The Witch of Tin Mountain(60)

The sounds of the orchestra warming up drifted from the ballroom into the main hall. Outside, the young men Miss Munro had invited—the sons of Charleston’s best families—were gathered on the veranda, enjoying cigars and brandy.

Deirdre’s pulse beat behind her eyes. Maddening pain. The kind that could only be made better with morphia and lack of worry. She had neither.

“Now, Miss Werner, is it?” The photographer’s tinny voice interrupted her thoughts. The gnat buzzed near her ear. This time, she did not swat it away. “Turn to the side. Just a bit. Hands clasped softly in front of your waist. There. That’s it. Your gown is lovely. Lovely. Nose to the light. Now, take a deep breath and hold it. Don’t move, not even a blink.”

He went behind his tripod, took off the lens cap, then put it back on again. “Perfect, Miss Werner. Absolutely perfect.”

Deirdre exhaled with relief. “Thank you.”

As she passed through the atrium, Deirdre overheard a thread of a conversation, “. . . still feeling poorly. Weak. The doctor thinks it might be a poisoning . . . Miss Munro will be questioning girls tomorrow . . .”

The other girls were talking. Gossip about Phoebe’s illness would spread quickly and gain steam in the crowded ballroom. Deirdre strove to keep her head. With Constance already suspicious, she’d likely be questioned first. She’d need to slip away tonight, at some point, and find a place to hide her book.

The string quartet entered the foyer and sat before the hearth, striking up a bright tune. The last few girls joined the receiving line. Miss Munro bustled toward the door. She looked years younger tonight—her usual grim demeanor lightened by her lilac dress and the soft curls framing her face. The hired footmen brought on for the evening threw the entryway doors wide, and the young men filtered through, dressed in white tie, with waxed mustaches and pomaded hair.

Deirdre gracefully curtsied and smiled, practicing the refined manners she’d learned over the past few weeks, but inside, she was filled with turmoil. She offered her dance card to her suitors and tried her best to remember their names as they exchanged pleasantries about the weather and the tides.

As for Esme, she was in high demand and had a full dance card within the first half hour. The orchestra struck up a Viennese waltz, and the first of her partners, a tall, strapping fellow with a riot of blond curls and broad shoulders, led Esme to the dance floor. Deirdre tried her best not to be jealous. Their hidden afternoon kisses and whispered secrets would have to come to an end eventually. They’d both marry soon, as they must, and their forbidden love would become a memory left to grow bittersweet, like overripe fruit on the vine.

A Mr. Briggs came to claim Deirdre for the first dance, and though she tried her best to follow, she found him an awkward partner, as he was three inches shorter than she and unsure on his feet. He sniffed constantly, and the sour scent of kippers wafted from his mouth.

As Esme spun by in her own young man’s capable arms, she caught Deirdre’s tortured gaze and giggled. Thankfully, the music died down and it was time to switch partners.

“Might I borrow you again later this evening, Miss Werner?” Mr. Briggs asked.

Borrow. As if she were a library book on lend!

“I’m afraid my dance card is full for the night, sir.”

The orchestra struck up the next dance. Deirdre searched for Esme in the crowd. Where had she gone? The pressure in Deirdre’s head roared. Made her senseless. Clumsy. Her new partner sensed her distracted manner and excused himself mid-dance, much to Deirdre’s relief. As she hurriedly crossed the floor, she thought she saw Gentry, leering from the side of the ballroom.

She found Esme on the stairs. Her face was pale as a tomb, her mouth set in a grim line.

“Esme! I wondered where you went off to. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve just been up to check on Phoebe. She’s taken a bad turn. Miss Munro has sent for the ambulance, but by the time it gets here, it may be too late.”

Deirdre gasped to keep from screaming. “Too late?”

“She’s dying, Deirdre. And Constance told Miss Munro you poisoned her.”





TWENTY-THREE

GRACELYNN





1931




When I get to Hosea Ray’s pasture, just after sunset, there’s a bus parked outside Bellflower’s tent and a long line of people waiting to be let inside. It seems all of Arkansas has turned out for the good preacher’s healing touch tonight.

I duck my head to hide my face beneath my scarf and push through the dense crowd. The congregants’ voices clatter in my head as I brush past the thicket of humid, sweating bodies. At least I can’t hear their thoughts. Inside, there ain’t any seats left, so I wedge myself against the side of the tent, where the menfolk stand with their hats in their hands.

He’s fancied the place up. There’s an altar on a rough-hewn platform, with lilies wilting in the heat, and an upright piano at the side of the altar. Candles blaze from every surface, dripping wax and smoking up the air. Next to the pulpit sit two tin buckets, covered with flour sacks. There’s still not a single cross or Bible in the place. It might have the feel of a church, but it’s anything but.

Bellflower shows up a few minutes later. Aunt Val hangs on him, all tarted up in cheap blue satin, her mouth and fingernails lacquered red. My teeth clench. I could choke the life out of her for what she’s done to Granny.