Free Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) by Cate Campbell Page A

“She spent all Mother’s money on that clinic, and then Preston . . . Preston . . .”
    Dickson shoved back his chair, the wood creaking in protest, and stood up. He strode around the table to Edith, surprising Leona, who had just come in with a tray. The maid made a small, startled sound and took a step back, the dessert plates on her tray sliding and clicking against one another. Dickson sidestepped her, reached his wife, and bent to take her elbows and pull her gently up and out of her chair. “Edith,” he said, with a crack in his gruff voice. “Edith, come with me. Let’s go into the small parlor.” She protested, something wordless, and he kept murmuring, “Come now, dear. Come with me.” He put an arm around her slender back and guided her toward the door.
    Allison watched all of this, embarrassed but fascinated. The misery emanating from Margot, at her elbow, was like a wave of cold from an open window in wintertime. Dick, from the opposite side of the table, said, “Don’t worry, Margot. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
    Ramona pressed her palms together, as if in prayer, and said, “Dick, I don’t see how we can go on like this. Your mother’s really not well.”
    Cousin Margot shook her head at Leona, who was trying to serve her dessert. It was some sort of custard, with a curl of whipped cream on the top of it. It looked tantalizing, but Allison also refused it.
    Leona settled for placing dessert in front of Dick and Ramona, then backed out of the dining room, the tray in her hands. Loena peeked over her shoulder, and the two maids whispered to each other, something Allison couldn’t catch. Dick ate the custard in a few quick bites, as if it were medicine he was forcing down. Ramona poked at it with a listless spoon, and gave Allison a sad smile across the table. “I’m sorry, Cousin Allison,” she said. “Mother Benedict hasn’t recovered from Preston’s . . . that is, from losing Preston.”
    Allison found her voice at last, though her throat was dry. “It’s very sad,” she said. “Poor Aunt Edith.” In truth, she was stunned by such naked infirmity, the evidence of real illness. Her own mother’s nervous attacks appeared even less convincing in the face of the scene she had just witnessed. “What was she . . . what did she mean?”
    “Nothing. Nothing,” Dick said roughly.
    Cousin Margot made a bitter sound that might have been a laugh. “Cousin Allison is going to be in the house for some time, Dick. She might as well know.”
    The dining room door opened once more, and Hattie’s round, perspiring face appeared. “Miss Margot, a letter came for you.” She pulled it out of her apron pocket, a slender white envelope with blue script on it, and handed it over. “It’s from California. I thought you’d want to have it right away.”
    “I do, Hattie. Thanks.” Margot took the letter and held it without opening it.
    Hattie, scrubbing her hands on the hem of her apron, scanned the table and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Now, I made that nice butterscotch custard, and hardly nobody ate any of it!”
    Dick said stoutly, “It was delicious, Hattie.”
    Ramona said, “Mrs. Edith was upset. It spoiled our appetites. I’m sorry.”
    “Now, don’t you never mind that, Mrs. Ramona.” Hattie bustled around the table to pick up the two dessert plates. “Don’t you never mind. You all just enjoy your coffee, and I’ll go see if Mrs. Edith and Mr. Dickson are doing all right. Maybe some tea for Mrs. Edith . . .” Her last words faded away as she hurried out of the dining room and the door swung closed behind her.
    Margot said, “I hope Mother isn’t still taking laudanum. There are serious problems with long-term use. I’ll speak to Dr. Creedy.”
    “He was here yesterday,” Ramona said.
    “Good.” Margot pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’ll call him tomorrow. Now, will you excuse me, everyone? Cousin Allison?”
    Ramona said, “But we’re