“There was one time I’ll always remember,” Marjorie went on. “Not long before she vanished, Aunt Cecily had a terrible fight with my father. She was shrieking like a madwoman, and I thought she really had gone bonkers. She locked herself in her room and stayed there for two days. I knocked and knocked and begged to come in, but she never answered.”
Matthew had told me something similar, about Cecily acting odd around the time of her disappearance. But he’d said nothing about a fight with Jasper, and Mabel had made it sound as if he tolerated Cecily’s activities.
“When I heard Aunt Cecily was gone, I was sad, of course,” Marjorie was saying, “but it was also a relief. I spent so much time worrying about her. It’s very hard on a child, living with that kind of uncertainty.”
“I know.”
It came out unthinkingly, and Marjorie gave me a curious look. For a moment, I thought she was going to ask me what I meant. Anyone else would have. But Marjorie wasn’t much interested in stories that didn’t center on her.
“Come this way,” she said. “I want to show you something.”
Marjorie led me through an opening in the opposite direction from where we’d walked in. A shadowy ribbon of cigarette smoke floated alongside us as we turned enough corners to make me thoroughly confused. After a few minutes of what felt like aimless wandering, Marjorie stopped in the middle of a passage that looked as if it stretched the entire width of the Labyrinth.
“It’s here somewhere,” she mumbled, stepping aside and running her hands along the wall. She pushed and prodded, then let out a self-satisfied grunt as she pried one of the bricks loose.
“Can’t have a maze without a secret passageway.” She pulled out the brick and nodded toward the empty space where it had once sat. “There’s a hook in here, and once you unlatch it . . . presto!”
A section of the wall swung out, away from us, and I could see the wintery gray expanse of water beyond. We stepped outside, onto a promontory overlooking the lake. The vegetation here was nearly knee-high, but looking down the hill abutting the shore, I could see the remains of a trail leading downward.
“Does anyone else know about this?” I asked.
Marjorie shrugged. “I’ve never brought Mum here for a picnic, if that’s what you mean. Matthew and I used to come sometimes. Not for ages, though.”
I glanced toward Lakecrest. The Temple blocked most of the view; all I could see was the house’s roofline, which meant no one there could see us.
My mind swirled with possibilities. Hannah had told me the beach was Obadiah’s creation—using sand carted in from Indiana—but that the water was relatively deep along the rest of the coastline, and I should never go swimming off the rocks. A boat could have met Cecily here that night. Or was it possible she’d rowed away on her own?
“Marjorie,” I said, heart racing, “Cecily could have slipped out of the Labyrinth here, to escape without being seen.”
“Escape? From what?”
I couldn’t say.
“Besides,” Marjorie said, “she’d never run off in the middle of the night with no luggage. Aunt Cecily was as spoiled as the rest of us.”
Marjorie flicked her eyes backward, toward the walls. “I’ve been begging Mum to tear this down for years. The Temple, too. They’re only standing because Matthew doesn’t want to betray Aunt Cecily’s memory. What does it matter? She’s dead! She must be.”
Marjorie tossed the stunted end of her cigarette to the ground and crushed it under her heel.
“They dragged the lake, you know. Looking for her body. I snuck away from Nanny and heard the policemen talking about water currents. They said if she’d done herself in, she’d wash up on shore in a few days. I avoided the beach for quite some time after that.”
“You don’t really think she killed herself, do you?” I asked.
“Whatever happened to Aunt Cecily, she’s not coming back. So it’s no use agonizing over it.”
Marjorie turned her face toward the bleak horizon. Casually, as if discussing the weather, she said, “You may be surprised to hear this, but I do like you.”
I flushed at the unexpected compliment. “Oh?”
Marjorie nodded, confident in the rightness of her approval. “You’re good for Matthew. You keep him calm.”
“I’m worried his nightmares are getting worse,” I said. Hesitant.
“Why?” She gave me a troubled look.
“He sees Cecily’s body. Covered in blood.”
I’d assumed Matthew confided everything to his sister, but it was clear from Marjorie’s reaction that she hadn’t known.
“Poor Matts.”
She looked so sad, so stricken, that I found myself reaching out to touch her shoulder. She twisted away. How like Marjorie to offer the possibility of friendship and then tug it back.
“I’m doing everything I can to make him better,” I said.
“You can’t,” she muttered.
“I have to try. He’s my husband.”
“Yes. But you’ll never be able to understand him, not the way you want.” Marjorie looked toward Lakecrest. “You have no idea what it means, to be a Lemont.”
I am a Lemont! I wanted to taunt her. But I wasn’t. Not yet.
“We’d better go back,” Marjorie said flatly. “Mum will send out a search party if we’re late for afternoon tea.”
I scurried to keep up with Marjorie’s long, decisive strides. We made our way back to the lakefront path in silence, and I thought the conversation was over. As we approached Lakecrest, Marjorie stopped and turned around.
“I meant what I said earlier. I like you.” Her brittle tone undercut the compliment, but I faked a grateful smile. “The best thing you can do for Matthew is to be a devoted, obedient wife. Have a pile of gorgeous babies and host luncheons and don’t meddle in matters that don’t concern you.”
Always one for dramatic exits, Marjorie left before I could respond. Her words echoed through my head, and something she’d said revived a fear I’d been trying to quash. As soon as we arrived back at the house, I snuck away to phone Blanche.
Two days later, in the consultation room of the doctor Blanche recommended, I discovered my suspicions were correct. I was pregnant.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Matthew and I had agreed to wait. I’d taken the necessary precautions, and I figured we’d have a few years to travel and enjoy ourselves. Sure, I’d missed my monthly in January, but I’d skipped once or twice before, when I was wound up tight with worries, and it had come back with no problems afterward. It wasn’t until I counted up the weeks and realized I hadn’t bled for two months that I felt uneasy.
And now I knew for sure.