“No, there’s no reason both of us should miss all the fun.” Georgie yawns like a sleepy kitten. “It came on all of a sudden. I feel so hot and sleepy, I can barely keep my eyes open.”
“Here, let me...” Elle rummages through her collection of vials and hands a small one to Georgie. “Put a dab of this on your forehead and your wrists, and it should help you fall right to sleep. Shall we ask Mrs. O’Brian to bring you some tea?”
“No, I’ll just have a little lie-down.” Georgie yawns again. “Give Nathaniel my regards?”
Seeing her so soft and sleepy, guilt stabs at Jo. When Mam hadn’t slept in too long, or when she’d had too much whiskey, she could be mean. Georgie bore the brunt of it; she was too young to understand why sometimes Mam was bright and playful, and other times she was spiky and silent, as dangerous as one of her plants. Jo used to bring Georgie to the nursery and read her stories till she fell asleep, the weight of her feeling like home.
When Georgie’s footsteps patter away down the hall, Elle turns to Jo. “I feel rotten. This breaks our old promise.”
When Mam died, they vowed they’d never use their magic against each other. That they would never fall into the trap of other Campbell sisters.
“I know.” Jo frowns. But she can’t see any way around it. Georgie is too headstrong, too in love, to hand Nathaniel over to Jo on the chance that the vision is true. Jo is gambling a great deal: her sister’s love, her future, her very life. “Will she ever forgive me, do you think? What if it were Alice?”
Elle smiles, with teeth. “Thank your lucky stars it’s not.”
Jo shivers, glad that Georgie is less bloodthirsty. “But you’re willing to sail away tomorrow?”
“Better not to see her become Lady Colchester.” Elle’s lower lip wobbles the slightest bit, and then she straightens her spine and sets her shoulders. “I sail at dawn with Rafael. We’ll have such adventures. Perhaps I’ll follow in Papa’s footsteps and become a lady buccaneer.”
Her forced cheer makes Jo’s heart ache. “Will you write me?”
“Of course. And my letter for Papa is beneath my pillow. Make sure he reads it, will you? I hope he’ll forgive me for running off with a sailor and ruining his reputation. You becoming Mrs. Winchester—and sister-in-law to a viscountess—ought to help.” Elle takes a deep breath. “I’ve left a letter for Alice, too. I’d be much obliged if you would deliver it discreetly.”
“Of course.” The tightness in Jo’s throat threatens to overwhelm her. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. This isn’t goodbye, not yet, but... “I’ll miss you,” she blurts out, and Elle grabs her hand.
“Don’t cry. I’m not gone yet!” Quick as lightning, Elle pricks Jo’s finger and squeezes, letting her blood fall into the small vial. “There. Don’t second-guess it now, Jo.”
Jo nods. “There’s no other way.”
* * *
Mine, Jo thinks, as their carriage winds up the hill toward the Winchester mansion—as the white-columned house comes into view through the windows—as Papa hands first Jo and then Elle down onto the carriage box. As she walks up the grand, curving staircase to the second-floor ballroom, neighbors milling around in their finery, she cannot help but feel a sort of avarice that is new to her.
Jo knows what the people in Mercer’s Cove say about her family. That her mother was a drunk whose death was no accident. That her father’s smile is still a tad too piratical. That Elle is no better than she ought to be, and dangerous besides, peddling all those potions. They say Jo herself is odd, given to fits where she goes slack-mouthed and staring.
Of course, none of that keeps the fine townsfolk from stopping by the back door to purchase fortunes from Jo and tinctures from Elle. Elle makes salves to heal burns and plasters to heal coughs, love potions to catch husbands or wives, herbs to prevent babies, and—when she is convinced it’s warranted—the occasional poison. Still, the people of Mercer’s Cove call her a witch and little better than a whore. They deem Jo strange and spooky.
Only Georgie escapes their censure. Adorable, apple-cheeked Georgie, whose penchant for fire is far more easily concealed than Jo’s prophecies. And Georgie is far more circumspect than Elle.
Jo thought she didn’t mind it anymore. But tonight...tonight she notices how ladies put their heads together and whisper when they see Elle. How they draw their wide satin skirts aside when Jo gets too close, as though her oddness might be catching. How they smile with their mouths and avert their eyes.
When Jo is Nathaniel’s wife—when she is the Winchester matriarch—no one will whisper about her anymore. Not so loud she can hear them, anyhow.
The thought sends satisfaction rushing through her.
Is this choice as altogether altruistic as she would have herself believe?
Jo’s doubt grows as she stands among the wallflowers lining the ballroom. As she waits for Elle to slip the potion into Nathaniel’s rum punch. When they arrived sans Georgie, he inquired after her health and anyone with eyes could see how smitten he is with their little sister.
Now, as Jo watches, Mr. Winchester—the tall, silver-haired heir to a shipping fortune—announces Alice’s engagement to Lady Colchester. Alice is tall and graceful in a cream satin dress with ruched chiffon at the broad, sloping neckline. She takes Lady Colchester’s gloved hand in hers, her head bowed demurely as her betrothed leads her into a waltz.
Jo glances across the ballroom at Elle, who looks as though she’d like to drink a whole cup of poison. Soon enough, though, Elle whirls across the room and claims a dance from Nathaniel. And when she relinquishes him, Nathaniel makes his way across the crowded ballroom and asks Jo to dance.
He is very tall, with a shock of dark hair and kind brown eyes. He dances well, accounting for her missteps with ease. Jo finds herself wondering what it might be like to be with him in the way that Elle was with Rafael. She wonders if he would be graceful in the marriage bed, too.
They are quiet, but it’s a companionable silence. Jo glances up and catches his eyes on her décolletage. She’s never had a man so openly admire her figure before. Of course, there is not usually so much to admire. She hopes that Elle hasn’t given him more of the potion than she ought. It is the sort of thing Elle might find amusing.
Jo considers him thoughtfully beneath her lowered eyelashes. He has nice hands, she decides, with long, elegant fingers. What would they feel like against her skin? Should she let him take liberties, beyond a kiss or two?
“You’re flushed. Are you warm?” Nathaniel asks. “I hope you’re not catching Miss Georgiana’s fever.”
“Oh no, it’s just the crush of people,” Jo lies.
Mam told them that Campbell means crooked mouth in Gaelic. That Campbell witches lie as easily as they smile.
“Would you like to go out on the terrace?” Nathaniel asks, and she nods.
This is all a lie, she reminds herself. Still, it feels nice to have him guide her through the crowd, one hand on the small of her back. Hundreds of candles light the ballroom, and flowers lend their sweet heady scent to the candle wax and the briny sea air that drifts in through the open French doors. Nathaniel propels her outside, onto the terrace that overlooks the sea. The moon is waxing tonight, shining down on the dark water.
“Shall we go into the gardens?” Jo asks. She needs to get him alone, where no one will see the scandal about to unfold. Where no one will notice how he’s looking at the odd older sister of his intended. “I’ve always been fond of your statuary.”
Nathaniel leads her down the staircase. “Do you know I once thought to study art at university? To go off to Paris and paint?”
“Truly?” Jo cannot imagine it. He seems so...respectable.
“Truly. Father would have none of that, of course. Called it a childish delusion. My responsibilities are here, with the shipping business. With my family.” They are behind a hedger
ow now, at the entrance to the rose garden. “You’re the eldest, and with your mother gone—you must have a keen understanding of family responsibility.”
“I do,” Jo says. That’s why she’s doing this, isn’t it? For her sisters? It feels more selfish now. She lets herself believe the lie for a moment—that she is beautiful, that this moment has not been carefully engineered. She looks up at Nathaniel through lowered eyelashes and shivers at the cool breeze coming off the sea.
He moves closer, and Jo can feel the heat from his long, lean body. She lets herself stumble on the uneven bricks of the path. “Oh!” she laughs, high and nervous, and he catches her with both hands, his touch warm on the bare skin between her sleeves and her gloves. Even when she’s righted herself, he does not let go. He runs one finger along the dip of her elbow, and this time when Jo shivers it’s not from the cold.
She has arranged to trap him, and yet she is the one who feels caught, pinned in place by the desire in his eyes. They are not brown, she sees now; they are hazel, with flecks of green and gold. His hand trails up the curve of her neck and comes to rest gently on her cheek. “Josephine,” he murmurs in wonderment. “How have I never noticed it before?”
“Noticed what?” she whispers.
His mouth is only inches away. “How lovely you are,” he says, and then his lips meet hers. Jo returns the kiss with an unpracticed eagerness that surprises them both. He teases her mouth open, his tongue darting inside, and Jo finds that she likes kissing quite a lot.
Nathaniel moves his mouth to her ear, and it is only then, as he murmurs endearments, nibbling on her earlobe, his hand cupping the side of her breast, that Jo comes back to herself. She pulls away, thoroughly compromised—and thoroughly shaken by how much she’s enjoyed it.
Nathaniel reaches for her again, but she sidesteps him. Her gloved hand comes to her mouth in dismay. What has she done? This was meant to be a lie.
For him, it is a lie. He had no choice in it.
She took away his choice. He might not know it, might attribute it to the rum and the moonlight, but Jo will always know.
Behind them, the sea pummels itself against the shore. Against the cliffs her mother dove off in the dead of night to end her nightmares once and for all.
“My God.” Nathaniel seems to realize what’s happened all at once. “Josephine, I—You must think me a cad. I never intended—”
“No,” Jo says. “It’s as much my fault as yours.”
He shakes his head. “A gentleman must control himself, no matter how tempting he finds a woman.”
“Jo? Jo?” It’s Elle. She turns the corner and gasps when she sees them together. “Mr. Winchester, what are you and my sister doing out here in the dark, alone and unchaperoned? Jo, you look a fright.” She fusses with Jo’s curls, with her feather headdress.
“I’m perfectly fine, Elle. It’s nothing,” Jo says. She wishes she could take it all back.
“It’s not nothing. Did anyone see you leave the ballroom together?” Elle asks.
“I—” Nathaniel swallows. Hesitates. Then squares his shoulders. “Your sister’s right. I’ll speak to your father at once, Josephine.”
“You intend to ask for her hand in marriage?” Elle asks. Jo holds her breath.
“There is no other honorable choice,” Nathaniel says. He squeezes Jo’s hand, his touch there and then gone, and heads for the stairs.
“I believe Papa’s in the billiards room!” Elle calls helpfully.
When Nathaniel is gone, it’s quiet save for the soft rhythm of the surf against the shore. “We did it,” Jo says finally. “I’ll be Mrs. Winchester.”
“How could you?” a voice cries from the darkness, and Georgie steps out from behind the marble statue of an angel.
She is wearing her black riding cloak, with the hood up. Her face is in shadow, but the tears on her cheeks catch the moonlight. Jo’s heart splinters at the sight of them.
“Why, Jo? You don’t even like Nathaniel!” Her voice breaks, and the sound slices through Jo like shards of glass.
“I had a vision,” Jo says. “A vision where we all survived. You and Elle left Mercer’s Cove. I stayed, and I married Nathaniel.”
Georgie stalks closer. “Your visions aren’t infallible. They are possibilities.”
“Even a possibility—that’s more than we had before,” Elle explains. “The Book says—”
“Mam said—” Jo starts, at the same time.
“Mam was mad. I wish we’d thrown that damn Book into the sea after her.” Georgie whirls on Elle, her black cloak flaring out around her, her hood falling back. “You helped her. You kept this from me.”
“You never would have agreed to let her have Nathaniel,” Elle says. “I wouldn’t.”
“You’re damned right I wouldn’t,” Georgie swears. In the house on the hill, the candles flare higher, brighter. “So you took away my choice. You took away his choice, too. You must have used a potion. He never would have touched her otherwise.”
Her laugh stings, but Jo knows it’s the truth. The kisses, the caresses—they were all false. “Georgie—”
“You’re using him. He’s a good man, Jo. An honorable man. He deserves better than this. Better than you. And so do I. You betrayed me. Both of you. Together.” Above them, the candles in the ballroom leap higher and higher, throwing strange, macabre shadows of the guests.
“Georgie, calm down!” Elle pleads.
It’s too late. In the ballroom, the candles have caught. Guests begin to shriek. The band stops playing as fire begins to crawl up the wooden windowsills and catch on the rose damask curtains. Jo imagines it dancing up the pastoral wallpaper.
“Calm down?” Georgie shrieks. “How dare you. That tea you brought me this afternoon... You poisoned me, Elle!” Her little sister’s ire has always been quick to rise, but Jo has never seen Georgie like this. The waxing moon makes her strong, and her anger makes her magic flare. Above them, the flames leap from the second story toward the roof. Their neighbors pour out the terrace doors, down the steps and into the gardens.
“It’s my fault. I saw myself here,” Jo tries to explain. “I saw myself on the staircase, wearing his grandmother’s ring, the sapphire one that—you know the one. I was old. I had grandchildren. But you and Elle were still alive. We hadn’t seen each other in years; you’d both gone away. Don’t you see? I had to intervene, to make the vision come true. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t ask you to give up Nathaniel.”
“So you took him.” It is a strange and eerie thing, to see lightning without the rush of rain or crack of thunder. It cuts through the clear night sky, and Georgie aims it true. It connects with the gray-shingled roof of the Winchester mansion.
“Georgie, stop!” Jo cries, panicked. “Please. Nathaniel’s still inside.”
“Alice!” Elle screams, and runs for the stairs.
“Elle, no!” Jo darts after her, but Georgie grabs her wrist and wrenches it, hard.
“We’re not finished,” she growls.
Jo watches as Elle pushes her way past their neighbors, up the steps and straight into the burning mansion.
“If something happens to her—or to Nathaniel—”
“It’s on your head.” Georgie’s angry blue eyes reflect the flames. “This is all because of you. I can’t stand to be in the same house as you. The same island, even. I’ll catch the night ferry to the mainland. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to be so heartbroken that I’d leave Mercer’s Cove? Well, I’ll go. But I’m not broken, and I wouldn’t count on it that I’ll stay gone.”
Georgie draws her cloak back up over her brown curls. There are a thousand questions Jo wants to ask. Where will she go? What will she do? Does she have enough money? Can she ever forgive them?
But she doesn’t ask. She knows she doesn’t deserve the answers.
* * *
The next morning, Jo is sitting slumped at the kitchen table when Eleanor stumbles in, still dressed in her bottle-green velvet evening dress. Her dark hair has tumbled down around her shoulders and she reeks of smoke. Her right hand and arm are wrapped in some kind of poultice to treat her burns.
Jo starts as though she’s seen a ghost. “You were supposed to be on a ship hours ago.”
“I can’t leave her,” Elle says.
Alice, she means. Nathaniel and Alice were both injured trying to make certain everyone had gotten out safely. Nathaniel broke his leg leaping from a second-story window after the grand staircase became impassable. Alice’s back was burned when falling debris caught her beautiful cream dress afire. It would have been far worse if Elle hadn’t rushed to her side and beat out the flames.
The mansion is in ruins. Alice and Nathaniel were both taken to Lady Colchester’s estate, just outside of town, to convalesce. The physician was called, of course, but Elle had rushed headlong after them with her own tools. Jo had assumed Emma Colchester would throw her sister out on her ear, and that Elle would be somewhere in the midst of the Atlantic by now.
Her panic rises at the strange calm on her sister’s face. “What about Rafael and your grand adventures? What about Europe? You’d throw that all away because of some misplaced guilt?”
Elle smiles. “I love her, Jo. If any part of me wasn’t sure before, when I saw the house afire and knew that she was still inside, I—”
“What about Lady Colchester?” Jo interrupts, desperate.
“She genuinely cares for Alice, I’ll give her that,” Elle says grudgingly. “She has agreed to let me look after Alice until she’s well. After that—we’ll see. Engagements can be broken, can’t they?”
Jo’s stomach plummets to her slippers. “You can’t stay in Mercer’s Cove. If you stay, it will all be for nothing! I’m betrothed to a man who doesn’t want me, and Georgie hates us, and—I have to at least know you’ll be safe, Elle. We can rebuild that house. The staircase. God knows the Winchesters have the money. But you’ve got to—”
Toil & Trouble Page 25
