Dangerous to Know Page 8

  Once we were all seated, Monet scowled at Sebastian. “I cannot have works disappearing from my studio. Your behavior is outrageous, regardless of whatever noble spin you may try to put on your motive.”

  Had I never before met Sebastian, I would have been taken in by the perfectly poignant look of remorse on his face. His eyes, half-closed and heavy-lidded, drooped. His lips pressed together. He wrung his hands. “Any amends I attempt to make would not be enough. Not even a decent beginning.”

  “You’re right on that count,” Colin said.

  With a beautifully elegant and dramatic flair, Sebastian whisked a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to his brow. “Motive may be irrelevant, but I assure you, Monsieur Monet, my heart, my soul, want nothing more than to see your work in the hands of those who appreciate it.”

  “Then perhaps you should change your line of work, Monsieur Capet,” Monet said. “Become an art dealer instead of a thief.”

  “An excellent suggestion, in theory,” Sebastian said. “And I’ve taken the first step towards following your advice.”

  Colin coughed and I rolled my eyes.

  “Yes. Well.” Sebastian waved us off with a flutter of his handkerchief.

  “I have a note from Mr. Markham, the gentleman who received the painting,” I said, handing a sealed letter to the artist, who opened it at once, read, and then laughed.

  “The recipient of your so-called generosity is offering more than a fair price for the work,” Monet said. Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, but the artist stopped him. “No, monsieur. Do not debase yourself by trying to convince me you negotiated the deal. It’s obvious Kallista is behind this. I see her hand in it bright as the sun.”

  “Any admirer of Kallista’s sees her hand in all good things.” Sebastian stood and crossed the room to Monet. “Can you find it in yourself to forgive me?”

  Alice wrinkled her nose. “You, Monsieur Capet, want to reach a resolution with far too much ease.”

  “Quite right, my dear,” Monet said. “But I’m in a conciliatory sort of mood and inclined to accept his disingenuous apology. What man wouldn’t do the same in the face of such happiness? Alice, you see, has at last agreed to be my wife.”

  “Champagne!” Cécile cried. “There must be champagne at once!”

  “This is the best sort of news,” Colin said. “When can we expect the wedding?”

  “We were married three days ago,” Monet said. “I couldn’t risk giving her time to change her mind.” We all erupted, cheering and embracing them.

  “I could not be happier for you both, mes amis,” Cécile said, kissing him on both cheeks.

  “Merci,” Monet said, moving close to Sebastian. “One more misstep, sir, and you will live to regret it. None of my paintings shall disappear from any location because of a scheme of yours.”

  “Bien sûr,” Sebastian said. “I give you my word. If I could just—”

  “I think you should not push your luck,” I said.

  “Some clarification, if I may,” Sebastian continued. “I swear on whatever power, being, person, etcetera, means the most to you that I shall never again extract one of your works from its proper home.”

  “Proper home as defined by me, not you.” Monet’s voice was stern, but not without a hint of humor.

  “Agreed,” Sebastian said. “But I cannot tell you that I shall curtail all my…industry.”

  “You will not take any painting done by my fellow Impressionists.”

  Sebastian sighed. “Do you not want me to own anything pretty?”

  “You might try buying as a manner of acquisition,” I said.

  “How pedestrian,” Sebastian said. “Really, Kallista, you disappoint me.”

  Alice disappeared and then returned, carrying a tray laden with two bottles of champagne and six flutes. “Finish this negotiation, my darling husband, and let us turn our attention to celebration.” She then opened the bottle and poured glasses for Cécile, herself, and me, leaving the other glasses empty. “You’ll get none until you’re done with this ridiculous haggling,” she said.

  I accepted a glass from her. “I wish you years of happiness,” I said. We toasted, then left the men to a discussion of whether or not Manet, whose use of black deviated from the technique of the other Impressionists, should be included in Sebastian’s forbidden group. Making our way through a bright yellow dining room, we stepped into the kitchen whose walls were lined with stunning blue and white Limoges tiles. Copper pans shone, hanging from their racks, and tall windows thrust open over the garden, a sweet, floral fragrance wafting in through them. Alice gave a series of instructions to the servants, then grabbed a platter laden with cheeses—Camembert and Neufchatel amongst others, along with a crusty baguette—and stepped through a door back outside.

  “You have found heaven here, I think,” Cécile said, taking a seat at a rough but welcoming table in a pleasantly shaded grove. The day could not have been more beautiful, a handful of puffy clouds dotting the cerulean sky. “Although I do not think I myself could be so far from Paris.”

  “Not you, Cécile,” Alice said, breaking off a piece of the bread and cutting into the soft cheese. “But my dear Claude is miserable when he’s not here. I do hope you can stay with us a few days, at least. There’s so much on which we need to catch up.”

  “If I can convince Kallista and her dashing husband to remove poor Monsieur Capet without me, I could be persuaded,” she said.

  “That could be arranged.” I grinned. “I can’t thank you enough, Alice, for being so generous in your forgiveness of him.”

  “It is nothing,” Alice said, waving her hand. “The painting is returned—and purchased—and all can be forgot. But I am interested in this friend of yours. He reminds me very much of a gentleman my husband painted years ago. Monsieur…. Vasseur, I believe was his name.”

  “Vasseur?” I asked, springing to attention.

  “It’s his eyes,” Alice said, smiling at the serving girl who’d followed us outside with the rest of the champagne and was now refilling our glasses. “I’ve never seen any that color. Is it possible your intrepid acquaintance goes by more than one name? Perhaps to disguise his nefarious activities?”

  “Surely Monet would have recognized him?” Cécile asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Alice said. “The portrait was done ages ago. Even before we’d come to Giverny. But we can ask him.”

  When the men joined us sometime later, I raised the issue at once.

  “Him?” Monet was incredulous. “Absolutely not.”

  “You’re quite sure?” I asked.

  “My dear girl,” Sebastian said. “I do think I’d remember having my portrait painted. Although now you mention it, it’s not a bad idea. What do you say, Monet?”

  The artist’s reply was something akin to a growl, and I let the subject go. I had no reason to doubt Monet’s sincerity (or his memory), but Sebastian’s credentials were more than dubious. I wanted to talk to him privately, but was not to have the chance. Before we’d all retired for the night, he’d disappeared, slipping into the darkness, leaving no explanation, only a too-flowery note thanking Monet for the excellent wine and continuing to debate Manet’s inclusion in the Impressionist movement.

  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.