Gilded Lies

  Gilded Lies

  J.S. Martin

  Copyright © 2022 by J.S. Martin

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, situations, characters, are purely imaginative and do not represent any real persons or circumstances.

  Cover design by Rena Violet at www.coversbyviolet.com

  Contents

  Dedication

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Gleaming Truths Coming Fall 2022

  To those that decide to make their own truth.

  Chapter One

  Henry Rutledge was a thief of the worst kind. No one in Shiloh knew how many hearts he had stolen with a mere glance, but I didn’t care. None of them mattered. Only I knew the boy who wore a crown of gorgeous blonde hair and a smile that rivaled the sun wasn’t as golden as he seemed. Under a sky full of stars, I’d traced the seductive line of his chiseled jawline with my fingertips and kissed the frown of his full mouth. When he looked at me with those baby blue eyes of his, I couldn’t help but drown.

  And I had. Over and over, since I was fifteen.

  That was the year Papa sent me to Atlanta for boarding school to deal with my…behavior. But when summer came, I always looked forward to Henry. We spent plenty of sultry nights sneaking out the back door of Winterhill Manor to watch fireflies down by the catfish pond at midnight. It was something we did every summer. On the old wooded dock, we’d share secrets, hopes, and dreams. Then, one night before I returned to Atlanta, he’d stolen my first kiss on the dock, under a full moon, after he’d drowned my heart in those pools of ocean blue.

  But this summer was different.

  When Papa showed up in the middle of spring semester and moved me back to Shiloh, I knew it could only mean one thing. The money was running out. Another year of crops failing to yield left my family’s business on the verge of bankruptcy, and no one knew how long before the rest of Shiloh discovered my father’s shame. More than ever, I needed Henry. But spring bloomed into summer, and Henry stayed hidden.

  Until this morning.

  “Lily!” hissed my sister Rose as she reached a white gloved hand over to pinch my elbow. I stifled a yelp as I swatted her hand away. Rose was younger than me by two years, but insisted she play the part of the more responsible sister. As much as it annoyed me, deep down I knew it was my fault she acted that way.

  Rose sighed, waving her folded sandalwood fan faster in front of her red face. “Church is no place for daydreamin’. If you’d looked at young Pastor Rutledge any harder, you’d burn a hole right through ‘im.”

  I tried not to cringe at her accented words. I’d done everything I could to make my accent scarce once I moved to the city, to erase that part of me, but Rose fully embraced it as part of her persona.

  My sister was content in Shiloh, for reasons I couldn’t understand. She’d taken Momma’s spot as the lady of the house. She handled all the charitable affairs, staffing, and maintenance of Winterhill Manor. Papa had deemed me unfit for the task after one too many outbursts and shipped me to Atlanta.

  “For you to learn some discipline,” he’d said sternly.

  I’d done the opposite. Drinking, gambling, and dancing to the devil’s music. I’d even bobbed my hair, just to see the look of disdain on his face.

  I peeled the front of my lavender day dress away from my chest, trying to ignore the sweat that beaded down my back. The dress was from an older collection, but the tubular shape was still in style, as was the chiffon sash that accented the dropped waist. Most women of my status wouldn’t be caught dead in last season’s frock, and I prayed no one really noticed, but that was wishful thinking. I’d heard the whispers as I’d stepped through the chapel doors. The Winters sisters never went unnoticed.

  There were two air conditioners in the sanctuary, but Georgia heat in late August was a formidable beast to quell. As Old Man Rutledge barreled on with the usual hellfire and brimstone sermon, I dabbed my handkerchief at my neck and brow.

  “Yes, well, Henry wasn’t a pastor the last time I was in Shiloh, Rose,” I defended as I adjusted myself on the pew. “I’m just having a hard time seeing it.”

  That was an understatement. The Henry I knew had never wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. He wanted to move to New Orleans and play trumpet in a jazz band. He wanted to run through a waterfall of confetti during a Mardi Gras parade on Royal Street. The Henry I knew dreamed of a life bigger than Shiloh. But here he sat, after dodging all my attempts to see him, with a Bible open on his lap in the front row of Olive Grove Baptist.

  Rose sighed before she leaned closer to me, and despite the sweltering weather, she still smelled like her signature Chanel perfume. Momma’s perfume. A part of me felt a stab of envy. Georgia brought humidity from Hell, but Rose sat in the church pew with not a blonde curl out of place under her white hat, or a smudge to her red lipstick. The picture of Southern perfection.

  But that was just Rose. She took after Momma in that way, always a true Southern belle. Polite and poised, a lovely little wallflower any man would be proud to wear on his arm. Everything I could never be.

  “Well, you’re already drawin’ enough attention. Everyone knows you should be off at school in Atlanta this time of year. I tried to tell a few people you were takin’ a semester off, but I don’t think they bought it.”

  “Maybe people should mind their own business,” I sniped as I lifted my chin. “All these small-town people seem to do is gossip and spread rumors. Haven’t they anything better to do?”

  Rose frowned, lowering her eyes, and I immediately regretted my callous words.

  I reached for her gloved hand. “Rose, I’m so—”

  “Shh!” called an older woman in front of us, snuffing out my apology.

  I sent her a cutting glare, but Rose smiled sheepishly and whispered an apology to the old hen. The woman slid her eyes between us before sticking her nose up and turning around once again to listen to the sermon.

  I narrowed my eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had shushed me in public—or private, for that matter. No one silenced a Winters—that was my father’s motto. We made the town of Shiloh what it was with our business and contributed generously to the community. People associated the Winters’ name with respect.

  Until now. Someone in the community knew.

  I scanned the crowd and pursed my lips. How did I miss the backward glances being thrown at us? I glanced over at Rose and she shook her head. My eyes widened with realization. If she knew rumors were being spread, then why were we here?

  It was a complicated answer, I knew. For one, church in the South was a social event. People took note if someone missed a Sunday. Coming was a statement, an answer to the glances and whispers. The Winters were fine.

  While church and all those other social games were important to a Southern lady, I was truly only here for one thing—Henry.

&nbsp
; Now that I’d found him, I wasn’t leaving until I spoke to him.

  After what seemed like another thirty minutes of Old Pastor Rutledge rattling on about new beginnings, he finally ended the sermon with a prayer. I murmured an ‘amen’ and snapped my fan shut before making a beeline for Henry.

  He was bent over a pew, shoving some loose pages of notes he’d taken in a worn leather-back Bible, when I found him. A few loose strands of hair had fallen in front of his face, the humidity making the ends curl around his nose. I smiled when he pushed the loose ends away from his face like I’d watched him do so many times before.

  “Henry,” I called from behind. His shoulders stiffened, his fingers missing the last of his notes as they fluttered to the floor. Then he turned to face me.

  “L-Lily, what a surprise!” And it was true. He seemed surprised. “What are you doing back in Shiloh? And at church, no less!”

  I clasped my arms behind my back as I drew closer to him. “I come back every summer, Henry, you know that. I go to church just as much as the next girl.”

  A lie. He knew church and I didn’t agree. He shifted his weight and his eyes darted around the room.

  I frowned. “Is that why you haven’t come to see me?” My fingers reached out to brush the sleeve of his linen shirt to close the distance. “Because you became a pastor?”

  Finally, those blue eyes met me and softened. He shook his head, damp curls catching along his forehead. “No, not that. I...I just didn’t know how to tell you is all.”

  My fingers tightened, my heart leaping in my chest. “Tell me what, exactly?”

  His lips pressed together in a firm line. My heart broke into a gallop. Something wasn’t right. Henry didn’t keep secrets from me.

  “Come on, Henry, we’re friends. Aren’t we?”

  His hand rested on mine and as I stared up into those blue eyes, drowning again.

  “I’m so sorry, Lily, I thought you knew. I’m engaged now.”

  I froze, my heart a rock in my chest. Engaged? My eyes fell to the Bible on the pew behind him. Of course. He was nineteen now and planning to be a pastor. It was only right. If he was going to settle down, now would be the time.

  “How would I know if you never mentioned it, Henry?” My words were like ice and I watched him shudder even in the heat of the sanctuary. “What happened to New Orleans? To leaving Shiloh together someday?”

  “Come on, Lily, those were just silly fantasies. We were kids,” he said, sighing. “And leavin’ Shiloh was always your dream. Not mine.”

  I shook my head furiously. “No. No. You said you wanted to play trumpet and be one of the cool cats at the jazz bars in New Orleans!”

  “Lily, you wanted me to do those things.” His smile was sad. “You wanted that adventure-filled life, and I know you will have it someday, but I’m not meant for that. My place is here.”

  I reeled back as if he’d slapped me. No, that wasn’t possible. I wasn’t the only one that wanted those things… right?

  My hands closed into tight fists as I fought the torrent of emotions. “Is it someone I know?”

  “Yes,” he said with a swallow. “She wanted to tell you herself. That’s why I didn’t.”

  Convenient. I pulled away from him to scan the sanctuary for anyone watching us. Southern women were always too obvious with their beaus when a rival female was around, but to my surprise, Henry and I were alone in the sanctuary except for Rose, who stood a few feet away.

  Then I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even blink as Rose removed her gloves. On her left ring finger sat a simple gold band. A small diamond winked at me as she fidgeted.

  I stepped back, looking between the two of them.

  Perfect Rose. My pure, sweet, lovely, sister Rose was engaged to the boy I had loved for four summers.

  Chapter Two

  The gates to Winterhill Manor creaked like old bones as we passed through to the stretch of a scrolling stoned path shaded by orange trees that led up to the estate. In the spring, the little white flowers that decorated the branches made the humid air thick and sweet like honey, but for the rest of the year, the grove stood like silent soldiers guarding the grounds. Green and brown fields stretched around us in all directions, as far as the eye could see. This time of year, the cotton fields usually looked white with a bountiful crop. Southern snow, Papa called it, but for the last four years our fields had refused to yield.

  Winterhill Manor used to be a palace. Momma used to call it our Olympus because it reminded her of a Greek temple. Two columns of carved white marble decorated the front of the manor, their pattern now littered with cracks. Four more pillars held up the massive veranda at the front of the house, the grand title of our estate etched in worn gilded lettering about the entrance. Chipped black shutters flanked the many glass windows on both sides of the door, a stark contrast to the white brick that covered the body of the house. Ivy climbed the far right side of the manor, crawling up the rose trellis and wrapping around the column of the balcony with twisted fingers. The vines had grown wild and out of control, strangling the other flowers in the bed under the balcony.

  No one ventured to that side of the estate, and it infuriated my father. The gardeners whispered of curses and vengeful ghosts, refusing to prune anything on that side of the house, no matter how unruly the flower bed grew.

  The gardeners weren’t the only ones that avoided that side of the house. I hadn’t been into that wing in four years.

  I tore my eyes from the ivy-covered balcony and swallowed down my nausea as the car came to a stop in front of the manor. The driver, Tom, jumped out and walked around to help me out of the car. He’d been my father’s chauffeur since I was a child and was one of the few remaining staff members at Winterhill Manor Papa had kept on in this last round of layoffs.

  “Yah sure we didn’t need to wait for Miss Rose?” Worry leaked into his voice, his forehead wrinkling with concern as he glanced back down the road. I took his offered hand, noting how the blue veins popped out against his thinning skin. Tom had to be pushing sixty now.

  “She’s walking,” I snapped as my feet met the stone walkway. I sighed and closed my eyes as I inhaled through my nose. Tom didn’t deserve my wrath. “Don’t worry about her, Tom.”

  His green holland cap tipped forward as he leaned over to dust off his livery pants. “Walkin’? In this heat? She’ll pass out ‘fore she makes it to the gates.”

  I narrowed my eyes as I climbed the brick steps to the weathered glass door framed in painted white oak. Gold trim cut through the glass, fracturing and obscuring anyone from viewing into the manor directly. Because behind the fortress of trees and white marble pillars, the reality of the Winters household was much less grand.

  I gripped the brass doorknob and gave it a turn. “Tom, that’s what I’m counting on.”

  I skipped lunch and spent the rest of my afternoon in Papa’s study, among the smell of old paper and leather. It was one of the few things I found that soothed away my racing thoughts and nightmares. Late at night, when the house was quiet, I’d find myself a book to calm my nerves and settle into one of Papa’s leather chairs. The texts on business etiquette and strategy captivated me. They were predictable and planned. They made sense and had an order I admired. Eventually business became my reading topic of choice.

  I was focused on the familiar words and reading them over and over when the sound of Henry’s Ford pulled up to Winterhill to drop Rose off. My nails dug into the sides of the book as I heard the car doors slam. It took everything within me to force myself to keep reading when the sound of Rose’s Cuban heels clicked against the marble foyer and up the grand staircase leading to our wing of the manor.

  I’m not hiding. I told myself. I’m gathering myself.

  When dinner time rolled around, I forced myself out of my day dress and into my evening wear. As much as I wanted to stay in the comforts of my room, Papa would never allow me to miss a Sunday dinner.

  Rose met me
at the top of the stairs, shining like fireflies at dusk. Her shimmering sapphire evening dress stretched to her ankles, and I recognized it as one I’d picked out in Atlanta for her last Christmas. White silk gloves followed the line of her slender arms and stopped just at the bend. Her slender neck bore Momma’s prized sapphire, the size of a small quail egg, surrounded with a crown of white diamonds. The gem winked at me with mocking flames of blue fire. Her ears flashed with a matching set of sapphire earrings. Her long honeyed hair twisted in a chignon at the base of her neck, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. All the girls were bobbing their hair now. I’d chopped mine last fall, but still Rose refused to follow the trend. I didn’t know if it was because she was that opposed to change or fearful of seeing the look of horror replayed on my father’s face after seeing my own.

  Still, my sister had a body made for the modern era of women’s fashion, her silhouette lithe and willowy, just like Momma’s. Unfortunately, my wide hips always seemed to look awkward in the popular low-waisted dresses, the top never quite loose enough across my breasts, but not Rose. No, Rose was lovely in everything.

  Maybe Henry really preferred the wallflower to the flapper. Pain stabbed through my chest at the thought, and my sister’s soft, forlorn smile only added salt to the wound.

  “I was hoping we could talk,” Rose said as she twisted her hand in her beads, a habit we both had when nervous.

  “And given the heat, I was hoping you’d pass out on the walk here,” I replied with all the sharpness of a blade. “But life is full of disappointments, I’m finding.”

  Rose’s eyes dropped to her hands as I passed her and descended the stairs, one hand gliding down the wooden banister before my heels hit the landing. The marble tiles on the first floor announced my approach to the dining room as I paraded past my father and took my usual place at the table in the family dining room.

  After Momma was bedridden with her headaches, the formal dining room sat forgotten. Before, it had been my favorite room in the house as a girl. It was the gem at all of our parties, and we ate almost every meal under the crystal chandelier. Momma always made sure someone decadently dressed the table with sparkling crystal from Switzerland, silk embroidered tablecloths from the Far East, gleaming silverware imported from the coast of Italy, and lots and lots of expensive French wine.