Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“I’m reading Madame Bovary, ” I said.

“Which my mother gave to you. You’ve not even browsed in the library here once.”

“I don’t feel welcome in this house.”

“When has that ever stopped you before?”

“I’ve not had to deal with an unruly mother-in-law before.”

“You surprised her, that’s all,” he said. “She expected to find you much different.”

“How so?”

“She expected the lady I’d described in my letters. Someone independent and forward-thinking, someone in pursuit of an intellectual life.”

“Forgive me if being shot, losing our child, and seeing the mutilated body of a girl who looked like me threw me into a state of agitation!”

“Of course I forgive you,” he said. “I’m just asking that you come back, that you stop lingering in a sea of malaise.”

“You forgive me?” Now outrage kicked in. “Forgive me ?”

“Did you not just ask me to?”

“I was being facetious!” I shouted and turned on my heel to storm into the dressing room. The door slammed with a satisfactory thud. I sat in front of my vanity and waited for him to follow me. Ten minutes passed without a sound coming from the bedroom. Then a latch clicked.

But not the one to the dressing room. I heard his footsteps, faint, going down the stairs. Trembling, I dropped my head into my hands and wept.

Colin and I did not argue. Very few issues caused even a slight disagreement between us; he’d always been the most sympathetic and generous person I knew. How could the troubles we’d suffered alienate him so thoroughly? I thought of Toinette, petite and lovely, and wondered if he’d been much affected by her. Something about her—her confidence, perhaps—reminded me of Kristiana, the woman he’d loved long before he met me.

Kristiana was sophisticated and elegant, and in possession of a sharp intelligence. They’d met in Vienna, where she lived and worked as an undercover agent. Their relationship, deep and passionate, had gone on for years. Colin had even proposed to her, but she’d refused him, telling him she preferred to remain lovers and colleagues.

She was dedicated to her work, and someone on whom he could always depend. Although he’d never described the details, he had told me enough that I knew she’d faced a host of terrifying and dangerous situations without disappointing him.

And I knew—knew from what had disappeared from his eyes—that my inability to maintain calm and carry on in the face of trouble had disappointed him. I had not lived up to his expectations. Expectations formed by another woman, more strong and capable than myself. Kristiana had died in the line of duty. I’d survived, but only as a member of the walking wounded, a ghost of my former self. Colin had never wanted a weak, simpering wife.

Kristiana should have said yes all those years ago when he proposed to her.

When Meg appeared, ready to dress me for dinner, I refused, sending her downstairs for a tray. I’d hoped Colin would come with it, but he did not. Meg reported that he was sitting with his mother in the parlor. Too upset to touch my food, I asked her to help me get ready for bed. She unlaced my corset without her usual witty commentary on life below stairs. Her face was strained and she hardly spoke as she handed me a soft, cotton nightdress. I’m sure she had no idea what to say.

For the first time in our admittedly short marriage, I went not to the room Colin and I shared, but to the bedroom that connected to the other side of the dressing room. Four hours had passed since I’d stormed away from him, and in that time, he had sent no message, had not enquired as to my well-being, had not tried to persuade me to come downstairs. I crawled into bed before the sun had set, without even Madame Bovary to read. I’d left it in the other room. So I waited, my pillow wet from tears, until I heard my husband’s footsteps in the dressing room. I held my breath, wondering if he would come to me, straining to listen as he readied himself for sleep: the rustle of his clothes, water splashing in the basin. My heart raced when he fell silent. I could feel his presence on the other side of the door and wanted more than anything for him to fling it open and take me in his arms.

Instead, I once again heard the click of a latch, this time followed by the creak of our bed in the other room as he lowered himself into it, alone. His parents had never spent a night apart after their marriage. Yet another way I’d fallen short of his mother.

I could not sleep, so I paced in front of the window, considering what Colin had said. I could not deny I’d lost all focus, virtually abandoning my intellectual pursuits since the tragedy that ended our honeymoon. I wanted to be the sort of person who rallied, who moved through adversity with grace and purpose, never daunted, always strong, but I’d failed.

I wished I’d stayed in Rouen with Cécile, wished I was back in London with my friends, wished I were anywhere but here. With a sigh, I leaned out the window, breathing in the cool night air. The moon hung heavy in the sky, silvery clouds blurring its edges, but not dulling the light it sent slicing through the night. The room Colin and I shared overlooked the back garden, but this one faced front, and I could see all the way down the drive to the gate. A rush of movement caught my eye in the lane beyond it—a flash of white fabric and a flicker of dark shadow. No sound accompanied what I saw, no crunch of gravel, no measured footstep. I leaned farther out, hoping to hear something, but my attention was met only by silence. Even the trees stood still and quiet, no wind rustling their leaves. Then, just as I started to pull my head back inside, a small cry cut through the night. It might have been an animal, the sound almost like a mew, until it changed to an obvious sob, gulping and hoarse, the voice thin and youthful.

My heart racing, I pulled on my dressing gown and slippers, cracked the door, and stepped into the corridor. My calves tightened as I tiptoed down the stairs and sneaked to the front door, doing my best to avoid a spot on the floor I remembered to be creaky. Soon I was in the garden, moving carefully along the stone path slick with dew. The clouds had disappeared, but the increase in light did nothing to alleviate the eerie sensation swirling around me. Watching for shadows in the trees and beyond the end of the walk, I continued forward to the road. There, in front of me, only a few paces from the gate, rested a tangled blue ribbon, the color of a summer sky, identical to the one I’d seen tied in the hair of the little girl in the Markhams’ dovecote.

I crouched down and stretched my arm through the balusters, but my fingers could not quite reach the dirt-stained satin. Even if they had, I wouldn’t have been able to grab it given the force with which my limbs were shaking. I gripped the cold railing and pulled myself up, then swung around against the stone pillars connecting the gate to the wall. My breath coming hard and ragged, I closed my eyes and counted to ten in Greek. Then to twenty. I’d forgot how readily the ancient language soothed me. When I reached thirty I began to wonder if there had been some wisdom in what Colin had said. I needed to go back to my studies, needed to reclaim the things important to me.

This was not, however, the time for such contemplation. I surveyed the scene before me, looking for anything else out of place. The gate was firmly latched and locked, the garden quiet, yet something felt wrong. I stood completely still, my senses alert, my back pressed against the wall, so no one could creep up behind me. Ahead, the path to the house was clear. But on either side I faced mountainous hydrangea bushes and low-hanging willow trees. The distance to the door had grown enormous.