Valois, Capet, Angoulême, Orléans, Bourbon, Bonaparte; all had some connection to this place. Wars of religion, internecine feuds, revolutions, invasions, the roar of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the stench of powder smoke, drums rumbling and bugles blaring, the screams of wounded men and horses, the triumphant cries of victors as they charged the fleeing enemy, through all this sound and fury the little town had endured, survived, and even prospered.
At least one great king had kept a mistress lavishly in this place; those out of favor, the victims of intrigue and betrayal, had found less congenial accommodations in the castle dungeon. There, if lucky, they were left to languish and die naturally in obscurity. The less fortunate suffered torture and violent death hidden far away from the king, exiting the bloody stage of royal politics as in the old adage, “Out of sight, out of mind”.
Grass and flowers had overgrown the carnage and waste of centuries; whitewash had covered generations of spattered blood. The pain and sorrow of a thousand years had been recorded in the history books and stored deep within the collective memory of the region’s inhabitants. “History repeats itself.” These scenes would be replayed by a new generation of players, if not within the remainder of the waning century, then surely within the next.
But on this particular morning, all was calm as the meandering river ran slowly beneath the ancient bridge, its surface adorned with fallen leaves tinted russet and old gold. A soft breeze rustled willows, poplars, and tall reeds lining the muddy banks. Morning bells rang; birds sang in the trees, monks prayed, and people went to market as they had since the time of Louis VII and Eleanor of Aquitaine.
On the second story of an auberge, secluded within a circle of acacias, Betsy Endicott lay in bed, her hand gently toying with Sir Henry’s golden chest hairs as he slept quietly by her side. As arranged, she had come alone the previous evening; Sir Henry joined her early that morning. They immediately went to bed and made love. Then he drifted off into a deep sleep, as though he had been up all night.
Betsy’s eyes wandered round the room, past the shadows of branches swaying on the ceiling, toward the white, wind-ruffled curtains and the dim light streaming in through half-opened shutters. Does he love me? She wondered. Betsy had lived with Marcia for more than a decade; until her relationship with Sir Henry, she had never been intimate with a man.
Am I in love with him? That was another question for which she could find no answer. He had stirred something within her; he aroused a passion that she had believed was not there, at least not within the experience of her thirty-nine years. Am I pregnant? That query was at once exciting and frightening; it would soon be answered by her anticipated period. A first pregnancy at her age could be dangerous for both mother and child. Does he want a child? Does he want me?
Betsy trembled, her heart raced, her mouth dried. I’m suffocating; I can’t breathe. She turned away from him and sat up on the edge of the bed. Her naked body dripped with perspiration; it had soaked the sheets. She stepped down onto the cold wooden floor, walked to the washstand, sponged off, and wrapped herself in a large towel. Gazing into the mirror she was almost surprised to see how youthful and lovely she looked.
She turned from the mirror to Sir Henry. His seemingly untroubled sleep annoyed her, as though none of her reasonable doubts and fears had so much as crossed his mind.Can I trust him? Is he as strongly committed to me as I am to him? Betsy finished drying herself, gathered her clothes, and began dressing. As she concealed her vulnerable nakedness beneath layers of linen, lace, and silk, Betsy pondered her plight. Were she and Sir Henry inseparable, Faithful and bound to each other for as long as we both shall live? Or should she remain free with the flexibility to adapt to a sudden change in circumstance? She stared hard at her reflection, sighed, and finished dressing without reaching a firm conclusion.
15
OCTOBER 22, AFTERNOON
The tearoom quintet played a sugary rendition of Sous le dôme épais from Lakmé. A faint murmur of polite chatter, clattering silver, china, and crystal added counterpoint to the sobbing violins. Lady Agatha and Marcia Brownlow sat at a quiet corner table, enjoying an early afternoon tea served by a handsome young waiter.
“What a charming boy,” Lady Agatha observed as she eyed the withdrawing waiter from behind. Then, smiling wistfully, she turned to her friend and took a bite of muffin followed by a sip of tea. She returned her cup to the saucer, brushed away some crumbs and wiped her gloves fussily with the serviette. “Why do we wear gloves when taking tea? I always smear butter on mine.”
Marcia laughed. “I doubt whether future generations of women shall bother with such niceties.”
Aggie grinned wickedly, leaned forward, and whispered, “Future generations of women, my dear, will guzzle gin, smoke cigars, dance like bacchantes, swear like sailors, fight like the apache, and show their naughty bits in public. I regret you and I shall not live to see it.”
Marcia smiled sadly and nodded at the reference to changing times and encroaching mortality. She had acclimated herself to her friend’s decline as she had adjusted to her own. To her painter’s eye, the former Venus of Belgravia, subject of one of Marcia’s loveliest and most admired society portraits, was like a clipped rose pressed between the leaves of a book; there was still just enough color and fragrance in the remains to revive a memory of the flower in full bloom. “At any rate, I’m so glad you decided to call on me before leaving Paris.”
“Of course, darling; I’m off to Vevey on the morning train. I should have despised myself had I missed the opportunity of seeing you after all these years. And I’m delighted to find you well enough to come out to tea.”
“Yes, I do seem to have improved tremendously. Perhaps that’s due to an anticipated change of scenery. Arthur’s arranging our departure; we should be on the boat train to England the day after tomorrow.”
Aggie smiled and patted Marcia’s hand. “It’s awfully sweet to see you and Arthur together again. Just like old times. But what does Betsy think of that?”
“I fear Betsy’s so taken with Sir Henry Collingwood she thinks little of me, or not at all. They’re off together in the country, where I don’t know. I’m not sure I’ll see her again.”
Aggie frowned ominously. “I’m sorry to hear that, my dear. I’ll not mince words. Sir Henry’s a cad.”
Marcia fidgeted nervously with her teacup. Despite Achille’s assurance that the couple were under surveillance, she could not shake off the alarming thought that her companion and former lover might be intimate with a brutal murderer. “Do—do you know that from experience, or are you merely repeating gossip?”
“I was one of his patients, and a bit more than that I’m afraid. Have you submitted to one of his infamous treatments?”
“No, that is to say I haven’t—” Marcia caught herself. The thought of Sir Henry therapeutically manipulating Betsy and Aggie’s private parts made her gag. She coughed into her serviette.
“Are you all right? Perhaps you should drink some water, though Lord knows I never touch the filthy stuff. My father, God rest him, lived past eighty and he never drank anything but whiskey and good English beer. He used to say water makes frogs in one’s stomach.”
Marcia shook her head and cleared her throat. “Don’t worry; I’m fine.” She took a couple of deep breaths before continuing: “He did give me some medicine to help me through a rough patch.”