Dangerous to Know

9

My mood had lightened considerably by the time we left Giverny. It is difficult to be morose or to wallow when in the company of such friends, and their loving cheer was just the remedy for the ills I’d suffered since Constantinople. Fortified and feeling more like myself than I had in months, I was full of happy hope. Cécile had gone ahead with her plan to stay on a few more days, leaving Colin and me to set off on our own the next morning, aboard an early train.

“I can’t say I feel keenly the loss of Capet,” my husband said, snuggling close to me. “I do adore you on trains. Pity we don’t have more privacy.”

This brought to mind delicious memories of the time we’d spent on the Orient Express en route to Constantinople. “You do still owe me a proper honeymoon. Where shall we go? Egypt?”

“I’m thinking somewhere mundane and tedious, a place where intrigue cannot possibly find us.”

“Sounds dreadful,” I said, glowing. “Won’t we be beside ourselves with boredom?”

“I have a number of ways in mind to keep you occupied.”

“Do you?” I asked, scooting even closer to him. “Can we leave now? Please?”

“As soon as I’ve sorted out what Gaudet needs from me.”

After the train arrived at the small station in Yvetot, the market town closest to his mother’s house, we directed our waiting carriage to head for the Markhams’ château so that we might redeliver Monet’s painting to them. George beamed with pleasure when he saw us approach.

“You’ve caught us outside again. Madeline didn’t want to squander weather this lovely,” he said, striding across the lawn with his wife to greet us. “We know it can’t last with those clouds on the horizon. Dare I hope Monet accepted my offer? The parcel you’re carrying fills me with hope.”

“No haggling necessary,” Colin said, handing it to him.

“You’re absolute geniuses,” George said. “Will you come inside and help me hang it?”

“Must we right away, George?” Madeline asked. “It’s too beautiful to be inside.”

“You can stay out if you’d like, darling. I’ve a hankering for a decent cigar. Hargreaves, indulge with me? We can leave the ladies to whatever it is ladies do.”

“I’d be loath to turn down such an attractive offer,” Colin said. “If, Emily, you’ll forgive me for abandoning you?”

“We’re happy to see you go,” Madeline said, her face shining. “Ladies need time for gossip as much as men do, and I can’t stand the smell of tobacco.”

I’d never supported the segregation of the sexes (it seemed, in my experience, the ladies always got the short end of the interesting conversation), and the thought of a decent cigar was more than a little tempting, but I had a feeling George would balk at giving me one. Resigned, I looped my arm through hers and we set off along the gravel path. The lushness of Normandy was a delight. As green as Ireland and rich with flowers in every bright shade: blue and vibrant purple, magenta and gold, orange and white. They grew wild on the sides of roads and paths, tamed only in carefully tended gardens. The formality of the Markhams’ grounds was a stark contrast to Monet’s, but both were stunning.

Thunder rolled far in the distance, but the sky remained bright. “I don’t think we’ll be driven indoors yet,” Madeline said. “Do you mind if we keep walking? I do love it here, but admit to finding myself lonely sometimes. George is all I have, especially now that my mother’s not herself, and his work keeps him busy much of the time.”

“Art?”

“At the moment, that’s what he’s fixated on. Collecting, primarily, at least for the moment. He’s always finding what he thinks will be his life’s great passion, but it rarely lasts more than a few months, maybe a year.”

“Focus can be a difficult thing,” I said.

“I did think he’d stick with medicine. He was so happy with it for a while—years, not months. But that, too, lost its luster.”

“What else has he pursued?”

“Egyptology,” she said, her brow furrowed. “Let’s see…there was cricket. That was before I met him. And Richard III. He was desperate to know if the king killed the little Princes in the Tower. He did a stint in the Foreign Legion—his adventure year—I missed him dreadfully. Collecting art has satisfied him for a while now, but he’s also begun painting.”

“Is he good?” I asked.

“He won’t show anyone what he’s done,” she said. “And has made me swear that I won’t disturb his studio.”

“Is it in the house?”

“No.” She shook her head. “One of the outbuildings near the dovecote. I don’t like going there, so it’s easy to respect his privacy.”

“Why don’t you like going there?”

“I had an accident in the dovecote a few years ago. I’d climbed up to the top—wanted to see the view. But coming down, I slipped. The stairs aren’t as safe as they might be. I hadn’t realized at the time that I was with child, but almost immediately after the fall it became apparent I was losing it.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, a prickly feeling on the back of my neck.

She laughed, the sound tight and strained in her throat. “You must find it bizarre that I speak so openly about such things. But they consume me. I don’t know how to begin to stop thinking about it.”

“That’s completely understandable,” I said. “I know all too well how you feel.”

“Sometimes, though, I find myself almost enjoying the grief. As if it’s what defines me, and I don’t know what I’d do without it.” She tipped back her head, eyes lifted to the clouds now darkening the sky above us. “It’s the only bit of my children I have.”

This sent horrible chills running through me, and I found I had no desire to continue the conversation in such a vein. It cut too close to emotions of my own. “I had no idea about your accident,” I said. “But I, too, have felt something strange each time I’ve passed the building.”

“Did you hear anything?” she asked, coming to a sharp halt.

“Other than doves, no. Maybe some mice.”

“I’ve heard the weeping of a child.”

“When?” I asked, my blood feeling thick with sludge.

“Only a few days ago,” she said.

“Was there anyone there?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to go inside.”

“What about the windows?” I asked. The wind kicked up, bathing us in quickly cooling air. “Could you see anyone standing in them?”

“I didn’t even think to look,” she said. “The only thing I could do was run. I nearly slammed into George when I reached the garden—and could see at once that he was worried. And I do hate being the source of so much concern to him. So I pretended to be jovial, and challenged him to race me through the maze. I think you came to see us shortly thereafter.”

I had indeed. And there could be no doubt that the child I’d seen was the source of the crying Madeline had heard. I considered telling her, but hesitated. Her face, pale and drawn, looked so fragile. She was suffering a milder version—or earlier stage—of her mother’s debilitating illness. How could I reveal to her something that would only upset her further? Particularly—and I hated to admit this—when I couldn’t be sure that anyone had been standing in the dovecote.

Which made me begin, for the first time, to question the soundness of my own mind. Had grief made me, like Madeline, come unhinged? Had I not seen the ghostly girl—for I now thought of her as a ghost—I should never have considered such a thing. Yes, I had mourned. Yes, I was sad. But I had never thought the trauma I’d suffered could play tricks on my psyche. I glanced at my companion and wanted to tear straight to the dovecote, confronting these irrational thoughts, proving to myself once and for all that this was nothing more than stuff and nonsense.

“Let’s go there, Madeline,” I said, feeling at once reckless and brave. “Let’s see that there’s nothing there. That there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.” I turned on the path, ready to set off towards the hideous place. “We can’t be daunted by things that aren’t real.”

“But what if they are real?” she asked.

“They’re not,” I said, my voice steady and firm, an illusion that bore no resemblance to the fears clouding my head. The wind blew harder, and the sky lost all its brightness to gray clouds heavy with rain. “You fell because the stairs are old and unsteady and worn. It was a terrible tragedy, but the location can hold nothing over you. There was no one left behind to weep.”

Not believing my own words, I took her by the hand and we walked. Soon the dovecote loomed before us, its tall stone walls darker than I’d remembered. Our pace slowed as we approached. Madeline gripped my arm until it hurt, but I welcomed the pain. It kept me from picturing the sad face of the lonely child.

“Must we go inside?” Madeline asked. Her features were strained, her eyes wide and vacant, her hands shaking.

“Yes,” I said, trying to muster confidence. “To confirm there’s nothing there but an empty space.” Three short steps and I was at the door. Just as I touched the handle, lightning cracked the sky and the clouds opened, pouring a sudden and apocalyptic rain on us.

Madeline shrieked, the most blood-curdling sound I’d ever heard. Thunder clapped and she cowered, shivering next to me. There was no need for us to speak. Without a word, I grabbed her and ran, top speed, all the way back to the house.

“You’re beyond drenched,” Colin said, standing close to me and whispering. “And you do know how fond I am of you drenched.” The day we had eloped, we’d stood in the pouring rain on the cliff path high above the caldera on the Greek island of Santorini, a short walk from my villa. The memory warmed me at once, but couldn’t send away entirely the fear that had filled me only moments ago. My hands were still shaking.

“I’ve been more than foolish,” I said, leaning close so only he could hear. “Let’s get home quickly, so I can confess my sins.”

“Sins? I’m all curiosity,” he said.

“You’re not thinking of leaving.” George came towards us, shaking his head as he put a tender arm around his wife. “I cannot allow it. Not when Emily is soaked to the bone. She’ll fall ill.”

“This is not Sense and Sensibility,” I said. “Nor Pride and Prejudice. There’s an excellent literary tradition of catching the most dreadful diseases in the rain, but as I have need neither for Willoughby nor Bingley, I can assure you my health is perfectly safe.”

“Emily, you’re too amusing,” Madeline said, her voice now light and full of laughter, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened to us at the dovecote.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” I was not quite sure what to make of her sudden transformation. My knees were trembling, my voice unsteady.

“A little rain never hurt anyone,” she said. “It was a grand adventure!”

“I don’t doubt it,” Colin said, shooting me a questioning glance. “But now I must get my wife home.”

“You must at least accept a change of clothes,” George said, turning to me. “Madeline can find you something to wear. You two couldn’t be closer in size.” The temperature had dropped radically when the rain started, and the damp cut straight through me. Standing in the cold hall of the château was not helping. I agreed to go upstairs with Madeline, who in short order found me a lovely dress. George had been right—it fit me perfectly, and we joked that we should share clothes more frequently.

I did not, however, feel entirely comfortable while we were changing. Madeline said nothing of substance, and when I tried to broach the subject of the dovecote, she laughed and told me she hadn’t been there in months and wanted to keep it that way.

“It’s not my favorite place on the estate, you see,” she said. “It’s silly, I suppose. But it’s a ghastly building.”

It was as if the conversation we’d had earlier never took place.

We made our way back to the sitting room and the gentlemen, and I watched as she sat, giggling and flirting with her husband. I was not, perhaps, being charitable, but I was horrified and wanted nothing more than to leave. Colin, excellent man that he is, recognized this with no prodding, and within five minutes, we were in our friends’ carriage, bound for my mother-in-law’s house.

“You know, my dear girl,” he said, now that we were at last alone. “I’ve had enough of other people. If you don’t object, I should like to have you all to myself for the rest of the afternoon and evening.”

“Your mother won’t like it.”

“She’s survived worse.” He traced the line of my jaw with his finger. “I’m worried about you. You don’t seem yourself.”

“I’m not,” I said, looking out the window. “Everything seems off to me. And I keep getting overcome with bad feelings.”

“That’s to be expected.” He took my hand and rubbed it. “You’re doing magnificently well considering all you’ve been through.”

“One minute I’m fine, the next I’m in tears. And then there are times when…” I sighed. “It’s too ludicrous.”

“Nothing is too ludicrous to tell me.”

“I’ve reconciled myself to what has happened. I couldn’t have done that without you. Obviously your mother and I aren’t becoming fast friends, which is disappointing, but not the end of the world. But then there was poor Edith and now…”

“Yes?”

“I—I think I saw a little girl in the dovecote at the Markhams’.” I described for him exactly what had happened both times I faced the apparition, what Madeline had told me, and our aborted mission to enter the building.

“How odd,” he said. “Madeline didn’t seem shaken in the least.”

“I nearly had to carry her back to the house. She recovered the instant she saw George.”

“Do I have the same effect on you?”

“I hope not.” I frowned. “I’d never want to have to hide my true emotions from you. She’s protecting him by pretending to be happy. He’s worried about her nerves, you know.”

“He has every reason to be. I can’t imagine the horror of watching the person you love above everything drift into a place you can’t reach her. It would be worse than losing her entirely.”

“You’re right,” I said. “But I’m tired of being morose.”

“So am I.” He kissed my palm. “I think, my dear, you need a distraction of some sort.”

“Have you something in mind?” I asked.

“We need another bet.”

“We’re not investigating a crime.”

“Perhaps that’s the problem,” he said. “There is one small thing in which you might be interested.”

“You’ve been holding out on me.” I sat forward, my blood feeling alive again. “What is it? Something about the murder?”

“No, my love. Don’t get carried away. It’s your friend, Sebastian.” He drew the name out to too many syllables. “We’ve decided—”

“We?” I interrupted.

“The Palace and those I work with.” He gave a wry smile. “The consensus is a man like Sebastian could be of use to us.”

“That’s why you wanted to talk to him on your own.”

“Precisely.”

“How did he react?” I asked.

“Not well, I’m afraid. He balked at the idea.”

“And you want to involve me?”

“Who better to take on such a task? I must admit, begrudgingly, that you may be able to turn him quicker than I. And if you do, I shall personally travel to Épernay and collect for you a case of Moët’s finest champagne.”

“A fitting reward for a French adventure,” I said. “And if I lose?”

“Then you collect the champagne.”

“It’s bound to be heavy. I might need assistance.”

“I shall be watching from afar,” he said. “I have every faith in your strength and can’t imagine you ever calling for help.”

He knew me far too well.

9 July 1892

Monsieur Leblanc, this friend of Colin’s wife, appeared today while the others had gone to Giverny to visit Monet, who is, evidently, acquainted with Madame du Lac. She’s a fascinating woman, Cécile, and one whom I would like very much to know better. The death of her husband certainly did not stop her, or even slow her down. It was not, perhaps, a love match, so our situations may be remarkably different, but I respect her greatly. She surrounds herself with interesting people—artists and scholars and anyone whom she fancies—and appears to constantly be expanding her horizons.

Just the sort of woman I admire. And I must admit the sort of woman it appears my daughter-in-law is trying to become. She does attract interesting friends. Things here will improve (one can only hope) once Cécile returns from Giverny.

At any rate, Leblanc called again, and I had tea with him. He’s a struggling writer—publishing in any periodical that will take his work—but his imagination is boundless. I told him I’d always wanted to travel to Tahiti (whence, according to Cécile, her friend Paul Gauguin has fled to paint). For the next hour he spun magnificent tales of the place, inventing characters and intrigues that would amuse any audience. I could not help but notice, however, that one of his creations bore very close resemblance to that thieving friend of Emily’s. He was also full of questions about the poor murdered girl. Too curious, one might even think.

But enough of that.

I have written a letter to Gladstone, urging him to throw his weight behind the cause of women’s suffrage—to lead the Liberal Party in the direction it ought to be headed. His reply was a disappointment. Despite the fact that his own daughter spearheads our group, he doesn’t feel the midst of a general election is the right time to make such decisions. Lady Carlisle will be even less pleased than I.

Politics is a delicate business. I understand that well. But if a party is not willing to stand up for what is right, does it deserve to win back control of the government? The time is coming to take more radical action than we have in the past—and if that must wait until after the election, I suppose there’s nothing else to be done. Of course if the Tories win, it will be more of a setback for us.

But afterwards, no matter which party emerges victorious, the Women’s Liberal Federation needs to establish itself as its own political entity. And I’m afraid accomplishing such a thing will require nothing short of my personal intervention.