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“It isn’t lying.” Roberta looked up from her book and directed her gaze at CeCe, lying in the bed. “We talked about this for months. It isn’t lying if it’s making someone happy. If it’s making all of us happy.”
CeCe bit her lip and looked back at Roberta. “Not Katie,” she argued. “She doesn’t get to be happy.”
So that was what was bothering her. Katie should have known. She laughed, touched despite herself. “I’ll be happiest of all,” she said. It wasn’t a lie, not completely; her heart was pounding in anticipation and a queer kind of excitement. She was ready. Was that the same as happy? She didn’t know, and in this moment she didn’t particularly care. She had just turned sixteen. What mattered was that she got what she wanted.
“It’ll be fine,” Roberta said, her voice flat.
“If it works,” CeCe said.
Katie leaned closer to the mirror, smoothing her eyebrows and lightly biting her lips. They weren’t allowed makeup at Idlewild—absolutely not—and part of her wished she had some, at least some dark eyeliner and mascara like she’d seen on movie stars, but she was afraid it would look too obvious. She definitely needed to look like a schoolgirl. “It’ll work,” she said.
CeCe lay back in the bed, pulling the covers up over her ample chest. Katie caught Roberta’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection, and they traded a look of understanding.
I’m going to do this.
Yes, you are, and we both know why.
It’s going to work. I’m going to make it.
Roberta’s gaze softened, the lines around her eyes easing, and she smiled at Katie in the mirror.
There was a knock on the door. “Ladies!” Lady Loon said. “It’s Family Visit Day. Cecelia, you have a visitor.”
Katie smoothed her expression into one of concern and opened the door. “Oh, no, Miss London,” she said. “Are you sure?”
Lady Loon looked frazzled, tendrils of hair escaping from the bun on top of her head. “Of course I’m sure, Katie,” she said. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s just that CeCe isn’t feeling very well.”
Katie stepped back, and Lady Loon stepped into the room, looking at CeCe on the bed. CeCe moaned a little. She looked positively green, probably from terror, which added to the effect.
“What is the matter?” Lady Loon asked her.
“Oh,” CeCe said, licking her lips as if they were dry. “It’s my stomach, Miss London. Is it my father who has come to see me?”
Lady Loon clenched her hands, her knuckles going white. “No, it’s—your brother, I believe.” She hated saying the words, Katie could see, keeping her face straight. Lady Loon did not like referring to CeCe’s bastard status, or her brother’s, which was what they wanted.
“Oh, no,” CeCe groaned, quite believably. “He came all this way. I can’t. I just can’t.”
“It’s very rude to turn him away,” Roberta commented calmly from over her textbook. “Can you talk to him, Miss London?”
Lady Loon’s eyes went wide. She looked positively horrified. “Me? Ladies, I am certainly not going to talk to that man.” An illegitimate bastard, she didn’t say.
“He came so far,” CeCe wailed again.
“Maybe one of us can go,” Roberta said.
“Maybe,” Katie said, as if this had just occurred to her. “Roberta, why don’t you go?”
Roberta frowned. “I have a Latin test tomorrow, and I need to study.”
Katie rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Why study?”
That made Lady Loon jump, just as it was supposed to. “Of course she needs to study, Katie Winthrop,” she said sharply. “And since you seem to be at leisure, you are to go speak to Cecelia’s brother immediately and explain the situation to him.”
“Me?” Katie put her lip out just a little, petulant. “I don’t want to go.”
“You’ll do as you’re told, young lady. Now go.”
Katie huffed a put-upon sigh and stomped out of the room. She didn’t look back.
He was sitting at a table in the dining hall, waiting. Before he noticed her, Katie took stock. He was twenty-one, according to CeCe. Dark hair slicked back. Nice suit, pressed shirt. A narrow face, gray eyes. He sat politely, no fidgeting. His hands were folded on the table in front of him, and she saw that they were elegant and masculine, the fingers long, the knuckles well formed. Nice hands, she thought, gathering her courage. I can deal with a man with nice hands.
She glanced to see that no one was looking. Then she folded the waist of her skirt with a quick twist of her wrist, making the length climb an inch above her knees, and then another. She unbuttoned the Idlewild cardigan but didn’t take it off, letting it fall open just so, so that he would be able to glimpse the stretched blouse beneath. Then she squared her shoulders and walked toward him.
He was expecting CeCe, so it took him a moment to realize she was coming his way, that she was heading for him. He lifted his chin and looked at her and froze perfectly still.
Katie blinked her tilted, long-lashed eyes at him and smiled. Sweet and knowing at the same time. Abashed, as if he was having an effect on her, yet she didn’t quite want it to show.
Joseph Eden watched her come toward him, and his eyes went wide, his jaw dropping open just a little as he watched her thighs move below the hem of her skirt.
“Hi there,” Katie said to him, pulling up a chair and sitting across from him.
“You—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “You’re not CeCe,” he managed.
She smiled at him again. “No, I’m not. I’m her roommate. She’s not feeling well today, but she felt terrible that you came all this way. So she sent me instead.” She held out her hand and leaned across the table, letting the cardigan fall open just the right way. “My name’s Katie,” she said. “Katie Winthrop.” When he shook her hand in his bigger one—Nice hands, she reminded herself—she squeezed it and leaned forward across the table. Now he’d have a hint of cleavage, hidden in the shadows of her sweater and her blouse. “I have to confess, I’ve always wanted to meet you,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
He blinked. “Me?”
“CeCe talks about you so much.” Katie let a dreamy look cross her expression. “Her wonderful brother. We’re all dying of curiosity.” She lowered her voice again. “Especially me.”
He caught her gaze, and she saw the second his shoulders relaxed. He smiled. Hooked, but not quite reeled in. Not yet. “Well, I’m Joseph,” he said. “Joseph Eden. It sure is nice of you to come and keep me company if CeCe isn’t feeling well. I did come a long way.”
She let his hand go and smiled again. He had a nice enough smile, lovely hands, and a good suit. And he wasn’t legitimate, but he was Brad Ellesmere’s only son, and would someday be his heir.
Katie was counting on it.
You make your own fate, she thought. You build it every day. This is how it begins.
“Well, then,” she said to Joseph Eden. “We have some time to kill before you go all the way home again. I think we can entertain each other. Don’t you?”
Chapter 35
Barrons, Vermont
November 2014
She had made her full statement to the police, and the doctors gave her permission to go home, so Fiona pulled clothes from the overnight bag Malcolm had brought for her and spent forty-five minutes putting them on, slowly pulling on underwear, jeans, a T-shirt, and a zip-up hoodie. The fever had broken, but she was still woozy and tired, her muscles made of melted butter. She put on socks and walked to the bathroom adjoining her hospital room, washing up the best she could. Her face in the mirror was ghostly, her skin waxen, shadows under her eyes. Her red hair looked stark under the fluorescent lights and against the pallor of her skin. She tucked it behind her ears and looked down into the sink again.
When she was finished, she walked to the bathroom door and stopped.
A woman stood in her hospital room. Small of stature, but straight of posture. Thick white hair cut short and curled. She wore a wool coat, belted at the waist, her hands in the large pockets. When Fiona made a noise in the bathroom doorway, she turned and looked at her, one eyebrow raised. It was Margaret Eden.
Fiona stared at her. She was light-headed; this felt a little surreal. She said, “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” Margaret said.
Even in her ill state, Fiona didn’t think for a second that Margaret Eden was concerned about her health. “Why?” she asked.
Margaret stayed where she was, hands in the pockets of her expensive coat, and waited. Finally she said, “Fiona. Do we have something to talk about?”
Fiona stepped farther into the room, steadying herself on the doorjamb. “I know who you are,” she said. “Who you really are.”
“Do you?” The older woman seemed curious, but unconcerned.
“Yes.” Fiona felt her fingers go slick against the door, cold sweat on her palms. “You’re Katie Winthrop.”
