A-Splendid-Ruin(25)

Of all the things Goldie could have said, that was what I’d least expected. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all.”

“But why?”

“Stephen gambles. Everyone knows it. It’s the bane of his family, but he doesn’t often lose.”

“How lucky for him.”

“I’d never even held cards before he taught me how to play. He took me to Ingleside too, so we could bet on the horses. I had no idea what I was doing, of course, but Stephen likes games. I didn’t realize that . . .” Goldie stared off again at the ocean.

I waited. Finally, I prodded, “What didn’t you realize, Goldie?”

She followed a coasting seagull with her gaze. “He liked the adventure of it. He liked it when we gambled together. It was all very risky and exciting. But it turned out that he didn’t want it in a wife. He’s so old-fashioned. The world has changed, but he couldn’t see it. I swear he would have kept me as some . . . some obedient little broodmare.”

“I doubt you would have let him.”

Goldie snorted. Even that was elegant. “He can’t resist making everyone think I’m the one at fault! They all think I turned down the perfect Stephen Oelrichs. That’s what he’s told everyone, because he can’t bear to look bad. When he came over to our table today he meant only to show Mrs. Hoffman how valiant he is, and how nasty I am to ignore him.”

“Why didn’t you tell everyone the truth?”

She gave me a horrified look. “A girl doesn’t tattle about a man like that, May. What would Mr. Greenway and Mrs. Hoffman think of me then?” She reached for my hands and gripped them tightly. “You will stay away from Stephen, May, for my sake?”

“Yes of course. I don’t want anything to do with him.”

“You mustn’t believe anything he says. Promise me you won’t.”

“Why would I listen to him? I’m your family.”

“Yes, we’re family.” Goldie squeezed my hands again, smiling in that way I could not help but answer. That smile of hers was her most potent weapon—it distracted and disguised, and I was its best victim. It swept away whatever questions I might have had about Stephen or her story.

Goldie let out her breath. “Well, that’s that. I suppose we should go back. I hope they haven’t finished all the champagne without us.”

“If they have, they’ll be very drunk.”

“On one bottle?” Goldie laughed again and pulled me to my feet. “Oh, my dear cousin, you have so much to learn!”

The foyer wavered. Only Goldie’s arm around my waist saved me from falling.

“Too much champagne.” My voice did not sound like mine. For one thing, my lips did not want to form the right words. For another, it echoed strangely, as did every noise in this house. I stumbled back, expecting to land on the padded banquette of the hallway mirror, which was most unexpectedly not there. I fell to the floor, pulling Goldie with me. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The mirror?”

“Out to be regilded, I suppose. Come on—shhh, don’t wake anyone!” Goldie pulled me up, then grabbed the table to keep us both upright.

“No one’s even here. Where are they?”

“Oh, who knows? The servants are probably out having a picnic.”

The vision of Au lounging on the grass in his formal suit made me laugh so I nearly choked.

Goldie staggered to the stairs. She gripped the newel post, where she paused, wavering, spinning in circles—or no, it wasn’t Goldie spinning. It was the hall itself.

“I have to go to bed or die,” Goldie said dramatically.

It seemed to take me forever to follow her up. When finally I opened my door, it was so smooth, and the squeak was gone. Someone in the boardinghouse must have oiled the hinge at last—oh, but wait, no . . . the door here had never squeaked and everything was perfectly pink. Pink, pink, pink. My stomach flipped, a wave of nausea had me racing to the bed. I closed my eyes tight, trying to ignore the spinning room, thinking instead of the day, the champagne . . . oh, the champagne. Jerome’s cousin had been at the Cliff House, and he’d tied the bicycles to his carriage and brought us all back because riding was impossible. It had been stuffy with all of us piled inside, sitting on each other, and the carriage swaying, and—

I ran for the bathroom.

Afterward, I felt marginally better, but the room remained shaky and my head began to pound, and the only thing to do was to lie very, very still, and to think of nothing.

I heard a sound, a squeak. Mice. I closed my eyes again, but then I remembered I wasn’t in the boardinghouse; there were no mice here, and there was the sound again, a hush, the quiet click of a door. Aunt Florence, sleepwalking again. Or Goldie, sneaking out as she had the last time, disappearing into the night, dark coated, a waft of jasmine . . . Oh, but even my curiosity was not enough to prod me into rising. I heard footsteps down the hall—or I thought I heard footsteps. It could have been a dream. It was a dream. Only a dream.





When I woke, it was late morning, and I was cloaked in sweat and faintly nauseated. I’d fallen onto the bed without even removing my boots. My tam flipped into my face, and I tore the hat from my head without a care for the pins that came with it. Half of my hair tumbled loose. I managed to take off my boots, and staggered to the dressing table, where I saw in the mirror that the chenille bedcover had imprinted itself upon my cheek.