by Liz Johnson
My entire body tingled as his hands squeezed against my back. He was like granite, and I knew I was safe inside the wall of his embrace. I forgot everything in that moment. Claude. Jane. My mama’s warnings. I had nothing to fear from George, so I kissed him back. He made a little noise of surprise, and it was followed by a groan from the back of his throat.
If I could cause him to make that noise every day for the rest of my life . . . Well, that is far beyond any discussion we have had. But I could be happy to the tips of my toes to hear that.
Just when I thought my heart would burst, he pulled back, gasping for breath and pressing his forehead to mine. And then he called me Ruthie, the sweetest name I have ever heard. He told me he was certain he had crossed a line, but he could find not an ounce of regret.
My insides had taken a ride up and down the washboard and been wrung out to dry, and I could offer only a mumbled agreement.
And then he said the words I had been waiting for all summer, words I had expected to hear from another. He said that he could not promise me the world, but he could give me a good life. And he would gladly spend every minute of it making me smile.
How could I not smile at such an offer?
But my head swirled, and I could not let go of him or I would surely stumble to the ground. These were the words I’d been waiting to hear from Claude. These were the words I’d expected after every late-night beach stroll and secret rendezvous. Yet they were coming from George.
So I fled.
I fear that I left him without an answer. How could I give him one when I clearly do not know my own feelings? George is perhaps the best man I know, and I fear that I must break his heart.
But oh, when he speaks my name, it is better than hearing angels sing.
August 15, 1929
I think I might have seen something I was not supposed to. Oh, I am certain I have seen more than I should have here at the Chateau. And I can never forget the breathless shock of finding Willa’s body, something I never want to experience again.
But this time it was dark. I had gotten lost and ended up in the wrong corridor again. It is so easy to do, and only that much more so when I have been able to think of nothing but George and his kiss.
When the rest of the party had retired to the parlor after dinner, I claimed a headache and left for my room. However, I had missed a turn and ended up in a hallway near the kitchens. I could hear the cook and maids singing, but all I could think of was the first time I had gotten lost in this house and George had so kindly walked me back to the front entrance.
I took a handful of other turns and a flight of stairs up before finally reaching a hallway that I had been to only once before. Lucille had taken Jane and me down this hall once and pointed out Mr. Dawkins’s private study. She said he did not allow anyone else inside.
But tonight I saw someone exiting the room. The shadows were so thick that I could only see an outline, but I know it was not Mr. Dawkins. It was not any man.
Perhaps I should have shouted or drawn attention. But I was frozen in place and could only think of poor Jenny, who lost her job when she was accused of theft. What if this woman was only a maid cleaning up while Mr. Dawkins was out of his office?
But something in my stomach is so unsettled that I cannot fathom that it could be so innocent.
August 16, 1929
I should have said something last night. Instead I went to bed and tossed and turned all night while someone took off with Mr. Dawkins’s stock certificates, ones he had recently acquired for a company right here in Georgia. He was nearly purple this morning at breakfast, his fists shaking and his voice loud enough to take the roof off. I have never seen him so riled, and I think maybe Claude has not either. He sat by my side at our morning meal and held my hand. He looked strained. Almost nervous.
But it was hard to focus on Claude when Mr. Dawkins was yelling. Lucille tried to calm him down, but he brushed her off—I think rather too roughly. She stumbled to her knees, but as Jane and I got up to check on her, she waved us off.
Claude pulled me back to my seat, but I did not particularly want to stay. I really just wanted to be in George’s shed. Safe. Peaceful. Quiet. And in his arms.
The realization hit me so hard that I dropped Claude’s hand and did not allow him to pick mine back up.
What was I supposed to do? What does one do when she’s been determined to marry one man and realizes she’s in love with another? What does she do when she realizes she’s done things for which the man she loves may never be able to forgive her?
I felt like the piano was sitting on my chest, and I could not swallow a bite.
No one ate during Mr. Dawkins’s tirade. He demanded that every room be searched for the certificates. He offered a reward for anyone with information.
Yet I sat there mute. I had some information, but it is still only an inkling. And I daren’t begin spreading rumors when I know that doing so could only cause more pain if I am mistaken.
I thought about it through every sleepless hour last night. I do not think the woman I saw was a maid. I am almost certain I recognized her as one of the guests. So I am going to follow her. But I dare not reveal anything until I am certain. It should only drive a wedge in the relationships I have forged here.
In the dim light of this lamp, I do find myself longing for simpler times. There was not so much intrigue or scandal on the farm or even at school. Certainly there were no stolen kisses in a stairwell or a secret rendezvous with a millionaire. And when I came here, that is what I longed for. It was what I had spent my life wishing for—excitement and passion.
And now I long for a simple life, secure in the arms of the man I love. I do not need to see the lights of Paris or to dine in the best restaurants. I do not need to sit at concerts with wealthy men and dance with millionaires.
I do not believe Mr. Dawkins to be a bad man, although I must question some of his choices. Most of all I question whether he cares for his money and his stolen certificates more than those he claims to love.
And I have no doubt that Claude would be the same.
Never once in all my time with Claude has he made me feel more than I did the first time I met George. Mama always says that feelings are just feelings. Perhaps it is true, but perhaps it is not. Perhaps feelings are an indication, not of love or commitment, but of that still small voice the pastor talked about on Sunday last. George had taken me again to his favorite spot, to Christ Church of Frederica. The pastor preached with such conviction of God speaking to us. Not audibly, but silently in the quiet of our hearts. And I wondered if I had ever heard God speak to me even once.
Now I wonder if sometimes that voice is the tug on my heart, a feeling I cannot deny.
Of course, this was before George kissed me. And certainly before I was sure that Claude is not the man for me.
But before I find my way back to that simpler life, I must do what I can to restore what has been taken. And I am almost certain that she will act tonight.
August 17, 1929
I write tonight with a trembling hand as someone who almost did not survive. I would not have, save for the intercession of one man. But I find I must chronicle tonight’s events while they are fresh. Jane continues to ask me for details, and I can speak none of them. It is far too difficult to explain all that happened. Perhaps if I write it down, I will show Jane my book, even though I have found her looking for and reading it on two occasions and had to move it.
But this time I may share it with her so that I do not have to relive the moments again. Each time I close my eyes I see that shovel bearing down on me, and I know that I am so close to the end. All I could think about was how much I would miss having a future with George.
It was foolish, really, to follow Angelique last night. I should have told Jane where I was going. Perhaps I should have told Claude or Lucille. Even Mr. Dawkins had calmed down by the evening enough for me to tell him that I had seen someone leaving his study, and I had a pretty
good idea of who it could be. But they are all crazy about Angelique, and I was nearly certain that they would try to convince me that I had not seen her head of wild curls exiting the study, or that it had all been entirely innocent.
But the feeling that seemed like so much more than a feeling compelled me to follow her. So I did. I waited in the shadows at the south exit closest to her guest room. I hid behind the trunk of a palm tree and tried to keep my breathing shallow, silent. It was much harder than I thought it should be as my heart pounded in my ears.
Then she appeared. Her hair was tied back and she was wearing trousers, but I could not mistake her porcelain skin or the almond shape of her eyes, so exotic and so secretive.
I stayed back, hoping I wouldn’t lose sight of her in the night. Even the moon seemed to be on her side, hidden behind a cloud, blanketing the night in ink. I nearly did miss her turn toward George’s small shed, and when she disappeared I had nowhere to hide. So I squatted behind a rosebush and prayed that she could not see my pale shirt. How silly of me to wear such light colors. In my defense, this was the first time I had ever gone sneaking around in the night—except with Claude. And that had been less about sneaking and more about scandal.
When Angelique reappeared, she was carrying a rather large shovel. I thought perhaps it would be awkward in her hands, but she carried it as though she had dug a thousand garden beds, and she set off for the beach. When she was far enough ahead of me, I followed her yet again. The crashing of the waves and the wind covered the sound of my footsteps and, I hoped, the thunder of my heart.
Near the beach, before the grass fully turned to sand, she made her way south. We’d long since abandoned any foliage I might hide behind, and my stomach was in a knot the size of the Chateau itself. But I continued on. It was far too late to abandon my plan now. And if I went for help, I could not possibly find her again.
When she picked up her speed, I did too. Especially when I saw what was ahead. A copse of trees reached right up to the beach, their long arms black against the deep blue sky. I knew immediately that if she reached the trees, I would lose sight of her and lose any proof I might have.
I began to run, but the grass was slippery, and I was losing ground with each step. She seemed to be flying by now, her hair a trail of wild abandon in her wake. I must have been gasping for breath by the time I reached the tree line. But it was no use. She was gone.
I fell to my knees, sucking in the thick air and praying that I might see a glimpse of her among the trees. I did not. I only felt fire in my shoulder.
The pain came first. And then I heard the clang of metal against something solid. It happened so quickly and yet seemed to drag on for hours. Twisting to cradle my injured arm with my other hand, I caught a glimpse of the edge of the shovel blade, and I knew. I had not found Angelique. She had found me.
“You silly little girl,” she cried as the tip of the shovel sliced across my arm. And then she said I was just like Willa, always in the way.
Willa? I could hardly believe what she said, but I knew immediately that she had killed her friend. Why? Because she was going to steal some stock certificates?
Then I suddenly realized the terrible truth. Angelique hadn’t only stolen some stock certificates. She was behind all of the disappearances—the brooches and necklaces, silver and diamonds. She’d taken all of it, but why? I could not make sense of it. She is a wealthy woman, and her father and brothers have more money than I could even conceive of. Could they not care for her? Surely they would make certain that she did not go without.
But there was no time for me to parse the facts and come to any sort of conclusion.
I ducked as the shovel scraped my ear, and I lifted my arm only to find that it was nearly useless. Blood dripped from my shoulder, and immediately my head began to spin. But I refused to give in. Pushing to my feet, I tried to look her in the eye and make her see me. Her eyes were cold, like there was no soul behind them, only hatred. Why did she hate me? I have not even refused Claude yet.
I begged her to tell me as I lifted my other arm to deflect another pass of her shovel. But my question went ignored. I tried again, reminding her that we were friends.
The head of her shovel dropped to the ground, and her eyes narrowed. She laughed as though it was quite the joke before spitting out that I had no idea what her life has been like.
I knew that I could not possibly best her in a fight, so I tried to reason with her. I tried to keep her talking, asking her to tell me, to explain it to me.
She did pause then, leaning against the shovel handle. Her eyes stared over my shoulder, maybe seeing the whitecaps of the open ocean. But she looked as though she was seeing something much farther away. And then her voice broke as she explained that her father is forcing her to marry a man she does not love because the one she cares for is not acceptable. He is not wealthy. He does not come from means. Her father believes him to be after her money.
She was silent for a long moment before her gaze returned to me, and she said I knew about that. I tried to assure her that I was not after her brother’s wealth, yet my insistence fell on deaf ears.
But for me, speaking the truth was like being released from prison. It was true, and I was suddenly free to love the man I did for the rest of my life, no matter how short it was.
I closed my eyes and prayed that George would have a life filled with joy and love, even though I could not be there to see it. I opened them just in time to see Angelique swing the shovel, and it was almost to my head. I was nearly to heaven when the shovel stopped quite suddenly, and she cried out.
Then George was there, stripping the tool from her hands, and she screamed as loud as the seagulls that he had ruined everything. She went on and on about his roses and how they were too close. Too close. Too close.
She made no sense at all, but her words rang inside of me over and over again as though I should understand them.
I still do not, hours later. But her words are not what haunts me. Nor the vision I see behind my closed eyes.
What haunts me is that I may have missed my final opportunity to tell George how I feel.
Mr. Dawkins has declared that he is closing the Chateau for the rest of the year, and we must all go home tomorrow. Angelique refuses to reveal where she has hidden the stock certificates, even after the deputies questioned her.
They have taken her away, but Jane is certain she will be released. The Devereaux name holds sway anywhere in the South, and a small-town judge will not be able to hold her, even for Willa’s death. She never truly confessed it to me, and they have found no other evidence.
But I’m not afraid of her. She tried to kill me to keep her secret from being revealed. Now the whole world knows.
Claude was beyond apologetic. It was clear that he was appalled by his sister’s behavior, all of it. He tried to comfort me, but I had to be honest with him. Despite the exhaustion that had settled over me as soon as George escorted us back to the Chateau, I pulled Claude to the side. His hands were on my face and around my waist, and my skin crawled. Not because he reminded me of Angelique but because for the rest of my life I only want one man to touch me. And I told him as much.
Well, I did not tell him there was another man but rather that I was certain we would not be the right match and we should not spend time together any longer. He did not seem particularly disturbed by it, but for me it was like the last chain had been broken.
Jane insisted I be seen by a doctor, and Mr. Dawkins called for one. The doctor bandaged my arm and assured me it will heal with a minimal scar. Lucille was quite kind to bring me a warm cup of chocolate. They sat with me for hours no matter how many times I assured them I was fine. But I could not tell them what I really wanted, which was to see George.
Jane and I are on the first train to Atlanta tomorrow. I fear I may never see his green eyes and kind smile again.
I am not sure I am ready to live the rest of my life without air.
August 18, 192
9
My dearest George,
Do you think it possible that you could still love a fool? For that is certainly what I have been. I should have seen you from the beginning and recognized your kind heart. You have been saving my life from that moment by the pool and through the rest of this summer.
You have made me see a love I could not have imagined possible. I thought that love was about committing to a man no matter how he treated me. But you have shown me tenderness that makes my heart soar. I could not have imagined how this love I feel for you makes me want to care for you in the same way. Could I possibly make you as happy as you have made me?
I leave for Atlanta this morning—Jane and I are off in only a few minutes—but I long for the opportunity to try. I want to try to make you happy. I want to cook for you and care for you and wash your clothes after you jump into a swimming pool to rescue a silly girl.
And I have been silly. I thought that money and wealth and traveling the world would make me happy. I thought that I could belong at fancy house parties and dress in the finest gowns. I thought that my education should afford me a position in a brick house in the best neighborhoods of New York and Chicago.
Now I know none of that matters. None of it makes anyone else happy. Why should I be any different?
I want only the opportunity to be with you. That would make me happy.
You said that day that you loved me. You said you wanted to take me away from here. You said you would like to marry me.
Please, tell me I am not too late to accept.
Yours forever,
Ruthie
eighteen
Millie looked up from the last page of the diary, her eyes glassy and filled with a sadness Ben hadn’t seen there before.
“The letter is still here.” She pressed her finger to the final page, her other hand flat against her chest. “Why didn’t she give it to him?” There was a strange tremor in her voice, and she blinked hard and fast as a single tear made its way down her cheek.
