Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

In an instant, Laurent was standing above me, glowering.

“So sorry,” I said, rising to my feet. “I had no idea your room came this far.”

“ That is what you’re sorry for? Not for disturbing my privacy? Not for manhandling my sister’s possessions?”

“There’s no need for so much tension, Laurent,” I said, hoping he couldn’t discern how difficult it was for me to keep my voice from shaking. “I’m not trying to torment you.”

“Leave my room.”

“What’s the piece you were playing?” I asked. “I loved the emotion of it. Is it Beethoven?”

“Are you simple-minded? Do you not understand the most basic commands?”

“I understand them perfectly well. But I’ve always had a problem following them.” He did not respond. “My mother insists it’s deliberate, but I think it’s innate to my personality.”

He stalked across the room, back to his piano. I followed him.

“I want to know more about Edith,” I said. “I have a friend, a writer, who’s just begun investigating her murder. He’s convinced there’s more to it than the police believe.”

“And this is meant, what? To impress me?”

“I’m not sure I care what effect it has on you.” He’d started playing again, the music crashing against the dark paneled walls of the room. “But I do want to know what happened to your sister.”

“What interest can it be of yours?”

“I found her, Laurent. And doing so forged something between us. I didn’t recognize it until today because I’ve been distracted with tragedy of my own. I—”

“I’ve no interest in your tragedy,” he said.

“And I’ve no interest in sharing it with you. But I will find out why Edith died the way she did. You can choose to offer whatever meager assistance you can, or you can sit back and brood and help no one, yourself included. It’s immaterial to me.”

“If it makes no difference to you, why would I put myself out?”

“It might speed the process,” I said. “I had the impression that you were close to your sister. That you might have some insight into her life.” I watched him as he played. He did not look at the keys. His gaze, focused and intense, was fixed out the window, even as his head moved with his body, the music seeming to flow through him.

I walked back to the opening through which I’d tumbled. On Laurent’s side, the door appeared to be part of the room’s design, blending enough into the paneled wall so as to be hardly visible. Without a word, I stepped through and slid the cover back into place. I shuddered as I inadvertently brushed against Edith’s clothes, and was happy to emerge in what had been her bedroom, a much brighter space than that of her brother’s. I would not harass him. My work could commence without him, and when he realized I’d begun, he would want to know what I’d learned. And then I could make him first tell me what he knew.

A grating sound came from the back of the room as the hidden panel slid open.

“It was Beethoven,” Laurent said, pushing the door to the armoire open. “You were right.” He disappeared, closing the door.

Pleased, I set back down the stairs, ready to speak to the servants.

16 July 1892

In all the years I’ve stayed in France, I never felt lonely until now. Colin is the same gentleman he ever was—he already was a gentleman at five years old—and nothing could ever alter him. Not even his father was so assured in his character, or knew so early what he wanted from life. Much as I adore my William, this mother will admit to playing favorites amongst her sons, and Colin was always that.

It is not reasonable, of course, to think our relationship wouldn’t change after his marriage. I would be displeased if it didn’t—it would mean he didn’t love his wife enough. And on that count he clearly does not fall short. What I didn’t expect, however, was to lose him to someone whom I’d find disappointing. After meeting her, I decided the time I would most enjoy with my son in the future would be those moments when his wife was not with him. But her presence is immediate even when she’s not here. He thinks of her all the time.

I’d had great hopes that our time together after she left for Rouen would be different. We’ve fallen into our usual habits, as I thought we would, but while we read together or discuss politics over coffee, she is always with us.

I wonder what she would think of our Gladstone—if she knows enough of the man to form an opinion. Would she be shocked by the work he and his dear wife did to save common prostitutes from poverty and despair? Is she capable of understanding the question of Irish Home Rule? What on earth does my son find to talk to her about?

Yet I can’t believe that an unworthy lady would have so affected him. Which means, I’m afraid, I can only surmise there’s a weakness on my own part. That I’ve not given the girl enough of a fair shot. That I should try better to see her as he does.

I have seen her wear riding dress to lunch.

“Have I heard right? Are you leaving for Paris in only two days?” Toinette asked, popping a piece of pain au chocolate into her rosy mouth as we all convened for breakfast the next day in a small but charming room in the back of the house. Bright tiles covered the floor, painted with a floral design, and a large bay window faced the garden.

“Yes,” I said, spearing a bite of oeufs pochés à la lyonnaise —savory poached eggs with onions and a simple white sauce topped with browned Gruyère cheese. “On the morning train.”

“It’s so unfair!” she said. “I’ve just decided to head off to Yvetot tomorrow and had so wanted to call on you. I understand your belle-mère lives not too terribly far away.”

“You can still visit Madame Hargreaves, darling,” her mother said. I felt the beginnings of a headache, no doubt related to the thought of Toinette machinating an opportunity to flirt with my husband.

“I’ve a friend from school who lives nearby, you see,” Toinette said. “I’m going to spend a whole week with her and we’re bound to be bored out of our minds. I’m hoping she might host a dance. Apparently—” she paused for another bite, “her father opposes the idea, but I’m bound and determined to change his mind.”

“You must invite Madame Hargreaves and her son,” Madame Prier said.

“And the Markhams. May I have more chocolate, Maman ?” She gulped from the cup the instant her mother had filled it. “I can’t think of anyone else.”

“Oh the Markhams. Yes, I suppose you must, although they’re bound to be tedious.”

“You don’t like them?” I asked. “We found them pleasant company.”

“George is all charm,” Cécile said. “And Madeline as well. Eccentric in her way, but a very sweet girl.”

“I never liked her mother when she was young,” Madame Prier said. “And I’m quite certain she’s beyond intolerable now.”

“She’s ill,” I said.

Madame Prier nodded. “Precisely. Now, Toinette, what else do you need to prepare for your visit?”

I watched as she and her daughter prattled on about clothes and other details of the journey, surprised that she would dismiss Madame Breton with such contempt. Given the struggles with nerves faced by her own daughter, I should have thought she’d be more sympathetic.

But Edith’s illness and death were topics garnering no interest in the household that day. Madame Prier snapped at me when I brought up the subject, and I feared my pursuit of further information might prove awkward, particularly as I felt uneasy at the thought of questioning the staff without the family’s express permission. I asked Cécile’s advice about addressing her friend on the subject.