In the Shadow of Lakecrest(20)

Matthew stroked my hair in a soothing, steady rhythm. Calming himself more than me.

“Aunt Cecily was like a second mother,” he said. “She lived with us here at Lakecrest. Mum was always so busy; Aunt Cecily was the one who told stories and took me and Marjorie to play at the beach. She was the kind of person who made you feel like anything was possible—for years I thought she was actually magic! In time, of course, I got older, and Aunt Cecily went through some bouts of bad health, so we weren’t quite the chums we’d once been. But I still adored her.”

He paused, bracing himself for what came next. “I was twelve when it happened. Aunt Cecily hadn’t been well, so she kept to her room for a few days. I stopped in after dinner to say good night, but she didn’t want to talk. She barely even looked at me. So I acted like a spoiled brat and stormed out. And that was the last time I ever saw her.”

Matthew sounded so sad that my heart ached for the boy who’d lost his beloved aunt and for the man who still grieved for her.

“I’ve gone over those minutes so many times,” he murmured, “wishing I’d been kinder.”

“You couldn’t have known,” I reassured him. “It’s not your fault.”

Matthew nodded slowly, trying to convince himself. “Later that night,” he continued, “one of the maids was drawing the upstairs drapes when she saw Aunt Cecily walk across the lawn, to the other side of the estate. There’s a building there.”

“The Labyrinth,” I blurted out.

Matthew gave me a puzzled look, and I told him I’d seen it, the day of the fête. For now, I decided not to mention Mabel Kostrick; I didn’t want him to think I’d been gossiping.

After a brief pause, Matthew continued. “The maid didn’t think anything was amiss, because Aunt Cecily often had trouble sleeping and was known to wander around at all hours. The next day, when the maid brought up Aunt Cecily’s breakfast tray, she saw the bed hadn’t been slept in. Mum told Marjorie and me to stay upstairs, so we’d be shielded from what was going on, but I saw the police arrive. They searched the Labyrinth and sent boats out on the lake, but it was no use. Aunt Cecily had vanished.”

“Do you think she’s dead?” I asked.

“She must be. If she left, for whatever reason, I can’t believe she’d never have written.”

“What does your mother think?”

Matthew let out a short, dismissive laugh. “We never talk about it. Not openly, anyway. Mum’s dropped hints about Aunt Cecily taking her own life, but it’s ridiculous. They’d have found her. That is—found her body.”

There was another possibility. That Cecily had been lured away from Lakecrest. Kidnapped, possibly murdered. But this wasn’t the right time to raise such suspicions. Better to nuzzle my head against Matthew in silent sympathy.

“I’ve got something to show you,” he said.

He gently pushed me up so he could stand. Then he walked toward the window and opened the top drawer of a bureau. He pulled out a slim book bound in dark-green leather and handed it to me. I read the words embossed in gold on the front cover: Twelve Ancient Tales. Cecily Lemont.

“My grandfather had them printed for her birthday, years ago,” Matthew said.

I flipped the book open and read the inscription on the title page.



My steadfast, mighty Matthew,

Be the hero of your own life. Dare to live as you dream.

With love from your devoted Aunt Cecily



I could almost see her pen forming the angled letters, and I was overcome with a sudden regret that I’d never known this strange, spirited woman. The pages of text were interspersed with colored illustrations of cavorting nymphs and columned buildings; a bearded god scowled as lightning bolts shot out from his fingers. A word jumped out from the text—Labyrinth—and I glanced at the title of the story. “The Princess and the Bull.” Curious, I began scanning the page.

“Time enough for that later,” Matthew said, pulling the book from my hands and jarring me back to our conversation. “The room,” he repeated. “Do you like it?”

I looked around again. “It’s fine. But your mother told me a woman in my position should have her own bedroom.”

“I like sleeping together,” Matthew said. “Don’t you?”

“Sure.” I blushed when I said it.

“Then you’ll stay here, with me.”

I grinned at this further proof that Matthew could stand up to his mother. Who knew what other things I might convince him to change? I glanced at the table in front of the window—just the spot for morning coffee—and the armoire against the wall and the shabby but comfortable furniture. Then I realized what was nagging at me: there was nothing of Matthew here. No childhood toys or mementos from his college years. No clues to his character.

When I asked why, Matthew explained it used to be his grandfather’s room. “Mum thought it would be more appropriate, now that I’m married. You can do it up however you like.”

I told him I didn’t care about decorating, but I wondered how long it would be before I turned into one of those wives whose greatest accomplishment was buying new drapes. Now that I was living at Lakecrest, someone else would buy my food, cook it, and serve it. I’d have my clothes sewn by the family’s dressmaker, and maids would wash and mend whatever I wore. I was cut off from the life of the city, stranded on an estate without anything to do but stare at the lake. I’d been so caught up in the idea of marrying Matthew that I hadn’t stopped to think what I’d do once I got him.