Dangerous to Know

“Do you need protection, Emily?”

“Would you?” I asked, shocked that she hadn’t used my title.

She did not reply for a few moments. She stirred her tea, added more sugar, stirred again. “Probably,” she said. “But I wouldn’t admit it. There are times, I’ve found, when it’s preferable to do what one can on one’s own, without regard for the opinions of others.”

I had not expected this sort of candor from her. “Why has your manner towards me changed so completely?” I asked. “Up to now you’ve had no interest in hiding your disdain from me.”

“It is only now that I’ve begun to sympathize with you,” she said. “You’ve begun to reveal some semblance of spirit.”

“Because I’m being packed off to London?”

“No, because I saw how you fought off that dreadful man last night.”

“You were watching?” The thought horrified me. What must she think?

“You’re not so quiet as you’d like to think,” she said. “I particularly liked the way you tried to smash his head. It was the first time I’d seen you show any sort of initiative. What did my son think?”

“I was a bit vague on the details when relaying the story to him.”

“I might just come to like you, Emily. But you should never withhold details—no matter how small—from him. A marriage requires absolute honesty.”

“I agree, of course. It’s just that—”

“There can be no just thats,” she said. “Full disclosure on every subject or you’ll mire yourselves in a web of deceit. What seems insignificant today may prove essential in the future.”

I could not argue with her reasoning.

“It’s sound advice and you know it,” she continued. “So don’t play Oscar Wilde. In this case, the only thing to do is not to pass it on.”

I smiled, relieved as the tension between us dissipated. “Thank you,” I said. “I shall heed your wise words.”

“I expect you will. Now, onto the other matter much on my mind. Are you going to be able to give my son an heir?”

“I—I—” I sputtered, her words slicing through me.

“It’s a simple enough question and I have a right to know.”

She certainly did not have a right to know. “The doctor couldn’t be certain,” I said, disappointed I’d answered her at all. Too many years of social niceties had undermined me.

“Colin said as much. But what do you think? Do you feel capable of carrying a child?”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to contemplate it so soon after—”

“Don’t be overly sensitive. It’s desperately unattractive. A suitable period of mourning would have been necessary had the child actually been born. But in this case, you need do nothing but continue on. It’s simple enough.”

I did not want her to see me cry, and knew the tears forming would not be kept at bay long. “Of course,” I said. “I was referring more to my own injuries and getting back my strength.” I know not how, but I managed to keep my voice steady.

She nodded. “Excellent. I shall hope for good news from you before the end of the year.”

“I’ll do all I can,” I said. “You must excuse me now, though. I can’t leave Meg to pack my things wholly undirected.” I held my composure until I’d closed the door behind me, and then ran up the stairs to my room, where I collapsed on the bed, sobbing. Did no one understand the pain of my loss? Was this grief so unusual?

No doubt it was. Because other women, like Madeline, who suffered disappointment after disappointment had no ethical ambiguities to torment them. They longed for children. I feared the ambivalence I’d felt made me different from them, as if my child had been taken because I hadn’t wanted it enough. I felt myself falling into despair, an empty coldness in my chest, my hands clammy, my eyes blurred and swollen. Would it ever stop? Could a person ever be free from this sort of guilt?

I pulled myself to my feet and staggered to the window seat across the room. I could see Colin far off in the distance, speaking to one of the gardeners. The sight of him, with his easy, affable manners, brought a further round of tears, as I counted the ways I’d disappointed him. How would he feel in five years, or ten, if we still had no child? Would the way he looked at women like Toinette Prier change? Would he be filled with regret at his choice of a wife? Would he come to resent me? Was he already thinking back on the years he’d shared with Kristiana, wishing she were still alive?

Even worse, what would he be thinking now if she hadn’t been killed? What if she were waiting in Vienna, biding her time, confident that eventually he’d become tired of me? Six months ago I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but now it seemed nothing short of inevitable. I hated the fact that she’d been murdered while trying to assist Colin, but in a way hated even more that her killer had done me a despicable and unwanted favor.

14

Plagued with these thoughts, leaving my husband for England proved no easy task. My heart felt as if it were breaking when I reached the station in Yvetot and once on board the train, I didn’t sit down until Colin’s tall figure on the platform had faded from sight. I clung to a handle near the door and leaned out, waving frantically to him, the taste of his lips still on mine. As our speed increased, the conductor bundled me into the car, where I sank, miserable, onto my seat. Burying my face in a lace-trimmed linen handkerchief, I cried, leaning my head against the window.

“Lady Emily?”

I looked up at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, surprised to see Monsieur Leblanc. I wiped my tears and gave him my hand.

“May I join you?” he asked, motioning to the empty seat across from me.

“Of course,” I murmured.

“You are not well?”

“Sad to be going away, that’s all,” I said.

“Ah. Is your husband afraid you might fall victim to the Norman Ripper should you remain here?”

“The Norman Ripper?” I asked. “I see you’ve spoken to George.”

He shrugged. “It’s not good, I know, but works better than anything I’ve come up with.”

“I’m going to see Madame du Lac in Rouen,” I said, not wanting to get into the details of why I was leaving.

“Ah,” he said. “I’m off to Rouen as well. I’ve been commissioned to write a piece about Edith Prier’s murder and want to see what I can learn about her.”

“I’m staying with the Priers.”

“Are you? I don’t suppose…”

“I shall ask them if they’d be willing to speak with you, but can promise nothing.”

“Merci bien,” he said. “She had a lover you know, who wanted desperately to marry her. Jules Vasseur. Do you know him?”

“No.” I paused at the name. Was it not that by which Madame Breton had addressed Sebastian?

“I only thought you might if you’re a friend of the family. But then, I suppose they didn’t want anyone to know about him.”

“Why not?”

“Monsieur Prier is the sort of man who doesn’t seem to understand aristocrats are no longer running the country. Didn’t think a commoner like Vasseur was good enough for his daughter.”

“What happened?” I asked, imagining Sebastian collecting lovers while assuming false identities. More fake identities, I should say, as I doubted I knew his real name.

“I’m still researching, of course, but it looks as if her involvement with Vasseur contributed in no small way to her committal.”

“But she was ill, wasn’t she?”