Dangerous to Know Read online

  “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.

  10

  Mrs. Hargreaves had greeted me with no enthusiasm when Colin and I returned from Giverny, and I longed for Cécile to rejoin our party. When, two days later, she wired to say she was ready to leave, she asked if I would to meet her in Rouen, where she wanted to pay her respects to her old friend, Madame Prier. I welcomed the invitation, and planned the trip at once.

  Cécile�
�s train from Vernon had arrived before ours from Yvetot, and she greeted us on the platform, then ushered us into the Priers’ carriage. Narrow medieval streets veered up and down steep hills and along the Seine, no obvious plan to their layout. We passed a square containing a market, fruits and vegetables, fish and cheese amongst the offerings, the noisy buzz of transaction masking the sound of our carriage. Many of the people dressed in the old costumes of the region—the men in full, baggy shirts, the women with tall hats fashioned from delicate lace, making those in modern dress look awkward and out of place amongst the city’s medieval buildings. Colin tugged my sleeve, motioning out the window to the tower that imprisoned Joan of Arc during the Hundred Years War, and I shuddered at the thought of her ultimate fate, to be burnt alive in a space that now contained cheery shoppers.

  “Frightening how shallow civility runs, isn’t it?” Colin asked.

  “Such a thing could never happen now,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t be so confident.” He leaned back against the seat. “And don’t forget it was the English who killed her.”

  “You’re a bloody race,” Cécile said.

  “Unlike you with the guillotine,” Colin teased.

  They continued to argue over which country had exhibited more brutal tendencies throughout history while I looked out the window at the Gothic towers and spire of the cathedral, ornate yet delicate spectacles rising to the clouds.

  The Priers expected us at their town house, although to use such an English term did not quite fit in Rouen. Situated on a winding cobbled street not far from the centre ville, their residence took up nearly the whole block, the first floor of its half-timbered façade leaning forward like the buildings in York’s Shambles. This was not a result of wood bending over the centuries. In Rouen, this sort of construction was deliberate, giving additional space on each floor above the ground. Boxes full of red geraniums hung from every window, a stark contrast to what must have been the mood of the home’s inhabitants. A somber servant answered the door and showed us into a dark sitting room, its beamed ceiling low. Despite this, it was a pleasant space, cozy rather than dull, elegantly furnished in well-preserved renaissance furniture: heavy cabinets and narrow, elaborately carved chairs with red seat cushions.

  “Cécile!” A door opened and in came a petite woman, swathed in black. “It is too many years since I’ve seen you.”

  “Dominique, mon amie!” Cécile embraced her. “It is a terrible occasion on which to call, but I could not leave you in your grief without offering my condolences.”

  “It means more than you can imagine to see someone from the old days. And these are your friends?” Introductions sped by—her husband, a lean, dour man, joined us as well—and soon we were all being plied with coffee. I found mine difficult to drink, not because I disliked it, but because a cold sweat had broken out over my body. I wondered if Edith’s parents knew it was I who had discovered their daughter’s body. Considering whether they did, whether they would ask me about it, contemplating what I would say brought the terror of the scene back to me, and seemed to drain all the oxygen from the room. I swallowed hard, steadied myself, and wished Colin was sitting near enough that I could grab his hand.

  “The difficulties we have faced are enormous,” Madame Prier said, dabbing conspicuously dry eyes with a black-edged handkerchief and glancing at her husband, who showed no sign of interest in the topic. “All I want now is comfort, not sadness. It’s too much to bear. The situation, you see, is unusual. The loss of Edith surpassed any ordinary death.”

  I had opened my mouth to tell her I understood, that I, too, knew what it was to grieve a victim of murder, when the door cracked open and a girl who couldn’t have been a day over eighteen popped into the room. Curvy and petite, she was built like her mother, with shiny black hair, wide-set eyes, and looking nothing like her unfortunate sister. She had eschewed imitating her mother’s dress, however, and was clothed entirely in crimson.

  “What a relief!” she said, in flawless English. “It’s been too long since we’ve had new faces in the house. It’s been unbearable, I tell you.”

  “Toinette, don’t be horrible. We must break you to them gently,” Madame Prier said, turning to us, her voice full of apology. “This is my youngest daughter, who is feeling much put-out by the requirements of mourning.” Monsieur Prier glowered at his daughter and opened the book he’d been holding on his lap.

  Despite her outrageous entrance, I felt a rash kinship to Toinette. Upon finding myself widowed, I’d initially felt relief followed quickly by resentment at being packed away to mourn—feelings that vanished as soon as I discovered the excellent character of the man who’d died only a handful of months after he’d made me his wife, before I’d come to know him at all. No doubt the enormity of the loss of her sister would soon find her, and sadness—real sadness—would come.

  “I don’t see why we’re all pretending,” Toinette continued, her crinkled brow at odds with the rest of her perfectly smooth face. “Edith went away ages ago and none of us has thought about her in years. This is a display of guilt, not grief.”

  “Toinette!” Her father’s tone was severe, but he did not look up from his book.

  Madame Prier froze, then straightened her back and flipped open a black fan, waving it vigorously in front of her face. “I do not think our guests are interested in your extremely superficial analysis of the subject.” I caught Colin’s eye and raised an eyebrow. He drew his lips firmly together and gave the slightest shrug.

  “You’ve done an excellent job raising a daughter capable of thinking for herself,” Cécile said, rescuing the conversation. “I would have expected nothing less.”

  “And I should have known you wouldn’t be shocked by her,” Madame Prier said. “She does, however, need to learn some manners or no one will have her for a wife.”

  “Which would be a terrible outcome. The threat, however, is not quite enough to make me mend my ways. Perhaps because I’ve not yet found a worthy suitor,” Toinette said. Her eyes lingered on Colin. “You’re very handsome. Pity you’re already spoken for.”

  I expected he would have kindly, but firmly, brushed her off, as I’d seen him do a thousand times to awestruck females before. Challenges do present themselves when one is married to the most handsome man in England, but he never gave me cause for concern. This time, though, he sounded almost encouraging. “You are too generous with your compliments, mademoiselle.”

  “Not in the least, I assure you,” she said, flashing a wholly inappropriate smile that revealed impossibly white teeth. “I’m frequently censured for being too hard on those around me.” I waited for Colin to flash me a look of something—exasperation, or even apology. He grinned at me, but I was not reassured.

  “That’s quite enough, Toinette,” her father said, his voice knifesharp.

  “Don’t force me to send you away.” Madame Prier frowned.

  “You would devastate our guests if you did,” Toinette said. “They’d be dead of boredom in a quarter of an hour. What would you have them do? Sit here quietly and pat your hand?”

  “I shan’t tolerate any more of this,” Monsieur Prier said, slamming his book shut. “I will deal with you later, Toinette.” He darted out of the room. Only a moment later the door swung open, this time with a bang, revealing a tall man, broad-shouldered, with close-cut hair and features that while not handsome, oozed all things exotic. His aquiline nose and regal bearing caught the instant attention of everyone in the room as his eyes, dark and liquid, the pupils rimmed with gold, surveyed the scene before him.

  “Laurent!” Madame Prier stood and embraced him. “I’ve been beside myself. Where have you been?”

  “Who are these people?” he asked, his words full of fury, with no suggestion of an interest in social niceties.

  “Old friends from Paris,” she said. “This is—”

  “Society callers at such a moment?”

  “Oh, really, Laurent, you’re such a bore.”
Toinette’s tone would have dismissed a lesser man at once. “They’ve come to pay their respects to dear Maman and poor Edith. Papa, of course, has fled. You can go elsewhere to brood.”

  “An excellent suggestion.” He left without another word before we could be introduced to him.

  “I’m afraid he has taken his sister’s death badly,” Madame Prier said. “They were extremely close as children.”

  “Twins, were they not?” Cécile asked.

  “Oui. Like light and dark, the pair of them. Her a sunny day, all fair and bright, him inky midnight. It is all very difficult, you see. Edith fell ill and her sickness became unmanageable for us.”

  “She was a raving lunatic,” Toinette said.

  “Toinette, there’s no need for that. Too much candor, chérie. You must restrain yourself.”

  “Laurent wanted us to bring her home,” Toinette said, ignoring her mother. “But what does he know? He’s never cared for anything but his own whims.”

  Toinette’s words seemed to me an excellent description of herself. The initial sympathy I’d felt for her had vanished.

  “It must have been a terrible time for all of you,” Colin said.

  “Far from it.” Toinette’s beauty would have shamed the brightest sun. “It was much easier to live without her than with her.”

  Her mother gave her a sharp tap on the wrist. “Enough.”

  “Are you staying for dinner?” Toinette asked, disregarding her mother entirely and looking at Colin.

  “We wouldn’t dream of imposing,” he said, a rather too dashing grin escaping from his lips.

  “It would be so helpful if you would,” Madame Prier said. “But whatever you do, you must come back to hear the concert I’ve arranged for tomorrow evening.”

  A feeling not wholly unfamiliar—but utterly alarming—was creeping upon me. My thoughts sounded like those better suited to my mother. I raged against the idea of being a person who registered horror at the behavior of others when they veered out of society’s norms, yet here I stood in disbelief that Madame Prier would host a concert so soon after her daughter’s death. And Toinette now struck me as less a modern woman attempting to assert independence than a shameless flirt whose scandalous behavior could lead only to ruin and devastation.