He stares into his glass, giving the melting ice a swirl. “I assume they will—at some point. But when that time comes, my son will marry a woman who will know how to help him be successful.”
“How do you know I can’t help him?”
“Our way of life comes with a very specific set of rules, Miss Roussel. And there isn’t room for someone who doesn’t understand them. It’s my job to make you see that.”
A fresh wave of clamminess hits me as his words penetrate. He’s telling me he has no intention of letting the wedding go forward. The roses on the wallpaper spin dizzily. I drop my eyes to the floor and reach for the edge of the bureau to steady myself. There are tears in my eyes, my throat.
“You’ve written to him, haven’t you? To tell him you don’t approve. That’s why you asked if I’d had a letter. Not because you were worried. Because you expect him to write to me and break it off.” He doesn’t say anything, but I see that I’m right. “You’re going to make him choose,” I say quietly. “Between you and me.”
“Life is choosing, Miss Roussel. And I intend to make sure my son chooses wisely.”
“What happens when he chooses me over you?”
He smiles, a thin, unpleasant expression that sends a chill through me. “How long have you known my son? Six months? Seven? I’ve known him all his life. He’s always had a soft spot for strays. He’s like his mother in that way, always taking up for some cause or other. But he’s been raised to know what’s expected of him. He may have forgotten while in France, but he’ll remember soon enough.” The smile vanishes as he sets his empty glass on the bureau and turns to leave. “He won’t choose you.”
I stand there a moment, holding my breath until he’s gone, then rush to the bathroom and bring up my dinner.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SOLINE
The Work is our legacy to the world, the spells we weave, the hearts we bind, and all the generations that come after. These are our gifts made manifest.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
29 October 1943—Newport
It’s a Friday afternoon, and the house is eerily quiet when I return from my afternoon walk on the beach. Thia is home from school again, though I haven’t seen her for several days. Belinda will only say that she’s under the weather and that her father doesn’t want her disturbed. Owen has been scarce as well, locked away in either his room or his study, leaving me to dine alone.
My mood has grown dark of late. I’m so isolated here, unmoored from my own world and a stranger in Anson’s. I have no friends here, no means of filling my time or striking out on my own. The days stretch before me with no horizon and no news from Anson on which to pin my hopes. Thia is my one happiness, and I suspect I am hers. Owen suspects it too, though he isn’t above keeping us apart to hurt me.
As I climb the stairs, I find myself wondering what kind of woman could love a man like Owen Purcell, a man who treats his children like pieces on a chessboard, to be moved only when and where it suits him. Yet, in spite of her cold and dictatorial husband, Lydia Purcell managed to raise a pair of warm and wonderful children.
I’m nearly to the end of the gallery when I hear a faint rustling and realize the door to my room is ajar. I feel my spirits lift at the thought of finding Thia sitting cross-legged on my bed with one of her sketchbooks. Instead I find Owen standing over the bed, pawing through the contents of my dress box.
“What are you doing?”
He glares at me. There’s no remorse in his expression, only annoyance that he’s been interrupted. His jaw is peppered with pale stubble, and his eyes are puffy and bloodshot. He looks as if he’s aged ten years, and grown smaller somehow, since our last conversation. And then I realize what has changed. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in something other than one of his impeccably tailored suits. Instead, he’s wearing a gray cardigan and trousers that look as though they’ve been slept in. The change is shocking.
“What does it look like? I’m going through your box of secrets.” His words are slurred, his S’s thick and wet. It’s barely three o’clock, and he’s clearly been drinking for hours.
I smother a curse when I see my dress—the one I’m meant to marry Anson in—lying at his feet, a froth of beads and white silk twisted around his ankles. I bend down and snatch it up, cradling it against me like a rescued child. “You have no right to go through my things.”