"You are good to share this with me after I barged into your home making dreadful accusations," Mrs. Francis said. "I'm so sorry."

"When I learned that Philip had been murdered, I accused innocent parties of far worse than adulterous affairs." I remembered well the implacable calm with which Colin had faced my erroneous charges. I may not have been bold enough at the time to denounce him directly, but he knew full well that I suspected him of killing his best friend. "You and I are bound together by a bitter kinship. Please do not feel that you ever need apologize to me for transgressions brought on by your grief."

We sat together some time longer, saying very little. Before she left, I promised to come to her in Richmond after the funeral was over. I knew she would need friends then, when the rest of society would abandon her, another lonely widow left for dead. I felt deeply unsettled when she was gone, all the memories of Philip stirring in me again. I had not thought about him — not really — in months, and realizing this brought back that most unwelcome of companions, guilt. My present happiness in life — my independence, my fortune, even Colin — all stemmed from my husband's death. Had he lived, I would not find myself so pleasantly situated.

My melancholy solitude was soon interrupted. Davis announced Colin and handed me a letter at the same time. Despite the heat, my friend managed to look more cool and crisp than was strictly fair, particularly given the marked contrast of my own appearance. "You've not changed your dress since the regatta," he said, and sat next to me on the silk-covered settee.

"No," I said, dropping the letter on the table next to my lemonade as I told him of my meeting with Mrs. Francis.

"A terrible tragedy," he said. "I read about it in the papers this morning. You're sweating." He caught a drip of water that was falling down my glass of still-untouched lemonade and traced his cool, wet finger around my face, then down my neck. And though my skin responded as it always did to Colin's touch, I was too distracted to really enjoy the sensation.

"What color were Philip's eyes? They were light, that much I remember, but were they blue or gray?"

He pulled back from me. "Blue. What brings this on?"

"Mrs. Francis, I suppose. Speaking with her made me realize that I owe all my current joy to him. It's an odd sort of feeling."

"One of which I'm all too aware. Had I not lost my best friend, I might never have found a woman who could captivate me the way you do. There will always be a touch of the bittersweet in our love, Emily." He stood up, walked across the room, and stared out the window.

I did not feel much like pursuing the subject and fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment before finally picking up my lemonade. "Would you like some?"

"No, thank you. Are you going to open your letter or are you bent on wallowing all afternoon?"

"Why the sudden interest in my mail?"

"Because it was I who found it sitting on your doorstep. Quite mysterious, I thought."

This piqued my curiosity, and I picked up the envelope, examining it carefully before opening it. "I really must spend more time on my Greek," I said once I had unfolded the note. "My skills at sight-reading are woefully lacking. Will you?" I handed it to him:



"I beseech thee, Love, charm asleep the wakeful longing in me." He frowned. "The Greek Anthology again."