caught her in her arms.
Her mother seemed to weigh nothing, as if grief had drained her substance. Margot lifted her without effort. Edith’s arms were nerveless, her lips slack. “Loena!” Margot called. She backed to the door, and turned toward her mother’s bedroom with the unconscious woman in her arms. “Loena! Tell Hattie to find the smelling salts. Mother’s fainted.”
“Don’t move out again, Margot. Not now.” Dickson’s mouth drooped, and though he puffed curls of gray smoke from his post-dinner cigar, the action lacked its usual relish. His eyelids were heavy, and his movements—one hand on his chest, the other flicking cigar ash in the vicinity of the cut-glass tray—were sluggish.
“She holds me responsible, Father. I see it in her face every time I pass her in the hall.”
“She’ll come to her senses. She’ll get back to normal.”
Margot turned the snifter in her hand, watching light glimmer in the amber depths of brandy. “Actually, Father,” she said, “I wonder if you blame me, too.”
“No. Of course not.” His voice was flat, heavy with grief, and with something else she couldn’t place.
“Have you changed your mind, then? About Preston?” Even now, speaking her brother’s name recalled that chilling shriek, spiraling out of the horror of the fire. Sometimes she heard it in her sleep. It startled her awake, and she would lie tense beneath her blankets, wondering if she could ever banish the memory.
Dickson sat still for a long moment, staring at the floor between his shoes, the cigar seemingly forgotten in his hand. Then, with a great sigh, he pushed the cigar into the ashtray and got to his feet. “I have to show you something, Margot.” She started to get up, but he waved her back. “Wait just a moment.”
He moved behind his chair, and she noted with concern how his heavy shoulders stooped, how his feet dragged. Her father had worked hard to keep up appearances, for her mother’s sake, no doubt. But he had aged a decade since Preston’s death. He had always seemed unchanging, eternal, like granite beneath a mountain. It unnerved her to think that her father could fail.
He bent to pick up something hidden behind his leather armchair. When he straightened, and she saw what he had in his hand, she forgot everything. She caught a breath, and pressed her hand to her mouth.
It had been propped against the wall of Blake’s apartment, half hidden by coats, for as long as she could remember. She and her brothers had asked Blake what it was for, but it was one thing he wouldn’t discuss. He never touched it, either, but left it in place, year after year.
“Father, where did you find it?”
Dickson lifted it in his hands like an offering. There were stains on it that hadn’t been there before, rust-colored stains.
“I wanted to—I should say, I needed to see where the accident happened.” He ran his hand over the cane, as if the old wood and the new stains could tell him something.
“Was Blake’s cane there?”
Dickson shook his head. “The car hit a tree at the bottom of a hill. Not much of a hill, really. Just a little slope overlooking the golf course.” He propped the cane against the arm of his chair, and stood looking down at it. “I left the taxicab and walked up to the top. I thought if I could see where the car went over, maybe I would know why. Maybe I could understand. . . .”
“You found the cane at the top?”
“Yes. Lying in some gravel.” He looked up at her, a level glance. “I’m afraid you were right. Something happened between Preston and Blake.” He pointed to the rusty stains. “I wish I knew what it was.”
“When did you find it?” Margot asked. She realized the snifter was still in her hand, tilting dangerously, and she set it down.
“It was the afternoon before the fire. I think I knew what it meant, but I—” He looked away from her face, staring blindly at the darkness beyond the window. “I argued with myself. I wasted time looking for another explanation. If I had just accepted what was obvious, perhaps it wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t have—”
“No.” Margot rose, and crossed to her father. She put her arm around his shoulders, as if she were the parent, and he were the child. “No, it wasn’t obvious. And there could be another explanation.” He shook his head, but she said, “In any case, it doesn’t matter now. It’s all done, and we can’t change it.”
She felt the uneven breath he drew, and heard the shame in his voice. “It’s your mother,” he said. “Perhaps if I tell her—if I explain. She would know then that you’re not to blame.”
“I think it would only hurt her further.” Margot released her father, and went back to pick up her glass. She had not expected to finish it, but now she swallowed what was left in one draught. “All she has left of Preston are her illusions. That’s some comfort to her. In truth, I don’t think she and I will ever have a close relationship, no matter what you tell her or don’t tell her.”
The armchair creaked as Dickson sat down again. He picked up the cigar and turned it in his fingers. It had gone out. “You know, Margot, when you were small—you were so smart, even then. You argued with me all the time, about anything you could think of. Whether horses were better than cars. Whether gaslight was better than electric lights. Even—” He chuckled. “Even whether corsets should be against the law.”
Margot had to laugh. “Corsets? I don’t remember that.”
“Oh, yes. You decided it was bad for women to have their spines held up by whalebone, and their stomachs squeezed in so they couldn’t breathe.”
“I was right, as it turns out.”
“I know.” He reached for a match, but he didn’t strike it. “What I’m getting at, daughter, is that your mother felt left out by all of that. She’s not that sort of woman.”
“I wasn’t the sort of daughter she hoped for.”
“And Preston, you know, was different. He was a little blond angel who looked just like her. He wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t like you and Dick. He liked clothes, and he liked trailing around after Edith when she went shopping. He liked to sit on her lap. You never did that.”
Margot watched in silence as her father struck the match to relight his cigar. He blew a gout of gray smoke, and squinted through it. “Having children is never what you think it will be,” he said.
“I suppose not.”
“And losing one—even one so troubled—is the worst thing a parent can experience.”
“I know. I’m so sorry, Father. I would never have wished it for you.”
He gestured with the cigar, and harrumphed, but she saw his eyes redden. She wanted to go to him, to embrace him, but she knew if his tears spilled over, he would hate it, so she stayed where she was.
“I just want to say, Margot,” he began, then stopped to clear his throat. “I just want to say that you are—you are more than—more than I ever expected in a child. In a daughter. I’m so damn—” His voice caught, and he looked away. “Proud,” he finished, in an undertone, then loudly cleared his throat again. “I’m proud of you.”
Helplessly, as loath to lose control as her father was, Margot murmured, “Thank you.”
“And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, about Preston.”
Margot made herself say, “It’s all right. It’s forgotten now,” a lie told out of affection.
With obvious effort, he smiled at her, and waved her back to her chair. “Come now, tell me what Peretti said when you met with him. And Whitely.”
Margot settled back into her chair and linked her hands in her lap. “Dr. Peretti didn’t exactly apologize,” she said. “But he did mention observing Frank’s surgery. He said the board had reconsidered, and now feels that the evidence against me was flimsy. His word, flimsy.” She gave a wry smile. “Is that synonymous with nonexistent?”
This won a wheezy laugh from her father.
“In short, I have my privileges restored. And some surgical privileges, under supervision.”
“Good for you, Margot.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you seen Whitely?”
“No.” She lifted one shoulder. “He’s never going to forgive me. I embarrassed him.”
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe not.”
“I don’t think so. Peretti’s the one who counts at that silly place.” Dickson ground his cigar into the ashtray, and got to his feet again. “I’d better go up to your mother, I think. See if she wants anything.”
Margot rose, too, and walked with him to the door. He held it for her to pass through, and as she walked by him, he said, “I want to help you rebuild your clinic, Margot. The people down there need a doctor.”
She paused, the automatic refusal poised on her lips, but she didn’t speak it. She saw that her father was sincere in his wish to help. And, she thought, he needed to help. He needed to help her, and she needed his assistance. She could put aside her pride this once.
She leaned forward to kiss his whiskered cheek. “Thank you, Father,” she said. “I appreciate it. And you’ve helped me make up my mind.”
CHAPTER 21
“Hattie, don’t climb the stairs,” Margot protested. “Just set everything there at the foot. I’ll get it.”
“No, ma’am, Miss Margot,” Hattie said stoutly. “You got nobody else to help you, and I’m right here to do it.” She shifted the linens and towels to her other arm, and grasped the banister as she huffed up the narrow staircase into Blake’s apartment.
Margot followed, her own arms full of clothes from her wardrobe. The air was stuffy and stale in the apartment. Margot saw that the marble-topped cane had been replaced beneath the peg rack, stains and all. Her father must have been here. It seemed right that the cane was back in its proper place, though it would never look the same.
She went into the bedroom and threw the clothes on the bed, then hurried to open the window. She went back into the kitchen to find Hattie straining to open the little window over the sink. Perspiration dripped from her neck and cheeks.
Gently, Margot moved her aside. “I’ll get this,” she said. “You can put those towels in the bathroom.”
“I don’t like this much,” Hattie said. She picked up the towels and stepped into the little bathroom just off the kitchen. “It don’t seem right, you living in this little place, and nobody to look after you.”
“You’ll be looking after me, Hattie,” Margot said. “I’ll still be having all my meals in the house—most of them, anyway. And Leona and Loena will do my laundry and dust once in a while.” She unlatched the window, and pushed it open. Air began to stir through the apartment, and she turned and surveyed with satisfaction the three little rooms that were now hers. “I should have thought of this before.”
Hattie came out of the bathroom, and picked up a set of sheets. “What if Mr. Dickson finds a new butler?”
“I believe he’s decided against that. We’re all hoping for Blake’s return one day.”
“How is Blake, Miss Margot? I mean, truly?”
Margot turned to look into Hattie’s sweet, plump face. “I’ll take you to see him, Hattie. Would you like that?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I would!”
“You’ll find he doesn’t speak very well. Not yet, in any case. But there are some good signs, and I think a visit from you would lift his spirits.”
“Thank you, Miss Margot. Oh, thank you!”
Margot preceded Hattie into the bedroom to move her clothes out of the way. Hattie snapped out a sheet, and Margot went to the other side of the bed to help. “Father’s going to learn to drive the car himself, he says.” Margot began arranging her clothes on the peg rack behind the bedroom door. She had never noticed before that Blake had no wardrobe. The whole apartment, in fact, was only sparsely furnished. But then, Blake’s personal possessions were sparse.
Hattie shook her head as she smoothed the linen over the ticking. “I just wish they’d get rid of that motorcar,” she said. “Mrs. Edith won’t never ride in it again.”
“No. I don’t suppose she will.” Thinking of her mother made Margot pause, a lawn shirtwaist in her hands. “Hattie—does she talk to you?”
Hattie straightened with a little grunt, and reached for a pillowcase. She didn’t meet Margot’s gaze. “A little, Miss Margot. Just a little.”
“About Preston?”
“No. She don’t talk about him at all.”
“I know she blames me.”
“Now, you just stop that.” Hattie plumped the pillow and settled it at the head of the bed. “She gonna come to her senses one of these days. It was an accident, that’s all. Can’t go back and undo it.” Hattie bent for another pillowcase, and as she straightened, Margot saw that her eyes had reddened, and they glistened with tears. “He was such a sweet little boy,” Hattie said, half under her breath. “Such a pretty smile, he had.”
Margot turned back to the kitchen without responding. Surely it was better to let them remember Preston the way they wanted to. What good would it do now to dredge up old hurts? She went to the sink to run a glass of water, and as she drank it, she gazed out across the yard just as Blake always did, one last look to be certain everything was in order before he went to bed.
She paused, and lowered her glass. Her mother was at the window of her upstairs bedroom, lifting the lace curtain to peer at the garage. She looked like a ghost of herself, pale, thin, ephemeral. Why was she looking out here? She avoided Margot whenever she could, closing doors or stepping into other rooms when Margot was near. It had seemed the best thing to simply remove herself from her mother’s presence. Edith had not roused herself to make any comment or any objection.
“There,” said Hattie behind her. “Your bed’s all ready. What else do you need?”
Margot set her glass in the sink, and turned. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
; “You come over for lunch now, you hear?”
“Just a sandwich, thanks, Hattie. I’m due at the hospital this afternoon.”
“Best come soon, then.”
“I will.”
There wasn’t much left to do. Margot put her lingerie in the little chest of drawers. Hattie had sent one of the twins to clear out Blake’s things and store them in the attic. She had hung towels and washcloths in the tiny bathroom. Margot put her hairbrush and other toiletries in the cabinet over the sink, and checked to see that there was soap in the little wire basket hanging from the edge of the claw-foot tub. Margot touched the soap, wondering if Blake had used it, but it was a new cake of Ivory, the letters still prominent on its surface. Hattie must have set it there.
In fact, there seemed to be nothing of Blake left in the apartment except the cane. There had been books, but they had disappeared. She hoped the twins had decided to take them to their own room, but she wouldn’t ask. She intended not to frighten Loena and Leona anymore, and quizzing them about some old books might do just that.
She took one last look around before she started down the stairs and walked across the yard. She let herself in through the screened porch, and came in the back door to the kitchen. Hattie had left her a sandwich on a plate, wrapped in a cloth napkin. Margot pulled out a chair, and was ready to sit down, but Edith startled her, stepping inside the door, leaning against the wall.
“Mother?” Margot said.
Her mother was so pale and colorless that she looked oddly transparent, like a creature made of glass. She wore no powder, no lipstick. Margot wondered if she had had her hair done since Preston’s death. It looked ragged, even dirty. Her eyes had an unfocused look, and Margot thought she had better speak to someone about the laudanum.
“Mother?” she said again. “Do you need something?”
Edith crossed to the table, and sat down next to Margot. It was the closest they had been to each other in weeks. Margot was shocked to find that her mother smelled bad, as if she wasn’t bathing regularly, or cleaning her teeth. “I keep hearing him,” Edith said in a hoarse whisper. “You have to take it away so I won’t hear him.”
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