Hannah allowed herself a wry smile. “The home where I grew up could not have been more different than Lakecrest.”
“Good thing you arrived to whip everyone into shape.”
Marjorie had a talent for delivering insults as if they were compliments, but Hannah continued as if her daughter hadn’t spoken.
“You can’t imagine how difficult it was to plan a simple dinner, with Obadiah keeping such irregular hours. He might sleep till noon, then demand a roast at midnight.”
“Not to mention Cecily and her acolytes,” Marjorie said.
I caught Matthew’s quick shake of his head and saw Hannah’s face stiffen.
“Acolytes?” I asked, all innocence.
“Her devotees.” Marjorie looked at me. “She’d have girls come to stay. They’d study art and Greek tragedies and run around in the moonlight. Among other things.”
“Now, now—” Hannah tried to wrest back control of the conversation, but I took advantage of her hesitation. I was curious why Marjorie didn’t share Matthew’s worshipful attitude toward Cecily.
“She sounds like quite an interesting woman,” I said.
“She was,” Marjorie said. “Nearly ruined the family, though. Isn’t that right, Mum?”
Hannah glared at her daughter, willing her to be silent. Matthew was looking back and forth between them, strangely lifeless, his self-possession chipped away once again by his mother and sister. I’d have been irritated if I wasn’t so set on hearing more about Cecily.
Marjorie turned her attention back to me, her voice bubbly with mischief. “There were all sorts of lurid rumors. How Aunt Cecily was a bad influence on her poor innocent students. What they got up to, frolicking around the grounds. Do you know, I even heard a rumor about a human sacrifice, right here at Lakecrest.”
“Stop!” Hannah’s voice crashed down with an almost physical force. Marjorie jerked back in surprise, and my body tingled, all my senses warning me of danger. Matthew stared at the table, shoulders sagging, looking as if he wished he were anywhere else.
“I will not have such talk in this house.” Hannah took a deep breath. Then, shifting with disconcerting ease into her usual formal tone, she asked me, “Shall I ring for the next course?”
Just like that, Cecily was banished. But I will always wonder if that conversation was the spark for what happened later that night, the night I will always think of as the true beginning of my marriage.
I’d begged off spending more time with Hannah and Marjorie in the drawing room after dinner, and Matthew followed me to our room soon after. Drained from a day of forced cheeriness, I read a book while Matthew wrote letters, a comfortably domestic arrangement that I hoped might become our regular routine. Afterward, we went through our usual bedtime intimacies: under the covers, in the dark, in polite silence. He ended as he always did, with a contented sigh and a kiss, and I wondered if our marital relations would ever develop into something more. But I couldn’t find a way to ask without hurting Matthew. I didn’t want him to think I was unhappy, not with our relationship still on such new, untested ground.
Matthew had an endearing way of slipping one arm over my chest and pressing his leg against my side, anchoring us together as we fell asleep. I eased my body into his, soothed by the thought of him watching over me. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to think only of that security, not what I’d been through that day or what would come tomorrow. It couldn’t have been a few minutes before I drifted off.
I was wrenched awake by a harsh wail that sent my heart pounding with terror. Struggling to orient myself in the dark, staring at dim shapes in the unfamiliar room, I saw the outline of the bedside table and fumbled for the lamp. When I pressed the switch, the sudden burst of light made me wince, and it was a moment before I could make out the source of that awful, tortured noise. Matthew was huddled against the headboard, his eyes clenched shut, his pajama shirt damp with sweat. He was crying out in pain and despair, a sound that seemed to pour from the depths of his soul. I touched his shoulder, and when he didn’t respond, I squeezed his arm and called out his name. I had no idea what was wrong or what I could do to help. All I wanted was for the screaming to stop.
I will never forget Matthew’s face as he slowly opened his eyes and looked at me. Panic had twisted his perfect features into something terrifying. He lunged forward, forcing me back onto the bed, pressing his arms against my chest so hard I gasped for breath. Then he locked his fingers around my neck and squeezed.
CHAPTER SIX
Panicked, heart pounding, I tried to breathe. My mouth gaped open in a desperate search for air, and my feet writhed in revolt, but the weight of Matthew’s body kept my chest and hips crushed against the bed.
Time stopped. I thought I was going to die.
“Oh, God! Kate!”
Matthew’s hands flew away from my throat, and he jerked backward. I gulped in the precious air, my muscles tense, legs poised to leap from the bed and run. Matthew’s shoulders rose and fell in time with his ragged breathing. He looked like a wild animal caught in a trap. A victim, not a killer.
I curled my legs inward and wrapped my arms around them like a shield. I stared at Matthew, my eyes asking the question I couldn’t put into words. Why?
“Oh, my darling,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry. I had a bad dream.”
He reached a hand toward my face, and I flinched. He leaned away, and the mattress creaked as we separated, creating a buffer of space between us. Only hours before, our bodies had sought each other out in this bed; I’d felt safe and cherished in my husband’s arms. Now I couldn’t bear for him to touch me.
“It was more than a dream,” I said curtly.
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” he said. His expression acknowledged it was a feeble excuse.
I tipped my head to the side so the lamplight fell on my neck, which still throbbed with the imprint of his fingers. I could tell from his anguished expression that he’d left marks. That he hated himself for what he’d done. Despite my apprehension, his misery tugged at my heart.
“You won’t understand,” he said.
“Tell me,” I demanded.
Matthew’s voice seemed to be coming from very far away. “I still see them. After all this time.”
“Who?”
“The boys. From the trenches. The boys I was supposed to save.”
The trenches. When Matthew had spoken of his time in the war—which was seldom—he was amusingly self-deprecating, making fun of the way he had nearly fainted at the sight of blood or made a mess of wrapping bandages. Stories of long ago, amusing escapades. That night, he finally told me the truth.
“You can’t imagine the state of the bodies they brought into that field hospital. And I was expected to patch them up.”
“I’m sure you did the best you could.”