Dead to Her by Sarah Pinborough
Dedication
For the real Marcie and Jason (and their cat collective . . . )
With much love.
Part One
Epigraph
Hell is empty, and all the devils are here . . .
The Tempest
1.
The candle burns.
Crisp paper. A pen.
WHAT HAPPENED TO JONNY?
Envelope.
Seal.
Whisper.
Wait.
2.
You can’t tame a wild thing.
The thought bubbled up from someplace deep inside Marcie, a ripple in the stagnant water that had become her life. She could feel Eleanor’s appraising eyes on the guests, looking down from the gilt-framed portrait that still hung on the staircase wall, overshadowing them all. Dead less than a year. What would she make of this turn of events?
A hubbub of quietly spoken comments from the tight circle of people among whom Marcie stood fluttered in the warm air. Elsewhere, the tension of repressed snickers and sideways glances.
“Well my, will you look at that.”
“The old dog.”
“Has he lost weight? Sure doesn’t look like a man ready to retire.”
“I didn’t know what I was expecting, but she is something . . . else.”
“And so young.”
She was young, this newcomer among them, this second Mrs. William Radford IV. What, twenty-two? Younger? Twenty-three at the most. Eleanor had been forty years older than that when she died.
“There’s no fool like an old fool.” Iris. Ever dry. Eleanor’s close friend since they’d been young together a different world ago. It was Iris who’d done her best to keep Eleanor the elegant Savannah belle she’d long been, even when the cancer had ravaged her to skeletal. By the end her makeup was so thick Marcie had thought Eleanor looked like Baby Jane, but what could she say? She’d said the same as everyone else did, My, you’re looking so well, Eleanor. Always so lovely. Can I fetch you a sweet tea?
This new wife, though, this black second wife, was ravishing, not ravaged. Her skin shone with health and strength. She was sleek and proud with strong, slim limbs and perfect curves at hip and bust. Hair, straightened and glossy, was pulled back tight. A small belly that promised a steak indulgence rather than a rabbit salad. The kind of belly men loved in women and women hated in themselves.
She came down the sweeping stairway smiling, with her chin held high, eyes alight with pride as if the man on her arm were a handsome movie star, not a sixty-five-year-old with vein-purple cheeks, who may have lost some weight, but on whom years of indulgence had taken their toll. William Radford IV was the epitome of indulged; wasn’t that why they were all there after all?
Neither bride nor groom looked toward the painting of the last wife, whose influence lay like a film all over the magnificent house.
Eyes scanned the new wife’s gold dress—Versace maybe—figure hugging, but an inch too short for this society crowd. The heels—half an inch too high. The jewelry, thick coils around her neck and hanging from her ears, impressive but attention-seeking. All the women—nearly all over fifty—would be making the same assessment: she’s not one of us. Marcie knew how that felt.
“Her name’s Keisha.” Elizabeth bustled over, dragging Marcie’s attention away. Staid office wear had been abandoned for the night in favor of a green dress that looked new—although certainly not Versace. Elizabeth’s short, dark, curly hair, run through with wiry gray, had been fluffed up so she looked like an aging poodle. Did Elizabeth feel it too? This frisson of excitement—of change? Their feathers being ruffled by the sudden arrival of this cuckoo?
“She’s just turned twenty-two and is from London,” Elizabeth continued, leaning in closer, eyes twinkling with as yet unspilled gossip, happy to have snippets of information to share that might make her feel part of the set. There was a fondness for her, but it was the kind of affection you might give an old dog simply because it always wanted to please you.
Elizabeth might have been Eleanor’s assistant forever—and then William’s when Eleanor got too sick—but she was still only staff. William said she was family, but Marcie knew better. Real family mattered in this circle of friends. Your blood. How far back your name went. There was pride in history. Elizabeth had no eminent cotton or sugar ancestry and no style. She’d been stillborn into the waters of this society.
“That’s where they met: London. Four months ago. A whirlwind romance. William wanted to keep their early return as a surprise, but someone had to get them home and arrange all this.” Elizabeth wafted a hand around as if she’d been spending her own money on the occasion. “He swore me to secrecy. But thank the lord for Julian and Pierre. They truly do organize the best parties.” She smiled again.
“Here come the happy couple,” Emmett muttered—William was always going to bring her to them first, his best friends, the club set—and then it was a flurry of exclamations and smiles and wafts of perfume as each of the women leaned in to air kiss the pair. Marcie, the other second wife, the older second wife, took a few involuntary steps backward as the rest crowded in. Close up, Keisha was even more magnificent. Her skin was a deep rich brown. She glowed. Eleanor had glowed once too.