Hellfire

stop me!”

Beth stared at Tracy, fighting back her anger. “Just go away,” she finally managed to say. “Just go away and leave me alone.”

The, two girls stared at each other for several long seconds, Tracy’s eyes glittering with rage while Beth struggled against the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. Then, at last, Tracy turned and stamped out of the room.

As soon as Tracy was gone, Beth ran to the door and locked it, then returned to her bed. Sobbing, she buried her head in the pillow.

It wasn’t going to get any better, despite what her father had told her. It was only going to get worse, and it wouldn’t matter what she did, or how much she pretended.

Tracy would still hate her.

Her sobs slowly subsided, and she lay in bed wondering what tomorrow would be like.

But she already knew.

It would start at breakfast.

She would sit miserably at the table in the breakfast room, trying to figure out which spoon to use for what.

Old Mrs. Sturgess would ignore her, just like she always did.

But Tracy would watch her, waiting for her to make a mistake, so that she could laugh when Beth made one.

And she would say or do something wrong. She always did.

But what if she didn’t go down for breakfast? What if she got up early, and sneaked down to have breakfast with Hannah? Then she could go down to the stable and see the horses, and after that—

— What?

Tracy would come, and tell her she didn’t know anything about horses, and that she should leave them alone.

And the trouble was, Tracy was right.

Beth didn’t know anything about horses. She didn’t know anything about anything in this house, and she’d never learn.

She snuggled deeper under the covers, and closed her eyes. Maybe, if she pretended hard enough, she could convince herself that she was back in the house on Cherry Street, where she’d lived before. And she could pretend that her parents were still married, and—

— and she couldn’t do it.

Her parents weren’t still married. Her mother was married to Uncle Phillip, and she had to get used to it.

She had to, and she would. Her mother wanted her to, and so did her father.

She turned over, telling herself that it wasn’t really so bad. It was a nice house, even if it was too big, and Uncle Phillip was always kind to her.

If she could only figure out some way to make Tracy like her.

Slowly, sleep reached out to her …

And in the night, she dreamed of Tracy.

Tracy was trying to kill her.

Despite the June warmth in the glassed-in breakfast room, Carolyn could feel the chill emanating from her mother-in-law, and the cold hatred from her stepdaughter. Phillip, engrossed in the financial pages of The Wall Street Journal, appeared oblivious of the strain in the room, though she was certain that he was listening to every word spoken. And when he at last felt compelled to put an end to the argument that had been going on for the last twenty minutes, she knew that he would come down firmly on her side.

It had begun when Carolyn had first come in that morning, and seen that her daughter’s place was not occupied.

“Isn’t Beth down yet?” she’d asked.

Abigail had peered at her over the tops of her reading glasses.

“I believe she took her breakfast with Hannah this morning,” she’d said, managing to convey that though she didn’t approve of members of her family eating with the servants, she was willing to overlook the breach in Beth’s case.

Beth, after all, wasn’t a Sturgess, and couldn’t be expected to meet the Sturgess standards of behavior.

Then she’d offered Carolyn a bright smile, and suggested that, since Beth was not present, perhaps they should discuss Tracy’s birthday party.

Carolyn’s guard had immediately gone up, particularly when she saw the slight smile on Tracy’s lips.

Now, almost half an hour later, Tracy was glaring at her, her blue eyes glittering with barely controlled fury beneath her creased brows.

“But Beth won’t even enjoy my party,” Tracy began, taking a new tack. “She won’t know how to dress, or what to say. She doesn’t know any of my friends, and they don’t know her!”

“Then perhaps it would be good for them to get to know her,” Carolyn said placidly, unwilling to reveal her own anger. “And perhaps we ought to invite some of Beth’s friends, too. It certainly seems to me that it would be good for you to get to know them. After all, you’re going to be going to school with them next year.”

“That has hardly been decided yet,” Abigail put in, laying her napkin aside in a gesture Carolyn had long since learned to recognize as a danger signal. “After Phillip and I have discussed the quality of the Westover schools, we’ll make the final decision.”

“We’ve already talked about it, Mother,” Phillip said, putting his newspaper aside. “The decision has been made. Next year Tracy goes to public school.”

“I’ve told you, I’m quite willing to pay her tuition out of my own funds—” Abigail began, but Phillip cut her off.

“Funds are not the point. The point is that neither I nor Carolyn is pleased with Tracy’s school.”

“And just what would Carolyn know about Tracy’s school?” Abigail asked, her voice taking on an acid quality she no longer tried to hide. “I hardly think,” she went on, casting a haughty half-smile in her daughter-in-law’s direction, “that your Carolyn is in any position to judge the quality of private schools.”

“That is not what we are talking about right now,” Carolyn replied, ignoring Abigail’s frosty gaze. Then, noting the beginnings of a grin playing around Phillip’s mouth, she stretched her foot under the table and kicked him. The grin threatened to grow for a split second, then he managed to suppress it. Carolyn continued, “What we’re talking about is Tracy’s party, and it seems to me that we’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Aside from the fact that my daughter is a perfectly nice girl, whose feelings I have no intention of letting either of you trample on, I think that you, Abigail, might keep in mind that her father happens to be an Alderman, and while that doesn’t make him a Sturgess — or a Babcock, a Kilpatrick, or a Bailey, either — it does give him a certain amount of power.” She let her eyes bore directly into Abigail’s. “Back when you were Tracy’s age, the Board of Aldermen consisted of your father, Phillip’s grandfather, Jeremiah Bailey, and Fred Kilpatrick. Aside from the fact that they were the Aldermen, they were also very rich.”

“The people voted for them,” Abigail snapped.

“Of course they did. The people worked for them, too, which might have had something to do with the way they cast their votes. But all that’s over, and it’s time you understood it. There are no Baileys, Kilpatricks, Babcocks, or Sturgesses on the board anymore. But the board still runs Westover, and the board still has to pass on all the permits that Phillip is going to need for future projects.” She paused, noting that Abigail flinched slightly, and surreptitiously glanced at her son.

Phillip, she was almost certain, was suppressing another grin.

“Given what you want to do with the mill, Abigail, you should understand the value of being on good terms with the board. There are a lot of people — and I am among them — who feel the mill should be left as it is, or torn down. I, of course, won’t fight Phillip. But others will. And snubbing Beth on Tracy’s birthday isn’t going to help your cause. It will hurt me, and I don’t even want to think about what it will do to Beth. But it will infuriate Alan.”

“I can’t imagine that Alderman Rogers is even aware of Tracy’s party,” Abigail observed archly.