Dangerous to Know

11

“No one’s eyes look natural after death,” Colin said. We’d returned from Rouen without Cécile, who had stayed behind to attend Madame Prier’s concert. More, she assured us, out of a desire to observe the family’s behavior than an interest in music. At the time of our departure, going home appeared a more appealing option, but after another painful evening with my mother-in-law, I was beginning to question the wisdom of the decision.

“There was something to the way he said it.” I felt all knotted up inside. “The idea that the murderer took her very soul…”

“You’re upsetting yourself unnecessarily.”

“When, exactly, did I lose your sympathy?” I asked, pouring tea from the tray we’d had sent to our room.

“You haven’t, my dear. But we cannot go on forever concerned with nothing but this business.”

“Forgive me. I wasn’t aware of a prescribed time for recovering after stumbling upon a ghastly murder scene.”

“You know that’s not what I’m suggesting. But—and do forgive me, Emily—you haven’t seemed yourself for so long. I’m worried that you’re…”

“That I’m what?”

“I don’t know. That you’re allowing these events—all of them—to consume you.”

“All of them?” Shock did not begin to describe what I felt. It was as if the floor had crumbled beneath my feet. “Surely you don’t include the baby?”

“I do,” he said, not meeting my eyes. The sound of blood rushing loud in my ears, I took his face in my hands and turned it, roughly, forcing him to look at me.

“How dare you?”

“I don’t want to lose you, too,” he said. “What are you letting yourself become? You haven’t looked at your Greek since we left Constantinople. You’ve made no mention of any of the myriad projects that used to matter to you. I can’t even remember the last time you picked up a book to read without me prodding you first.”

Studying Greek after the death of my first husband had catalyzed in me an intellectual awakening and transformed me from a typical society girl into a person I hoped was more interesting and open-minded. For months I’d dedicated myself to translating Homer’s Odyssey into English, pausing only to focus on the task of cataloging the ancient art tucked away in country houses so scholars might know where to find significant pieces. The work was satisfying and challenging, and meant a great deal to me. It hadn’t come as a surprise that I’d abandoned it during my honeymoon, but during the months thereafter, while I recovered from my injuries, I’d not returned to a state of productivity.

“I’m reading Madame Bovary,” I said.

“Which my mother gave to you. You’ve not even browsed in the library here once.”

“I don’t feel welcome in this house.”

“When has that ever stopped you before?”

“I’ve not had to deal with an unruly mother-in-law before.”

“You surprised her, that’s all,” he said. “She expected to find you much different.”

“How so?”

“She expected the lady I’d described in my letters. Someone independent and forward-thinking, someone in pursuit of an intellectual life.”

“Forgive me if being shot, losing our child, and seeing the mutilated body of a girl who looked like me threw me into a state of agitation!”

“Of course I forgive you,” he said. “I’m just asking that you come back, that you stop lingering in a sea of malaise.”

“You forgive me?” Now outrage kicked in. “Forgive me?”

“Did you not just ask me to?”

“I was being facetious!” I shouted and turned on my heel to storm into the dressing room. The door slammed with a satisfactory thud. I sat in front of my vanity and waited for him to follow me. Ten minutes passed without a sound coming from the bedroom. Then a latch clicked.

But not the one to the dressing room. I heard his footsteps, faint, going down the stairs. Trembling, I dropped my head into my hands and wept.

Colin and I did not argue. Very few issues caused even a slight disagreement between us; he’d always been the most sympathetic and generous person I knew. How could the troubles we’d suffered alienate him so thoroughly? I thought of Toinette, petite and lovely, and wondered if he’d been much affected by her. Something about her—her confidence, perhaps—reminded me of Kristiana, the woman he’d loved long before he met me.

Kristiana was sophisticated and elegant, and in possession of a sharp intelligence. They’d met in Vienna, where she lived and worked as an undercover agent. Their relationship, deep and passionate, had gone on for years. Colin had even proposed to her, but she’d refused him, telling him she preferred to remain lovers and colleagues.

She was dedicated to her work, and someone on whom he could always depend. Although he’d never described the details, he had told me enough that I knew she’d faced a host of terrifying and dangerous situations without disappointing him.

And I knew—knew from what had disappeared from his eyes—that my inability to maintain calm and carry on in the face of trouble had disappointed him. I had not lived up to his expectations. Expectations formed by another woman, more strong and capable than myself. Kristiana had died in the line of duty. I’d survived, but only as a member of the walking wounded, a ghost of my former self. Colin had never wanted a weak, simpering wife.

Kristiana should have said yes all those years ago when he proposed to her.

When Meg appeared, ready to dress me for dinner, I refused, sending her downstairs for a tray. I’d hoped Colin would come with it, but he did not. Meg reported that he was sitting with his mother in the parlor. Too upset to touch my food, I asked her to help me get ready for bed. She unlaced my corset without her usual witty commentary on life below stairs. Her face was strained and she hardly spoke as she handed me a soft, cotton nightdress. I’m sure she had no idea what to say.

For the first time in our admittedly short marriage, I went not to the room Colin and I shared, but to the bedroom that connected to the other side of the dressing room. Four hours had passed since I’d stormed away from him, and in that time, he had sent no message, had not enquired as to my well-being, had not tried to persuade me to come downstairs. I crawled into bed before the sun had set, without even Madame Bovary to read. I’d left it in the other room. So I waited, my pillow wet from tears, until I heard my husband’s footsteps in the dressing room. I held my breath, wondering if he would come to me, straining to listen as he readied himself for sleep: the rustle of his clothes, water splashing in the basin. My heart raced when he fell silent. I could feel his presence on the other side of the door and wanted more than anything for him to fling it open and take me in his arms.

Instead, I once again heard the click of a latch, this time followed by the creak of our bed in the other room as he lowered himself into it, alone. His parents had never spent a night apart after their marriage. Yet another way I’d fallen short of his mother.

I could not sleep, so I paced in front of the window, considering what Colin had said. I could not deny I’d lost all focus, virtually abandoning my intellectual pursuits since the tragedy that ended our honeymoon. I wanted to be the sort of person who rallied, who moved through adversity with grace and purpose, never daunted, always strong, but I’d failed.

I wished I’d stayed in Rouen with Cécile, wished I was back in London with my friends, wished I were anywhere but here. With a sigh, I leaned out the window, breathing in the cool night air. The moon hung heavy in the sky, silvery clouds blurring its edges, but not dulling the light it sent slicing through the night. The room Colin and I shared overlooked the back garden, but this one faced front, and I could see all the way down the drive to the gate. A rush of movement caught my eye in the lane beyond it—a flash of white fabric and a flicker of dark shadow. No sound accompanied what I saw, no crunch of gravel, no measured footstep. I leaned farther out, hoping to hear something, but my attention was met only by silence. Even the trees stood still and quiet, no wind rustling their