Woman in Black

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PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF EILEEN GOUDGE

“Eileen Goudge writes like a house on fire, creating characters you come to love and hate to leave.” —Nora Roberts, #1
New York Times
–bestselling author

Woman in Red

“Once you start this wonderful book, you won't be able to put it down.” —Kristin Hannah,
New York Times
–bestselling author

“Beautifully intertwines … two stories, two generations … [Goudge's] characters are appealing both despite of and because of their problems.” —
Library Journal

“Eileen Goudge has crafted a beautiful tale of loss, redemption and hope.
Woman in Red
is a masterpiece.” —Barbara Delinsky,
New York Times
–bestselling author

Blessing in Disguise

“Powerful, juicy reading.” —
San Jose Mercury News

The Diary

“A lovely book, tender, poignant and touching. It was a joy to read.” —Debbie Macomber,
New York Times
–bestselling author

Garden of Lies

“A page-turner … with plenty of steamy sex.” —
New Woman

“Goes down like a cool drink on a hot day.” —
Self

One Last Dance

“Enlightening and entertaining.” —
The Plain Dealer

Such Devoted Sisters

“Double-dipped passion … in a glamorous, cut-throat world … Irresistible.” —
San Francisco Chronicle

Thorns of Truth

“Goudge's adroit handling of sex and love should keep her legion of fans well-sated.” —
Kirkus Reviews

Woman in Black

“This novel is the ultimate indulgence—dramatic, involving, and ringing with emotional truth.” —Susan Wiggs,
New York Times
–bestselling author

Woman in Blue

“Romance, both old and new, abounds. Fans of Goudge's previous books, romance readers, and lovers of family sagas will enjoy the plot, characters, and resolution.” —
Booklist

“A touching story with wide appeal.” —
Publishers Weekly

Woman in Black

Eileen Goudge

To my mother
,

who is no longer with us

but who I know

is smiling down from heaven

I was in my own room as usual
—
just myself, without obvious change: nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet, where was the Jane Eyre of yesterday?
—
where was her life?
—
where were her prospects?

—F
ROM
J
ANE
E
YRE
,
BY
C
HARLOTTE
B
RONTË

The minute I heard my first love story

I started looking for you, not knowing

how blind that was
.

Lovers don't finally meet somewhere
.

They're in each other all along
.

—J
ALAL AD
-D
IN
R
UMI

PROLOGUE

GREENHAVEN, GEORGIA, 1982

The last day at 337½ Vermeer Road began like any other. Abigail's mother rose before dawn and headed over to the main house to make breakfast. It was a Sunday in August, and Mr. Meriwhether liked to eat early on weekends in order to take his morning ride in the relative cool of the day, so she was gone by the time Abigail tumbled out of bed. Abigail usually hurried to join her—it was her job to make coffee and set the table—but on that particular morning, she took her time getting dressed, choosing her outfit with care: her most flattering shorts and a sleeveless blouse that showed to advantage her breasts, which had recently emerged into a bona fide bosom. She dabbed on cologne. She peered into her bureau mirror, trying to coax a curl into her stubbornly straight hair.

Abigail had a secret. A secret that glowed like a jewel at her center, warming her and casting a rosy glow over her surroundings. The hideous landscape over the bed, painted by some long-dead Meriwhether aunt, might have been a Rembrandt and the old chifforobe that listed to one side the magic portal to Narnia. She was giddy with nervousness, wondering what was in store today. How would
he
act when she saw him at breakfast? Would it be as if last night had never happened, or was her life about to change?

Until now, life had been fairly predictable. Her mother kept house for the Meriwhethers, and she and Abigail lived in the caretaker's cottage out back, in what remained of the old pecan grove. It was the only home Abigail had known in her fifteen years: four small rooms sided in white clapboard, with an asphalt shingle roof that sagged in the middle like the backbone of an aging plow horse. But it had its own separate address, the fraction tacked onto the street number on Vermeer Road, with its suggestion of old money and gilded ancestral ties, like a dropped glove, a casually discarded silk scarf (or, as she would come to think of it in later years, as in half as good, less than whole).

From her bedroom window she had a partial view of the main house, a handsome Greek Revival mansion dating back to the Civil War era. There had never been a time when it hadn't been occupied by Meriwhethers. The original owner, Colonel Meriwhether, who'd lost a leg at Appomattox, had lived there with his wife and their six children until his death at the then ripe old age of sixty-eight. He was succeeded by his eldest son Beauregard, a successful entrepreneur who'd promptly bought up the surrounding land, fifty acres in all. By the time his grandson Ames took up residence, in the early 1960s, a good chunk of the land had been sold off, leaving the remaining acreage, a lush emerald veld of whispered wealth discreetly dotted with fountains and statuary, to grow into itself like the roots of a hothouse orchid coiled inside its pot.

As she strolled along the path to the main house, beneath a bower of ancient oak trees festooned in Spanish moss, Abigail thought back to more carefree days, when she might have been on her way to play tennis or swim in the pool, or go horseback riding with the Meriwhether twins, Vaughn and Lila, before she'd become old enough to start helping her mother out after school and on weekends.

She'd always taken it at face value whenever Mr. or Mrs. Meriwhether would proclaim, in response to a raised eyebrow or murmured comment from one of their friends, “Why, Rosalie and her daughter are like family!” For hadn't they always been treated as such? Vaughn and Lila were the closest Abigail had to a brother and sister. She took meals with Vaughn and Lila when their parents were out and often slept in the spare bed in Lila's room. To the casual observer, watching them play croquet on the lawn or splash around in the pool, Abigail and the twins, born in the same year, might have been family, except that they looked nothing alike. Abigail was tawny-skinned and long-limbed like her mother, with large dark eyes and thick hair the color of sorghum, while Vaughn and Lila were both fair and blue-eyed as a pair of lion cubs: Lila fine-boned and dainty, Vaughn fleet of foot and possessed of a fearless athleticism that by age sixteen had landed him in the hospital a few times with broken bones.

When she was younger, Abigail hadn't been aware of any class distinction. If anything, it was a badge of honor that her mother kept house for the Meriwhethers. No other home was as grand in her view and no other family as fine. If Mrs. Meriwhether drank too much and often took to her bed and Mr. Meriwhether wasn't home much due to the long hours he put in at his law office, it did nothing to diminish their stature in her eyes. It wasn't until they were thirteen and Lila and Vaughn enrolled in the exclusive Hearne Academy that the difference in social status became apparent.

Even so, the twins went out of their way to include her. They made sure to invite her to their parties and often asked her along when going out with their other friends. When they were alone together, Lila pretended to be envious of Abigail's greater freedom in attending public school and she mocked the airs put on by her snootier classmates. And woe unto any guest of Vaughn's who directed a derogatory comment at Abigail: Not only was he never invited back, but one boy found himself leaving with a bloody nose.

Vaughn was like an older brother to Abigail and Lila, never mind they were the same age. Whenever they climbed the water tower out by the old sugar refinery, he always insisted on going last, prepared to catch either of them should they fall. Diving into the quarry, where they picnicked in summer, he was the first one in, to make sure the water was deep enough to keep them from cracking their skulls. And Abigail's sophomore year, when she didn't have a date for the Christmas dance, Vaughn gallantly offered to escort her, making her the envy of every other girl there. Floating into the auditorium in a crimson velveteen dress she'd made herself, from a Vogue pattern, she felt every eye on her and the tall, un-self-consciously handsome boy at her side—eyes in which she saw the two of them reflected in an entirely new light, one that brought the blood rushing to her cheeks and made her suddenly and acutely aware of his arm circling her waist. As he guided her onto the dance floor, she was barely aware of her feet touching the ground.

Lila, for her part, became skilled at the art of giving things away without its seeming like charity. Casually, she'd toss Abigail an item of clothing out of her closet, saying, “It's missing a button, and you know I can't sew to save my life,” or “Stupid me, I caught it on a nail. You barely notice the tear, but Mother will kill me if she sees it.” And though Abigail recognized it for what it was, she didn't mind, because Lila was always so good-natured about it … and because secretly Abigail coveted those things. How else could she have owned sweaters of kitten-soft cashmere, skirts from Marshall Field's, and blouses made of real silk, not the cheap polyester kind worn by the girls in her school?