Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“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.

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.