Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“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.

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.”