“At what point did you notice Edith’s health deteriorating?” Colin asked.

“Soon thereafter. She started sleepwalking—we actually had to lock her in her room,” Monsieur Prier said. “She talked to herself. Or rather, she talked to people who weren’t there—the little girl more often than not.”

“It was beyond alarming,” Madame Prier said. “Before long, her personality was lost entirely, and she shouted at me as if she didn’t know who I was. She’d beg and plead for us to let her out so she could go home. As if she had no idea she was already there.”

“It must have been awful,” Cécile said. “You are strong to have soldiered through so difficult a time.”

“After she fell down the stairs in the middle of the night, Laurent convinced us she was endangering herself,” she said.

“It didn’t require convincing,” Monsieur Prier said. “We couldn’t even determine how she got out of her room.”

“I’m not sure about that,” his wife said. “But at any rate, Laurent had read about Dr. Girard, and contacted him to see if he felt he could help her. He was willing, so my husband took her to him.”

“And you were pleased with the treatment?” Colin asked.

Monsieur Prier shrugged. “You see the outcome was not so great.”

“Were you happy with the conditions in the asylum?” I asked, knowing full well Dr. Girard had said neither of them had visited her there. “Did you feel your daughter was being properly looked after?”

“It was clean and bright and she seemed safe there,” Madame Prier said. “At that point, what more could I hope for?”

“Did you see her often?” Colin asked.

“We went every week at first, then every other week. She wouldn’t talk to us, only sat and looked vacant. So we stopped going more than once a month.”

“When did you last see her?” I asked, wondering who was telling the truth: the doctor or the parents? It seemed unlikely Dr. Girard would lie about such a thing. More reasonable, I thought, to believe the Priers preferred to hide their sins of omission when it came to Edith.

“Two days before she vanished,” Monsieur Prier said.

“What was her mental state?” Colin asked, his voice calm in the extreme.

“Unchanged.”

Madame Prier smiled fetchingly. “This must all be such a bore for you. Please don’t feel that you have to ask questions to make us feel better. We’ll manage. As I said, we’ve already grieved the loss. Edith was never herself after she left this house. I do hope, Monsieur Hargreaves, that you haven’t come here to collect your charming wife and run away again. It’s so nice to have friends around. We must have a party for you.”


17 July 1892

Oh the excitement I’m missing! The election is in full swing, and I’m desperate to be in the middle of it. It looks as if the Conservatives shall gain far too many seats—but I cling to the hope they will fall short of an overall majority and the Liberals will be returned to power. If nothing else, we should be able to count on those who support Irish Nationalism, an issue that has been consuming Gladstone for years now, particularly after the defeat of his Home Rule bill…a topic on which I would happily speak for days if allowed. Much as I admire the man, to have undertaken the writing of such a piece of legislation essentially without the input of anyone else was a grand mistake. Let us hope, now, he will have the chance to remedy the errors of the past and put an end to all these Irish troubles.

How I miss the days when Nicholas and I hosted political dinners, subtly (and not-so subtly) influencing the views of those around us. Choosing to bury myself deep in the country—exiling myself from England—was not, perhaps, the wisest decision. I’ve mourned all these years, and will continue to miss the dear man for the rest of my days. But it’s time to reengage.

I shall contact my solicitor and instruct him to find a home for me in town. Maybe one in Park Lane, near Colin.

He left for me some of his wife’s work. Apparently she is translating Homer’s Odyssey from the original Greek. This evening I shall read what she’s done. Is it hubris that enables someone like her to take on such a project?

19

“We’re not staying here,” Colin said, tightening my corset before I slipped into a luscious dark red velvet gown for dinner. Madame Prier had promised sole meunière, the delicate fish drenched in brown butter and lemon, and I found myself looking forward to the meal more than I’d anticipated. My husband did not share my enthusiasm, but it was not the food that caused him grievance. “I’d rather sleep in rooms over a tavern than in this house.”

“They are an interesting lot, aren’t they, the Priers?”

“If by ‘interesting’ you mean ‘slightly deranged’, yes, I suppose.” He fastened his cuff links. “I lunched with Monsieur Prier before you returned this afternoon. He didn’t speak to any of us. Read a book through the entire meal.”

“Could you see the title?”

“Les Miserables.”

“Quite a choice,” I said. “According to Toinette he keeps out of the house as much as possible, but she doesn’t know where he goes.”

“He has my sympathies. I’m ready to flee after less than a day.”

“I think there’s something to these visions Edith had,” I said. “The description of the child matches that of the girl I saw at the Markhams’.”

“Insofar as they were both wearing ribbons.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t let your mind trick you, my dear. All little girls wear ribbons.”

“But pale blue—”

“Madame Prier said nothing about color. You’re molding the situation to what you saw.”

“I feel like we’re missing something. Toinette said Laurent deliberately drove Edith to insanity.”

“Do you think he’s trying to do the same to you?” Colin asked. The lack of skepticism in his voice took me aback.

“I’m not sure why he would.”

“What if he killed his sister? What if he’s afraid you’ll find him out?”

“Heavens, what’s become of you?” I closed the clasp on a delicate gold and ruby necklace. “That sounds more like my wild speculation than the solid sort of theory you’d present.”

“Nothing in this case makes sense in an ordinary way. I don’t really subscribe to all this nonsense of hauntings and driving people mad. Edith came unhinged—I believe that. There’s a history of insanity in the family, and that’s the most likely explanation for her illness. Her brother may have exploited that with ghost stories, but I don’t believe it’s possible he literally made her come undone.”

“All right,” I said. “So she’s been forced to throw over the man she loves. She realizes she’s with child, and she’s terrified of what her parents will do—her mother’s beyond eccentric and it’s easy to believe she had cause to be scared of her father’s reaction. That sort of stress could put an otherwise stable mind close to the precipice.”

“So Laurent plays with her—”

“According to him because he was worried and wanted to get her help.”

“And she’s sent to Girard, who hides the pregnancy, delivers the baby, and sorts out a caregiver for the abandoned infant.”

“Which must have hurt Edith all the more,” I said. “To have her child taken from her like that—” I bit my lip and tried not to cry. Colin took my hand in both of his.

“I’m so sorry, my love. This must be incredibly difficult for you.”

“I thought you’d decided it was time for me to be over it.”

“There are ways in which it is time, but this case seems to be digging it all back up again.” Deep furrows appeared in his brow. He dropped my hand and started to pace. “Am I doing the right thing letting you pursue this?”

“Letting me?” I asked. “That’s not a term of which I’m particularly fond.”

“I realize that, but it’s also the truth. I say this not to irritate you but to try to make you understand that I’m carrying the burden of your well-being. I’m your husband, Emily. If I allow you to do things that cause you harm, is the end result not, in fact, my fault?”

I could feel myself getting caught up in his use of the word allow, but was sensible enough to see the reason—and the fear, and the guilt, and the love—in his words. “What happened in Constantinople was not your fault,” I said.

“If I’d been taking proper care of you, it never would have happened.”

“We’ve talked about this a hundred times—you agreed that we both did what we had to, given the circumstances.”

“I know that’s the case. Intellectually, at least. But emotionally I must confess to having more and more sympathy for husbands who appear to be considerably less enlightened than I. Perhaps there is a certain amount of wisdom to their beliefs about what a woman should be allowed to do.”

My heart sank hearing him speak like this.

“I know this is upsetting to you,” he said. “And I’m not suggesting at this moment that we revamp entirely the understanding we have about each other’s work. But I must be honest with you, my dear—this marriage between equals is more difficult than I expected it would be.”

I could hardly breathe.

“It’s not that I don’t adore you. I love you more than anything,” he said. “But how can I love you and not take care of you? I’m having trouble reconciling my intellectual beliefs with emotional reality.”

“Who’s to say the emotions are what’s real?” I asked. “Do you not better trust your intellect?”

“I do,” he said. “But I’m beginning to wonder if that’s always the correct path.”

“What would you have me do?”