Dangerous to Know

perhaps it is unfair of me to expect—or hope for—more from her. Still, given the way Colin had spoken of her, I’d imagined another sort of lady entirely. I thought he’d be bringing me someone who might prove an interesting sort of companion. Instead, I should perhaps have paid more attention to what her first husband fixated on: her appearance. There may be a reason he went no deeper.

She, of course, views things differently altogether, and is quite proud of her accomplishments— imagines herself an independent woman of the world, despite the fact she’s the pampered daughter of some useless aristocrat. I don’t mean, of course, to insult her father, whom I’m told is a decent man. But I have no use for a social hierarchy that places accidents of birth above merit and achievement. It was my own dear Nicholas’s cause, and I’ve taken it on as mine since his death. Unoriginal, I suppose, to do such a thing. Colin tells me his wife did the same after Ashton died—says that she learned Greek and reads Homer and has a propensity for the study of ancient art. Such endeavors must require a certain aptitude and intelligence, but I’ve yet to see her demonstrate much ability to accomplish anything beyond reading a seemingly endless supply of sensational fiction.

She is taller than I’d expected.

3

I woke up early the next morning, the first day since we’d arrived in Normandy that I’d come downstairs before luncheon. The combination of my injuries and my mother-in-law’s scorn did little to inspire me to action. But today Cécile and I were to visit George and Madeline and examine the note left by their mysterious visitor, and the prospect filled me with excitement. We rode to their château accompanied by a protective footman, following winding roads that meandered through golden fields and into a small, dense wood opening onto a moat whose water was so clear I could see the rocks settled on its bottom. Branches hung heavy from weeping willows along the bank, and on the far side of the water stood a round stone tower with a pointed roof. It could, I suppose, be described as crumbling.

To say the same about the rest of the château wouldn’t be entirely correct; George, it seemed, was prone to exaggeration. This was not the refined type of building found in the Loire Valley or at Versailles. It was more fortress than Palace, a true Norman castle, with an imposing keep. We looped around the water and over a rough bridge, then followed the drive along a tall gatehouse fashioned from blocks of stone and golden red bricks, its windows long and narrow. Defensive walls had once enclosed the perimeter, but now all that remained of them were bits and pieces of varying heights, few much taller even than I, most of them covered with a thick growth of ivy or dwarfed by hydrangea bushes. Long rows of boxwoods lined gravel paths in the formal garden, and the flowers, organized neatly in pristine beds, must have been chosen for their scents, as the air was sweet and fragrant.

“The garden is much nicer than the house,” George said, rising from a stone bench and coming towards us, a gentleman with a large, dark moustache at his side. “You’d be wise to stay outside. I can have tea sent to us here.”

“You’re doing nothing, sir, but increasing my curiosity about the interior,” I said. “The exterior is lovely.”

“Very medieval,” Cécile said, tipping her black straw hat forward to better shade her eyes from the sun.

“If only I had a catapult,” George said. “We might have some real fun. May I present my friend, Maurice Leblanc from Étretat?”

The other man bowed gracefully. “It is a pleasure,” he said as George introduced us.

“Maurice is a writer—does stories for every magazine you can think of. Excellent bloke.”

“If you can overlook my failure to complete law school,” Monsieur Leblanc said.

“What sort of things do you write?” I asked.

“I’ve just finished a piece on France’s favorite ghost,” he said.

“Ghost?” I asked.

“I’d hardly be inclined to call any ghost a favorite,” George said.

“But this one isn’t full of menace,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “She’s sad, lonely, searching for a better mother than the one she had.”

“Do tell,” I said.

“Years ago, early in the century, there lived, in the small port of Grandcamp-les-Bains here in Normandy, a young mother notorious for neglecting her daughter. She let the girl wander through the village at all hours of day and night, didn’t send her to school, could hardly be bothered to take care of her.”

“I have heard this story, Monsieur Leblanc,” Cécile said. “And find it hard to believe any woman would treat her own daughter in such a manner.”

“It wasn’t always that way,” he said. “But after the woman’s husband, a sailor, died in a shipwreck not far from the coast, she could hardly stand the sight of the child. She looked too much like her father, you see, and the grieving mother could not cope. One day, when the girl had begged and begged to be taken on a picnic, they went to Pointe du Hoc, a promontory with spectacular views high above the sea.”

“And of course the mother wasn’t watching the girl,” George said.

“Correct,” Monsieur Leblanc said. “And while she was playing, too close to the edge of the cliffs, she slipped and fell to her death. And ever after, there have been stories of people—women—all through France seeing her. She wanders the country in search of a better mother, one who would look after her properly.”

“Ridiculous,” Cécile said.

George laughed. “Madeline thought she saw her once. Beware, Emily, she may come for you next.”

“I’ll keep up my guard,” I said. “But why does she limit her search to France? Are there no decent mothers to be found elsewhere?”

“There might be, but the food wouldn’t be nearly so good,” Monsieur Leblanc said, and we all laughed.

A groom appeared from the direction of the barns standing on the opposite side of the grounds from the central building, close to a heavy dovecote built in the style of the nearby tower, all stone, no brick. He took our horses from us as our host led us inside, where Madeline greeted us at the thick, wooden door.

“It’s so good of you to come,” she said, kissing us both on the cheeks. “I’ve asked Cook to make a special fish course. We’ve mussels, as well, and I—”

“They’ve not come for dinner, darling,” George said, stepping forward and taking his wife’s hand. “Just tea, remember? And you asked for douillons.”

“Of course,” she said. She spoke with steady resolve, but looked confused.

“No one makes pastry finer than your cook,” Monsieur Leblanc said, his voice firm. “I am full of eager anticipation.”

“Let’s go to the library before we eat.” George’s words tumbled rapidly from his mouth, as if to redirect the conversation away from his wife’s blunder as quickly as possible. “I want to show you the note left by that dreadful man.”

“You are confident it’s from a man?” Cécile asked. “Do you not believe a woman might be equally devious?”

“I’d like to believe a woman wouldn’t be able to climb into my locked house with a painting on her back. Not, mind you, because I consider the fairer sex incompetent or lacking a propensity for crime. But surely a lady with the strength to accomplish such a thing would look awful in evening dress, don’t you think?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I think she’d be elegant beyond measure, and deceive you completely in the ballroom.”

“And would make a most excellent villain. Perhaps I should write about her.” Monsieur Leblanc tilted his head and looked into the distance, as if deep in thought. “Only think of the adventures on which she might embark.”

“I shall not argue with any of you,” George said, leading us through the door into the keep’s cavernous hall, its arched ceiling supported by wide columns. The room was overfull of furniture. Around a sturdy table that might have comfortably seated a dozen, eighteen chairs had been set, too close together. Six suits of armor were on display, three separate sitting areas contained settees and more chairs, and on the walls hung a series of tapestries, finely embroidered with scenes of a hunt, the work as fine as that displayed on The Lady