In the Shadow of Lakecrest
Elizabeth Blackwell
PROLOGUE
1937
Last night, I dreamed Lakecrest was on fire. I watched, indifferent, as flames devoured the brocade curtains and wood paneling, ashes coating my tongue and face. The windows shattered in a violent blast of heat, and turrets and walls and paintings crumbled around me. Lakecrest was dying, and I was content to see it burn.
I woke into that eerie uncertainty when a dream feels as real as a memory. I could make out the usual shapes from my bed: the bureau against the wall, the arched entrance to the bathroom. There was no smell of smoke, no sound other than my husband Matthew’s rumbling snores. Still, I knew I’d never get back to sleep if I didn’t make sure the house was safe.
I slipped out from under the sheets, walked to the hallway, and peered down the stairs. I heard only the usual creaks and moans. Years ago, those sounds scared me. Before I learned what it really means to live with ghosts.
Had the dream expressed an unconscious wish? I thought Lakecrest and I had come to a truce, that my feelings had dulled with time. Maybe I still hated it—more than I’d ever admit.
I made my way slowly down the hall, avoiding the squeakiest floorboards. I peeked into Stella’s room, which was dimly illuminated by a night-light in the shape of a twirling ballerina. My daughter looked like an angel in the amber glow, with her rosy cheeks and swirls of golden hair splayed across the pillow. I crept closer, unable to resist kissing her velvety skin. It wasn’t until I was almost at her side that I realized one of her arms was wrapped protectively around a figure huddled against her. Robbie.
I’d laid down the rules many times: boys don’t share rooms with their sisters. But he was afraid of the dark, and Stella was always the one he turned to for comfort. His defender. That very afternoon, at the beach, I’d heard them giggling and whispering. When I asked what they were talking about, they refused to tell me.
Keeping secrets already.
If I picked up Robbie and moved him back to his room, he’d only wake up and start shrieking. The whole house would be in an uproar. What’s the harm? I could imagine my friend Eva saying. They’re so sweet!
I watched my sleeping children and remembered Jasper and Cecily, Matthew and Marjorie. A weakness passed from one generation of Lemonts to the next, a pattern I was determined to break. I’d sacrificed everything for my children. Done terrible things to protect them. If Lakecrest was invading my dreams, maybe it was because I still hadn’t made peace with what I’d done here.
I don’t believe in ghosts—not anymore. But I’ve seen how a house can be haunted by its past. I looked at Robbie and Stella, at their perfect, beautiful faces, and wondered how I’d ever keep them safe. How I’d ever escape Lakecrest’s shadow.
Is it possible to be haunted by the future?
CHAPTER ONE
I never should have met Matthew Lemont.
I’d seen him on the ship, of course, stretched out on a deck chair, his impossibly handsome face staring intently at his book. I’d noticed his irritation when one of the pushy, overdressed flappers hovering around tried to strike up a conversation. I’d thought those few days at sea were my last, best chance to meet the kind of man my mother had always urged me to marry: someone well-off and well-bred, the gateway to a stable future. But Matthew seemed beyond my reach. A man like him—obviously rich, with a preference for solitude—would never cross paths with a girl like me. Until July 18, 1928, a date branded in my memory as clearly as my own birthday.
As I stood alone at the rail of the RMS Franconia, I saw him approaching from the corner of my eye. I could have ignored him, let him pass. I knew nothing then about the Lemonts or Lakecrest. I knew nothing of the infamous Labyrinth and the secrets it held. Even if I had, I doubt I would have been able to resist. I leaned out a touch too far, looking intently at the horizon, and gave Matthew an opening to approach me.
He took it. And everything changed.
“Stop!”
Strange, to think that was the first word my future husband ever spoke to me, as if he were warning me away from what was to come. But on that bright summer day on the upper deck of a grand luxury liner, my body simply responded to the command. My hands tightened against the glossy wood railing, and I froze in place, one foot propped against the lower rung. I turned my head and saw him take a few running steps toward me, then jerk to a halt so abruptly that his body wobbled with the effort of stopping. The wind ruffled the dark-blond waves of hair along his forehead, and I clutched at my hat as a gust threatened to waft it off into the water.
“Forgive me,” he said in a crisp, formal manner that suggested a lifetime of the finest schools and debutante parties. “I thought . . .”
“Thought what?”
“I thought you were about to jump.”
I stepped away from the railing, casting my eyes down and then shyly up, unsure whether to laugh or appear contrite.
“I saw something in the water,” I said. “I know we’re too far north for dolphins, but I could have sworn that’s what it was.”
A pause, as he considered whether to believe me.
“You must think I’m very silly,” I said.
“No, no. I’m the one who should apologize. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
How odd, I thought fleetingly, that he saw a young woman admiring the view and immediately feared for her life. The Atlantic stretched around us, seemingly endless and utterly calm. Who sees death in the middle of a clear blue sea?