In the Shadow of Lakecrest(66)
“You’re not to leave this room,” Hannah said. “We’re not taking any chances with my grandchild.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I feel fine.”
Hannah’s voice was icy. “Perhaps I haven’t been clear. There will be no more running off to Eva’s. No more pitting me against Matthew. From now on, I am the one who decides what’s best for the baby. You will stay here, under my care, and do as I say.”
“But . . .”
“Do not attempt a battle of wills with me, dear Kate. I always win.”
She stalked out without another word. I heard a clink of metal by the door and saw she had pulled out the key. The door closed behind her, and the lock clicked shut. I glanced at the date on the newspaper on the bedside table and worked out the timing. Six weeks until the baby was due.
For six weeks, I’d be Hannah’s prisoner.
It took a few days to fully grasp the implications of my sentence. Matthew brought stacks of books up from the library, but most of them smelled like mildew and few held my interest. I’d have happily traded all the collected works of Edgar Allan Poe and Sir Walter Scott for the newest Agatha Christie. When I told him I wanted to go downstairs to use the telephone, he told me he’d already called my mother and Blanche, and they sent their love. Eva and other East Ridge neighbors sent flowers, but I wasn’t allowed visitors. The bedroom began to look like a greenhouse thanks to all the bouquets, and it felt like one, too. Even with an electric fan perched on the nightstand, pointed at my face, I could never cool off.
I found myself looking forward to Hannah’s visits like a child anticipating Christmas, hoping she might grant permission for a walk in the garden or even a morning on the terrace. I smiled obediently and did whatever she said. All I got in return were vague assurances: “We must ask Dr. Westbrook.” Or “We’ll see.”
With nothing to do all day but brood, it was hard to avoid thoughts of Matthew and Marjorie. Wondering what they might be doing, out of my sight. You can convince yourself of anything if you try hard enough, and I probed my memory of that kiss for evidence that Matthew was innocent. I’d seen her run after him; I’d seen her throw herself into his arms, and he’d clearly been upset afterward. She was the one I blamed; she was the one I longed—and feared—to confront. The scene became so vivid that I could barely look at Marjorie on the few occasions she came to see me, and my sullenness gave her the perfect excuse to cut her visits short. No need to drag out what I’m sure she saw as an unwelcome duty.
A week or so after the funeral, she stopped by in the late afternoon, as I was groggily emerging from my usual nap. She looked as glamorous as ever, with her radiant hair, silky dress, and stack of bracelets that jangled as she walked. But something was different. She greeted me more quietly than usual; her eyes looked concerned rather than restless. She sat in the armchair by the bed and made even that simple gesture a lesson in elegance, sliding her legs down and to the side in perfect alignment. Her fingers tapped against the armrest, fidgeting without their usual cigarette.
“I wanted to stop in and say good-bye,” she said. “I’m leaving for Newport in the morning.”
Of course; it was August. None of her crowd would be caught dead in Chicago at this time of year.
“Good for you,” I managed.
“Do you remember that day in the Labyrinth, when I said I liked you?” she asked. “You looked shocked.”
“Because I was.”
Marjorie smiled, a gentler version of her usual brash amusement. “The thing is, it’s true. I do like you, still. Yet we’ve never become friends. I don’t know if we ever can be.”
Because you sicken me, I wanted to say. Because you’d do anything to keep your brother all to yourself.
“I saw you kiss Matthew,” I said. “By the lake, the day of the fête.”
She hadn’t been prepared for that. But she was a quick thinker, just like me.
“You must have been confused. I may have hugged him . . .”
“You kissed him. The way a sister should never kiss her brother. How many times has it happened before?”
“What has Matthew told you?”
Nothing, but Marjorie didn’t need to know that. “He’s told me the truth,” I said.
“Then you know it was all childish nonsense. We were best friends, always together. You know how little boys and girls are—of course we were curious about why we looked different under our clothes! It was Mum who made it something it wasn’t, that day she found us, and from then on, we were never left alone. There was always a nanny or a governess on watch until we grew out of all that.”
All that. A phrase that could mean many different things.
“At the fête, I saw the way Matthew looked at you, and it was the way he used to look at me, and I know it’s nasty and unforgivable, but I was so damned jealous. I’d somehow thought your marriage would never come between what he and I once had. I picked a fight, and Matthew tried to walk away—quite rightly—but I wouldn’t let him. I kissed him because I was desperate. To see if there was any trace of him I could still claim as mine.”
Maybe there was. Maybe that was why he’d given in, if only for a few seconds.
“With all that’s happened since then—Aunt Cecily, the investigation—I’ve barely spoken to him. I think he wants to forget it ever happened. I’m willing to, I promise. If you can, too.”