“I assume,” he said, crossing to me, “that you are Madame Hargreaves, who found the body.”

“I am Madame Hargreaves,” Colin’s mother said, stepping forward. “I believe you want Lady Emily.”

“I’m afraid my own lack of a title puts me beneath my wife in rank,” Colin said, shaking the policeman’s hand. “Hence the confusion. But I must say, there’s no other lady I’d rather have precede me.”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “At any rate, Lady Emily is the one who found the murdered girl.”

“Investigation will determine the cause of death,” Inspector Gaudet said.

“There can’t be much of a question,” I said. “She was brutalized.” Before I could stop them, tears sprang from my eyes. I pressed a handkerchief to my face and tried to compose myself.

“I do not need you to describe for me what had been done to her. I’ve already summoned a doctor to analyze the state of her body. He can’t be more than ten minutes behind me. What I need is for you to show me the precise location of the scene. Do you feel able to do that? I understand how difficult all this is.” His voice was full of sincere worry.

“I appreciate your concern,” I said. “But I’m prepared to do whatever is necessary.”

Within a quarter of an hour the doctor and another policeman had arrived, and we were all mounted on horseback, Colin keeping close to my side. Mrs. Hargreaves had debated joining the party, but in the end was persuaded by her son to stay behind. We set off, and it quickly became apparent retracing my route was not quite so easy as I thought it would be. I had followed a path from the house beyond the road that led to the village, but then diverted through fields on whims in search of flowers, or to follow the sound of a particularly fetching birdsong, or hoping to find the peace that had eluded me since the day of my injuries in Constantinople.

“I know it wasn’t much farther,” I said, frowning. I’d made a habit of timing the length it took me to reach the beginning of the village road—exactly half a mile from the house—and I knew how long I’d been riding at approximately the same speed. Six miles in any direction was not so easy to find, and I made enough missteps—mistaking one field of poppies or flax or wheat for another—that the others began to doubt I would be of any use to them. In the end, I managed to recognize from afar the twisted limbs of the tree that stood over the body.

My horse reared as we approached, sensing, I suppose, my own tension as much as it did the smell of blood that hung in the air. We all slowed, then stopped, no one moving for several minutes. I could not bring myself to look again at the hideous sight.

“I can’t believe it,” Colin said, dismounting, his voice gruff. “I never expected to see something like this again.”

“Again?” Inspector Gaudet stood next to him.

“It’s as brutal as the murders in Whitechapel,” he said. The collective terror that had descended on all of London when Jack the Ripper stalked women in the East End was something no English man or woman would soon forget. Chills crawled up my arms at the mere thought of his horrible handiwork. “Emily, did you hear anything at all when you found her? Sounds that suggested someone was close by?”

“Only the crack of a branch,” I said, hesitating. “But I can’t say I was aware of much beyond her.”

“She hasn’t been dead long.” The physician was kneeling beside her. “You’re lucky not to have arrived any earlier than you did, Lady Emily.”

My eyes lost all focus. I came off the horse and tried to walk towards Colin, but my knees buckled. He stepped back and moved to catch me, but I pushed him away, knowing there was no stopping the inevitable. I ran as far as I could from the tree, then doubled over and was sick.

Gaudet turned to the other police officer. “Organize a search. We must comb the entire countryside. Hargreaves, take your wife home and look after her. She’s done all we need of her and ought not trouble herself with this matter any longer.”

2

From the beginning of our marriage, I had taken much pleasure from sharing daily routines with Colin. Dressing for dinner, for example, had become a time during which, once we’d shooed away our servants, we could discuss, quietly and in private, the events of the day. Often my husband dismissed my maid, Meg, before I was quite done with her, so he could help me finish fastening laces or buttons or jewelry. The only area into which he would not stray was the taming of my hair. Tonight, our rituals were the same, but I could not stop my hands from shaking long enough to put on the dazzling diamond earrings he had given me for a belated wedding present.

“It’s possible you’ve reached your physical limits, Emily. Now is not the time to be pushing yourself.” He took the dangling jewels from me and pulled me up from my seat in front of the vanity.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “My only problem is that I’m embarrassed and disappointed in myself.” With gentle hands he turned my face to him and carefully snapped each earring into place, then kissed my forehead.

“I’ve seen men with greater experience and stronger stomachs than yours have more violent reactions than you did today. But I do worry, my dear.”

“And you worry me. You promised you wouldn’t try to keep me from working when opportunity presented itself.” I leaned towards the dressing room’s mirror, biting my lips to give them color. I’d chosen a gown of shell-pink satin with a delicate moiré in a darker shade, hoping the hue might enhance my complexion, which looked unnaturally drawn and faded.

“I wouldn’t dream of stopping you. But now is not the time—”

“How can you say that?” I asked, pulling one of my hairs from the sleeve of his perfectly cut cashmere jacket.

“First, because you’re still recovering from your injuries. Second, there’s no reason to think Gaudet needs any assistance. He seems competent.” He stood behind me, checking his appearance in the mirror.

“How can you say so? He hardly even interviewed me.”

“He didn’t want to push a lady in your condition.”

“I’m not in a condition anymore.”

Silence fell between us. Colin put his hands on my shoulders, bent down, and kissed me. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean—”

I reached up and squeezed his hand, watching him in the mirror. “I know.” We did not speak much of our loss. It was too depressing and filled me with guilt.

“We don’t have to go down to dinner tonight,” he said. “I can have a tray sent up to us here.”

“No, your mother would never forgive me for ruining her plan to introduce us to the neighbors.”

“Given the circumstances, she would understand,” he said.

“She would take it as further proof of my inadequate constitution.”

“She doesn’t mean to be hard on you.”

“Of course not.” I sighed, the damp air that had crept into the ancient house chilling me to the bone. “But she’s certain I’m not nearly good enough for you.”

“My dear girl, in her mind, no one could be good enough for me.” He kissed me again. “Thankfully, I’ve never been one to give the slightest heed to other people’s opinions. I think you’re absolute perfection.”

“I shall have to content myself with that. Your mother is a force nearly as unmovable as my own.”

“Give her time, my dear, she’ll come around. As I was the only bachelor brother, she’s come to depend on me since my father died.”

“I don’t want that to stop,” I said. “She should be able to depend on you.”

“And she will, but she’ll have to get accustomed to sharing me. She’s used to having me all to herself much of the time. I admit I thought she’d adjust more readily and am sorry her reaction to you has caused you grief.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “Come, though. If we don’t head down now, we’ll be late, and that will only serve to put her off me all the more.”

He took me by the hand and led me to greet his mother’s guests. The oldest parts of her house dated from the fourteenth century. Built in traditional style, the low ceilings and beam construction on the ground floor made for cozier surroundings than those to which I was accustomed. The space was warm and welcoming. Long rows of leaded glass windows lined the walls, letting in the bright summer sun. The surrounding gardens were spectacular, bursting with blooms in myriad colors, and enormous pink, purple, and blue hydrangea popped against the estate’s velvety green lawns.

Halfway down the narrow, wooden staircase, Colin stopped and gave me a kiss. “I suppose it is for the best that you decided not to take dinner upstairs,” he said. “As I do have a surprise for you. Coming, I think you’ll agree, at a most opportune time. She’s likely not only to cheer you immensely, but also to terrorize my mother into accepting you.”

“Cécile!”

“Mais oui,” he said.

I’d met Cécile du Lac in Paris, where I’d traveled while in the last stages of mourning for my first husband. An iconoclast of the highest level, she was a patron of the arts who’d embraced Impressionism when the critics wouldn’t. She’d had a series of extremely discreet lovers, including Gustav Klimt, whom she’d met when we were in Vienna together the previous winter, and considered champagne the only acceptable libation. Although she was nearer my mother’s age than my own, we’d become the closest of friends almost at once, brought together by the bond of common experience. Like mine, her husband had died soon after the wedding, and like me, she had not been devastated to find herself a young widow. Of all my acquaintances, she alone understood what it was to spend years pretending to mourn someone. And even when our histories diverged, it did not drive a wedge between us. When, at last, I came to see Philip’s true character, and found my grief genuine, she accepted that as well, even if it was due to empathy rather than sympathy.