I bit my tongue, sorry to have upset her, and redirected the conversation. “You said your Greek’s not what it could be. Let me help you—I’m no expert, but I know enough to guide us through. We could study together.”
“Together?”
“I’ll give you a passage to work on tonight.”
“Tonight?” She paused for a moment, looking at me quizzically. “I’m not sure about this, but I’m willing to try.”
“I’m glad,” I said. “You don’t have to like me, Mrs. Hargreaves, but we do need to at least come to a point where we can tolerate each other.”
“Tolerate?” She laughed. “We’ll see about that. But I do find your idea worth some consideration. Get me a passage, and we’ll see where it takes us.” She stood, quiet and still, until a stiff breeze blew the ribbons fastening her bonnet up to her face. “I don’t think you followed me out here to clasp my hand in friendship. What brings you back to me?”
“Given the terror I’ve typically felt in your presence, you know it must be important.”
“Excellent,” she said. “Impress me.”
“Madeline Markham is related to Edith Prier. Did you know that?”
“No, although I had heard rumors that Madeline’s mother wasn’t the only one in the family to lose her mind.”
“How much do you know of Madeline’s madness?”
“Only what I’ve observed and what Colin’s told me. He and I frequently discuss his work. He misses obvious clues sometimes, you know.”
“Does he?” I blinked. “Do tell.”
“You’ll have to discover his flaws on your own,” she said.
“Fair enough,” I said, smiling. “But have you heard any further rumors about the family? About Madeline’s… inability to have a child?”
“Ah, she told you, did she? Terrible for George, of course. No doubt he wishes he’d made a better choice of bride, though he does love her, heaven help him.”
“What do people say about them?” I strained to ignore my own feelings of inadequacy.
“The whole village knows her mother’s feebleminded,” she said. “And it’s no secret that Madeline can’t produce an heir—and that this failing of hers has taken its toll on her soul. She ran off one of their gardeners because she couldn’t stand the sight of his daughter.”
“I’ve heard the story,” I said. “What can you tell me about the girl? Did you ever see her?”
“Oh yes. She was a beautiful child. Long silvery hair, the color of moonlight, always with a ribbon in it.”
“Blue?” I asked.
“Blue? I suppose sometimes. I can’t say I paid much attention. I used to see her when I drove through the village. She liked to play near the
“Where is she now?”
“I think she fell ill. Her father passes through once in a while—has an aunt in service at another house in the neighborhood. But he never brings the child.”
“Were there ever any stories that she’d died?”
“Died?” Her basket was nearly full. She stopped picking and sat on a stone bench a few feet from the berry patch. “I don’t think so. It’s possible, of course. You know how delicate children can be. But other than Madeline wanting desperately for the girl to be gone, there wasn’t any interesting gossip wafting about. At least not that I’ve heard.”
“How well do you know Madeline?”
“She’s charming when she’s herself. A predictable sort, but affable enough. When she’s in the midst of one of her spells…well. It’s disconcerting.”
“How desperate is she to have a child? Did she ever speak to you about it?”
“People don’t discuss such things.”
“They do when they’re lonely and afraid and have no one but a kind neighbor in whom they can confide.”
“Not here, they don’t. Nor anywhere I’ve ever lived. There’s no question Madeline was crushed after all her disappointments. Who wouldn’t be? There were times I feared she would succumb to a more rapid decline than her mother’s journey into illness.”
“Don’t you think she has?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “But her periods of lucidity are still sharp and frequent enough for me to hope she’ll have a better outcome.”
“Please tell me the truth.”
My mother-in-law shrugged. “She’s not as mad as her mother, but I can’t say much else. Do you not think, Emily, that it gives me concern to see a woman just your age, unable to have children, slowing driving herself mad? And here you are, in a similar situation, still smarting with grief, relentlessly pursuing a subject that can bring you nothing but further pain?”
“Our situations are entirely different.”
“Simply because you’ve only suffered one loss to date.” The sun was high and hot, the air heavy with humidity. She pulled a linen handkerchief from the lacy cuff at her wrist and dabbed her glistening brow with it, unwilling, it seemed, to wait for the next obliging breeze. “Such things can plague a mind when they’re repeated ad nauseum.”
I winced at her words, but her tone lacked any criticism, as if she’d exchanged chagrin for compassion. “We can hope that won’t happen.”
“Sometimes I forget how young you are,” she said.
“How did Madeline’s mother handle her daughter’s difficulties?” I asked, not quite ready to continue the conversation she’d begun.
“Better than I would have thought,” she said. “But of course, she’s had more trouble with her nerves than Madeline.”
“How many siblings does Madeline have?”
“None who survived to adulthood,” Mrs. Hargreaves said.
“Like me,” I said.
“The two of you have more in common than I’m comfortable admitting.”
“I need to talk to her.” Earnest with enthusiasm, I sat next to her. “Will you come with me?”
“Absolutely not,” she said, although the color in her cheeks hinted at her being less horrified at the prospect than she wanted me to think. “I don’t like prying into my neighbor’s private tragedies.”
“But you help your son?”
“He’s exceptionally persuasive,” she said. “And trying to beat you at your own game. How could I deny him assistance? You and I shall read Greek together. We shall discuss poetry. Someday, perhaps, we shall travel to Egypt with each other. But I will never, ever help you emerge victorious over my darling boy.”
“Did you know Toinette will be descending upon us soon?” I asked my husband that afternoon as we crossed on to the main road from the house’s drive on our way to visit the Markhams. Patches of dense forest divided the lush pastures and fragrant orchards surrounding us, and in the midst of the tall trees with their dappled light and cool, sweet shade, I felt homesick, reminded of England.
“She told me no fewer than twenty-seven times,” he said. “A sweet enough girl. I must tell you, though, she has suddenly changed her plans. It seems you terribly disappointed her by deciding to come back with me.”
“She has a crush on you.”
“Girls like Toinette don’t have crushes,” he said. “They have designs.”
“So she has designs on you?”
“It would seem so,” he said, grinning.
“You shouldn’t encourage her. You’re so handsome you’ll ruin her for other gentlemen. Her expectations will never be met.”
“I would never encourage her.”
“But you do enjoy her attentions,” I said.
“They’re mildly amusing. She’s entertaining and pretty and foolish.”
