It is morning. Astoundingly, I have slept through the entire night.
“We’ve been up for hours looking for you!” says Mavis.
“I don’t…I didn’t…” I yawn and stretch. What a wonderful rest.
“Hurry, now. I’ve got a fresh dress right here. You’ll need to change quick to catch the last of breakfast. You’ve had us in a tizzy. Missus Sullivan was just about ready to declare you a slattern who’d eloped with some fancy man from the city.”
“How unsurprising.” I am yanking out of my nightgown and then splashing with water from the pitcher and basin that Mavis has brought. When I enter the dining room for breakfast, it’s with a sense that my strange antics have been recently discussed.
“Jennie, it has come to my attention that you must move into the yellow room,” Aunt announces first thing.
I blink across at her. “The yellow room? Are you quite sure?”
“Do you propose sleeping again in Will’s room as you did last night? Do you find that an appropriate arrangement?”
Chastened, I look down at my plate.
“A perfect choice,” Quinn adds, so swiftly that I realize it was his idea. “After all, I’m not moving. I’m jolly as a bear in your old room, with my books and papers taking up every shelf and crevice.”
Uncle Henry rustles his newspaper but doesn’t rub at his head.
“Thank you, Aunt Clara.” It might be the first time in months I’ve said these words to Aunt and meant them. Outwardly the yellow room holds more worth than the ring on my finger. It is a room fit for the lady of the house.
Which, apparently, is what I am again.
“The yellow room’s the prettiest, I’ve always thought,” Quinn murmurs when he finds me there later that afternoon. My unpacking has been distracted by the discovery of a book of zoological prints. “I hope you do, too. And won’t feel compelled to wander.”
I stiffen. “Quinn, I didn’t mean to fall asleep in Will’s room. But late at night, I am plagued…”
“Yes, yes. I know.” His eyes flicker. “You’re not the only one with ghosts.”
On the end table Lotty has left a tray with a fresh pot of tea to stave off the chill of the day. I prepare Quinn a cup, which he takes as he moves to the window, twitching the drape.
“Oh!” The book falls from my lap as I see it. My heart is pounding. I didn’t realize that this was my view. Through the frost on the glass, I can see the outline of the butternut tree.
“What? It’s only our swinging tree,” says Quinn.
“It’s the…shape. It has always reminded me of a witch.” I attempt a laugh, though the sight of the tree truly scares me.
Quinn frowns. “I’ll have the hired man chop it down. We’ll plant some weeping cherries there. Come next spring, you’ll have a view of pink blossoms instead of that crooked old crone.” He turns from the window to retrieve and hand back the book that has tumbled across the carpet. “What’s this you’re reading?”
“Animals of the Orient.” I shuffle through, looking for the page. “If I saw a rhinoceros, if there really is such a beast, I’d faint dead away. There, look.” I find it, with its terrifying one-horned head and splayed feet.
“Let’s travel to the Orient this fall.”
“Trot the globe together, you and I?” I ask softly.
“Why not? Lately I feel as if anything’s possible with you at my side.” As Quinn moves to pull me up to face him, my lips spontaneously nip the bottom of his chin, grazing it. Quinn’s mouth isn’t as full as Will’s, nor as yielding, but his need is imperative, with rougher edges. It excites me.
Did I desire Quinn even then? Is that why I am haunted by the anger of his brother?
The sound of a polite cough makes me jump.
“Madame Broussard.” I step away from Quinn. “I didn’t know you were expected here.”
“Your aunt summoned me.” The dressmaker looks embarrassed. She smooths her impeccably smooth shirtwaist. “I’ve just done another round of fittings for Mrs. Pritchett. She sent me to find you. She told me you’ll need a new dress for young Mr. Pritchett’s dinner party.”
“Dinner party?” I’m confused.
“My twentieth birthday,” Quinn explains. “Mother wants a lavish spectacle. There’s no getting her off it.”
“But we hardly ”
“It’s an occasion. We can announce our engagement then, so you’ll need to look as sweet as a tea rose.”
“A new party dress is such a luxury in these times.”
Quinn’s fingers fan off my words. “What’s sauce for the goose why, I’m forever dashing into town to the tailor for this and that.” He taps his heels. “If I’m going to play the dandy on my birthday, there’s got to be enough in the coffers for a frock for you.”
“I haven’t clipped out a pattern in ages,” I protest. “I have no idea what’s in fashion.”
“I’ll bring patterns next time,” Madame assures. “But with your flair, Mademoiselle, you ought to sew the lacework yourself.”
But after she leaves, I speak my mind. “Quinn, for heaven’s sake. The whole house has overheard your epic battles with Aunt about the budget,” I remind him. “I could wear a flour sack to your party and have fun.”
“Our party. And perish all thoughts of flour sacks. You forget, Father has agreed that I should start my clerkship at the bank next month.”
“You feel well enough to work?”
“I’ve got the strength of a thousand men since we’ve been betrothed.” Quinn winds me to him, kissing me again. I feel the warm print of his lips burnishing mine. I lean into the crook of his elbow, but when I look up again, I see it.
Traced as if by a finger into the fogged window glass, the image of the crooked little heart nearly stops my own. I break from Quinn’s embrace, my insides lurching, my knuckles stifling my scream.
“Is this your wretched idea of a joke?”
“What…?” He crosses to the window to inspect. “Why, it’s just like the heart on the butternut tree.”
“Why did you do that? Why?” My voice saws upward in panic.
“Me? This is ridiculous.” Quinn erases the heart in one wipe of his shirtsleeve. “Jennie, I don’t want to play this game. We both know you drew on the glass.”