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

going to listen to a concert on the wireless, from New York. Don’t you want to—”
    Margot said, in a weary voice, “Thank you, Ramona. I think it’s best all around if I just go to bed.” She said good night to everyone and walked out of the dining room. Her shoulders were hunched now, and her steps were shorter and slower. She carried the letter, seemingly forgotten, in her hand.
    When she had gone, Dick growled, “This is unfair. None of it was Margot’s fault.”
    “But what can we do?” Ramona breathed. Allison watched the two of them, at a loss.
    “Not a damned thing.” Dick threw his napkin down, rose from the table, and held Ramona’s chair as she stood up. “No, if Father won’t take steps, there’s not a damned thing we can do.”
    Allison wondered what he meant by take steps, but she was sure it wasn’t proper to ask. Whatever was going on, it was obviously making Margot unhappy. As she followed the family out of the dining room and down the hall to the small parlor, she felt more confused than ever. This woman she had designated as her enemy had big problems of her own. It was hard not to feel sympathy for her.
     
    Margot gathered up her umbrella, dry now, and trudged across the lawn to the garage. The rain had stopped, but the cloud layer remained, thick and forbidding. Only the light she had left on at the foot of the stairs beckoned to her through the darkness.
    She didn’t remember the letter from Frank until she reached for the doorknob and found the envelope still in her hand. She tucked it into the pocket of her dress, opened the door, and dropped the umbrella into the pottery stand inside. She would wait, she thought. She would get ready for bed, make a cup of tea, and settle down at the old, scarred table to read it. She would indulge herself in imagining Frank sitting opposite her, hearing his voice in the written words. If she closed her eyes, she could see the streaks of silver gleaming in his dark hair, be enchanted anew at the vivid blue of his eyes.
    She found a fresh nightdress folded on the foot of her bed, and a wave of affection for Hattie swept over her. Hattie didn’t like her living over the garage any more than Blake would if he knew. Margot, for her part, had forbidden Hattie a dozen times to climb these narrow stairs to “do” for her, but she might as well have saved her breath. There was daily evidence of Hattie’s presence—a fresh bar of soap, a change of sheets, soiled laundry disappearing and reappearing clean, pressed, and folded. A bad cook but a good woman, the Benedicts said of Hattie. The truth of it brought a smile to Margot’s lips even now, lonely and disheartened though she felt.
    She lingered over washing her face, turning back her bed, putting on her nightdress, brewing her tea. The letter, with her name in Frank’s cramped handwriting, lay in the center of the table. While it was still unopened, she didn’t have to face what it said. It wasn’t her nature to leave it there all night, of course. She was accustomed to facing her challenges squarely. The trouble with this particular challenge was that there seemed to be no answer. No resolution. There was no response she could think of that could bridge the distance between herself and Frank.
    She sat down at the table, her teacup at her elbow, and drew the envelope toward her. Just looking at his handwriting reminded her of the comforting strength of his good right arm and the saving efficiency of his left arm. That left arm, and that mechanical hand with its cleverly jointed fingers, were a testament to how far the two of them had come.
    Margot touched the unopened envelope with her fingers. Ten days had passed since they had said good-bye, a painful and poignant farewell neither of them wanted to make. It had left a sore spot in her heart, one she knew she should stop probing, but which she couldn’t help revisiting, over and over.
    She had walked with Frank to King Street Station that misty