“I don’t much like the idea of you wandering about alone in the middle of the night. It’s not safe, Emily. Sebastian isn’t the only one who could so easily scale the wall and stumble upon you.”
“I had no reason to think I was in any danger. Nothing’s happened to suggest our garden is unsafe. And you know how Sebastian likes to follow me. It was completely innocuous.”
“This time, maybe. But how do we know someone else isn’t looking for you as well?” He started to pace. “Did you speak to Capet about working for the Crown?”
“Not initially,” I said. “But the subject did come up. He wasn’t interested, but I’m certain I can work on him.”
“Why had you gone into the garden so late?”
“I was looking for ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” he asked.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said, and described for him what had happened after I left the house, omitting the particulars of Sebastian’s inhumane manner of sneaking up on me.
“You might have dreamed the ribbon,” he said.
“It was real.”
“You thought the girl in the dovecote was real, but no one was there.”
“Not by the time I went inside, but that doesn’t mean there hadn’t been someone there.”
“You’re not suggesting—” He stopped. “Emily, there are no children at the Markhams’ château.”
“None they admit to.”
“None full stop.” He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me onto his lap. “You’ve suffered a spectacular trauma. It’s no surprise your mind would play tricks on you.”
“The ribbon was in the road. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
“You were half asleep and dreaming,” he said. “And if I recall correctly, there’s a painting in the Markhams’ house—a little girl in a white dress, a blue ribbon tied in her hair. Degas, I think. You must have seen it and filed it away in your mind. Now the image has returned to you, combined with Monsieur Leblanc’s silly ghost story, and is causing you to imagine things.”
I didn’t agree with him for a second. What I’d seen was eerie and sad, not like an odd version of a painting I had no memory of seeing. As for the ghost story, I was more inclined to think I’d been inspired by Madeline’s accident than Monsieur Leblanc’s fiction. Feeling ill at ease, I decided to change the subject. “So you made no ground with Sebastian?” I asked. “None at all?”
“None.”
“Where precisely is the house of Moët?” I kissed him on the cheek. “I’ve a suspicion you’ll be needing to make a trip there soon.”
13
We passed the remainder of the day in a most pleasant fashion, making up for the time we’d lost the night before. There are few institutions with as much to recommend them as a good marriage, and the time alone with Colin made me long for the day we could return home to some real privacy, and I made the mistake of saying so out loud.
“You ought to go now, yourself,” Colin said, tightening my corset with a strong tug.
“I don’t want to be away from you.” I slipped into my tea gown, fashioned from rich blue pompadour silk with Watteau pleats. Outrageously wide sleeves shot out at the shoulders, tapering thin at the elbows, tight at the wrists, and buttoning around a cascade of Venetian lace that covered my hands to the knuckles.
“And you know I’ve no interest in spending even a day away from you, my dear.” He bent down, kissing the back of my neck. “But you’re not going to torment me, are you?”
“Never.” I turned to press my lips against his.
“Then you must agree to go home.” His hands circled my waist.
“It’s not fair of you to use your powers of persuasion this way,” I said.
“Would you rather I stormed about the room and demanded that you go? That I book you on the ten-eighteen train to Paris without telling you?”
“It worries me that you know the schedule.”
“I didn’t get the ticket,” he said. “Only investigated.”
“You’re very bad. Do you really believe this man is seeking out victims similar to me in appearance?”
“I don’t know precisely what he’s doing, but I’m convinced—and beginning to sound like you—we’re missing something significant about him.”
“He can’t be the Ripper,” I said.
“Why not?”
“None of it fits. The Ripper struck in a limited urban area and targeted prostitutes. Here we have one death in the middle of the countryside. Our murderer may be copying the method, but he’s not the same man.”
“I do love it when you recklessly speculate.”
“You’re only saying that to put me in an easy frame of mind so I’ll agree to return to England.”
“Am I that transparent?”
I sighed. “Is it so important to you?”
He took both of my hands in his. “It is. It may be ridiculous and irrational, but I need you to do it.”
How could I deny him? I would want him to acquiesce should I have a similar sort of request; I considered it part of loving someone. You owed your partner the right to be unreasonable sometimes, when it mattered to him. I lifted his hand to my lips and kissed his palm. “Very well,” I said. “I shall do as you wish.”
He pulled back, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open. “I cannot believe what I’m hearing.”
“It all comes from adoring you,” I said. “You leave me no other viable choice. But I must put you on notice: I have every intention of luring Sebastian to London with me. You’ll have no chance of winning our bet.”
“I’ll gladly relinquish what would have been certain victory to keep you safe.”
“Certain victory?” I blinked three times in rapid succession. “My dear boy, you are full of delusions.”
“Am I?” he asked. “Sounds like you’d better kiss them away.”
As I’d already started heeding his wishes, I saw no reason to stop now.
We agreed I would leave the following morning for Rouen, where I would stop for a few days to see Cécile, who was still with the Priers. I wanted to speak with her before departing for England, but wasn’t keen on spending much time with her eccentric friends. Better them, though, than my mother-in-law. I would not mourn the loss of her company, but now that I was safe in the knowledge I had very few remaining hours with her, I could let myself feel the slightest guilt at my inability to get along with her.
Colin and I had dawdled so long upstairs that he couldn’t join us for tea, instead heading out to meet Inspector Gaudet, while I went down on my own. Mrs. Hargreaves greeted me as she never had before, with what appeared to be genuine pleasure.
“I’m more sorry than I can say to lose you,” she said, all chattiness as she passed me a steaming cup of tea. “You take milk, do you not?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, hoping my face did not register the astonishment I felt. “I can’t thank you enough for sharing your house with us. It’s a beautiful setting in which to recover.” My words were not entirely disingenuous; the scenery did not disappoint. I loved the
“I don’t think you’ll miss us much,” she said, placing a delicate, buttery
It was the first sentence she’d spoken to me void of irony, sarcasm, or condescension. “He’s trying to protect me,” I said.
