"That's common courtesy, Ivy."

"I don't think so." She filled her cup and drained it quickly again. "They look at me. To see if I'm tired. Or flushed. It's intolerable."

"My poor dear. Has Robert commented on the situation?"

"He dances around the issue, asking me every few weeks if I have any news."

"Well, I suppose — "

"When he knows perfectly well that...that...he would have to...that with him gone so frequently..." She poured still another cup of tea but this time did not drink it, just stirred and stirred the contents with a small silver spoon.

"Is he neglecting you?"

"Of course not! But entering politics is awfully time-consuming, and he winds up going to his club most evenings after we come home."

"And he doesn't want to wake you when he returns?"

"He almost never comes to me," she said in a voice hardly above a whisper.

My heart broke for her. The most obvious explanation for her husband's behavior would be a mistress, though I found it hard to believe he would have strayed so early in their marriage. "Are things between you well otherwise?"

"You know Robert. He's a consummate gentleman. Attentive, kind, generous."

"But not quite attentive enough."

Ivy turned red to her fingertips. "How was it with you and Philip?"

"Oh, Ivy, you can't compare that. We were hardly together beyond our wedding trip."

"I'm probably overreacting," she said. "When he needs my comfort, he'll find me. I have to learn to be more patient."

I stopped her stirring her tea. "Ivy, marriage is a partnership. Your need for comfort is as important as his, and it's obvious that you need more than he is giving you. Can't you talk to him? Tell him your feelings?"

"I would never want to be a source of worry to him."

"Surely a man who loves you would not want you to feel so unhappy?" I wondered if Robert did love her and continued quickly. "Perhaps this is nothing more than a miscommunication. Why don't you tell him that you'd like to see him after he gets home?"

"I couldn't do that!"

"Why on earth not?"

"It would be as if I were...really, Emily, I could never say that!"

"That is most unfortunate."

"Not everyone is as comfortable with unconventional behavior as you are."

"Ivy! Are you reprimanding me?"

She burst into tears. "No, no, of course not. But your life, Emily, is not at all like mine anymore. You're happy to be on your own. I'm not. All I want is to be a good wife and bring Robert happiness."

"There's nothing wrong with that." I embraced her.

"I know you don't believe that," she said.

She was right, and I felt terrible. We had been inseparable since we were girls, learning to embroider side by side, picking out our first ball gowns together, swapping sensational novels. We had even been presented at court on the same day. But ever since her marriage and my realization that I wanted to pursue an intellectual life, our lives had veered in different directions. "Just because I haven't followed the same path as you doesn't mean that I condemn your choices," I said.

"You think your choices are better."

"Better for me, not for you." A silence hung between us. "You know that I respect your decisions. I just don't want to see society engulf you and churn out another perfect matron."

"There's no danger of that happening."

"There is if your only purpose in life is to keep Robert comfortable. When is the last time you brought me a book to read?"

She wouldn't meet my eyes. "Robert does not much like popular fiction."

It outraged me that she would alter her reading habits at the whim of her husband, but I decided that, for once, I ought not say what I was thinking. "You are not giving Robert the credit he deserves. He does drink port with you, does he not?"

"Yes, when we dine alone."

"And it's been what? Five? Six months since you started drinking port? You've given him plenty of time to get used to modern thinking. It's undoubtedly safe to introduce literature to the household."

This brought the beginnings of a smile to Ivy's face. "I'd hardly call the novels we read literature."

11

Ivy left with my copy of Mary Elizabeth Braddon's Mount Royal. Mrs. Braddon had for years been one of our favorite guilty pleasures. I had brought another of her books, Lady Audley's Secret, on my honeymoon, and had no doubt that the author's retelling of the story of Tristran and Iseult would give my friend relief from her marital woes. Eventually, however, she would need more than simple distraction. I was determined to find a way to gently persuade her to take a more active role in her relationship with her husband. This might prove more difficult than uncovering the identity of my mysterious admirer.

I went to Richmond as early as possible the next morning, eager to see what Jane Stilleman's peers thought of her. The response was underwhelming. While no one expressed animosity towards her, she did not seem to have any particular friends amongst the staff. Beatrice was waiting for me in her sitting room, pacing nervously, desperate for new information.

"There must be something we've overlooked," she said.

"It will perhaps be easier to prove someone else's guilt than to prove Jane's innocence. I'm very curious about the snuffbox that was stolen from you. Have you any idea how your husband acquired it?"

"It was a gift from one of the Sinclairs' servants. They're our nearest neighbors."

"Isn't that a bit odd? A servant giving a gift to a gentleman?"

"Not for David. He was generosity itself, always doing what he could for those less fortunate. It was not uncommon at all for those he had helped to offer him some sort of thanks, however humble it might be."

A silver box that had belonged to Marie Antoinette could hardly be described as humble. "Do you know the servant's name?"

"Dunston, I believe. Jeanne Dunston. I've no idea what David did for her."

I set off at once to call on the Sinclairs. Beatrice's house stood on a small piece of land that backed into her neighbors' magnificent park, and a walk was just what I needed to gather my thoughts before descending upon them unannounced. I took solace in the knowledge that my rank would allow me to get away with this sort of thing.

Mrs. Sinclair received me without the slightest indication that she found my arrival out of the ordinary. She was gracious and elegant, plied me with tea and cakes, and happily answered my questions about her servant.

"Jeanne was a treasure, an absolute treasure. Her father worked in the stable when my husband was a boy, and her grandmother was with the family before that."

"But Jeanne is no longer with you?"

"No. She died some months ago. She was quite old."

"I understand that she gave a silver snuffbox to your neighbor, David Francis. Were you aware of that?"

"Yes. He had helped her with some family matter. I don't know the details, but imagine that it had something to do with her son, who turned out very wicked. It was he who should have been given the box — it had been in their family for ages. But he disappeared years ago."

"Did she have no idea where he went?"

"My husband tried to locate him when Jeanne fell ill, but to no avail. He had notices of her death printed in the papers, but Joseph didn't come to the funeral."

"His name is Joseph?"

"His mother called him that, but it appears that he took a different name after he left our house."

"I am sorry that he never reconciled with his mother," I said automatically, though the sentiment was not entirely heartfelt. Unless I heard proof of Joseph's guilt, I would withhold judgment against him. "Have you any idea how the box came to be in the Dunstons' possession?"

"Not in the slightest. Jeanne's grandmother fled France during the revolution. I suppose she picked it up before she left."

"Perhaps it was a gift from her previous employer?"

"Highly unlikely. Who would give a servant such a valuable item? I imagine it was one of the many objects looted from Versailles. Not, mind you, that I am suggesting she stole it."

"Of course not," I replied.

"And now the box has been stolen from poor Mrs. Francis. She must be devastated." 

"Do you know her well?"

"I can't say that I do. The Francises are good neighbors but not much interested in society."

When we had finished our tea, Mrs. Sinclair was kind enough to allow me to question her servants. None of them knew where Joseph Dunston might be found, and only one admitted to knowing about the silver snuffbox. The girl, a young maid, had walked into Jeanne's room while the woman was looking at the box.

"She snapped it shut the second she saw me and scolded me something fierce for coming in without knocking."

This snuffbox grew more interesting with every passing moment. I was still wondering what Jeanne Dunston might have hidden in it when, on my way out of the house, I noticed a striking sculpture in their foyer: Greek, from the Archaic Period. I looked at it carefully, trying to memorize its details and wondered if the Sinclairs could be convinced that it belonged in the British Museum.


Colin's hat and walking stick were in the hallway when I returned home, and, thrilled at the thought of him waiting for me, I started for the library, only to be stopped by Davis.

"Mr. Hargreaves and Mrs. du Lac are in the blue drawing room, madam. Mr. Hargreaves asked most emphatically that they not be disturbed, though I am certain he would not include you in a list of potential disturbers. Also, while you were gone, four cases of champagne arrived from Berry Bros. and Rudd."