Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“Do you want absolute candor?”

“Always,” I said, my heart pounding.

“I would have you study Greek and read scandalous literature and host political dinners and torment society ladies. I would see you catalog art and travel the world, but as a well-educated tourist, not in pursuit of this work of ours.”

“It’s dangerous for you as well. What if I asked you to give it up?”

“I wouldn’t.” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Emily. I do consider you my equal—absolutely. But we are not the same. We are not capable of handling the same situations in the same ways. Your strengths are not mine and vice versa. I’m qualified for what I do. You’re brilliant and insightful and good at it—but the physical requirements are beyond what can reasonably be expected of a lady. And without being able to handle the physicality of it, you would be putting yourself in danger again and again. I know you hate to hear me say it, but how can I allow that?”

“I—I’m stunned,” I said. “I love working with you. I thought we were making progress. This conversation, even—we were analyzing the situation. Making reasonable deductions—”

“Yes. But when it comes time to pursue the culprit—to unmask him—that is a task I cannot in good conscience allow you to take part in.”

His words hurt like a slap, stinging against my skin. “You didn’t say such things to Kristiana,” I said. “You believed she could be your equal in all ways.”

“I did. And now she’s dead. You and I went into our marriage believing we could do everything together—but look what happened when I let you, forgive me, behave like a man. You were nearly killed.”

“I don’t know what to say.” I wanted to cry, but wouldn’t let myself, suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge for privacy.

“I’m so sorry.” He knelt in front of me and wrapped his arms around my knees. “I’m at a complete loss and don’t know what to do. But I couldn’t go on any longer without telling you how I feel. If we can’t be honest with each other, we have nothing. I know I’m letting you down, disappointing you, proving that all your hesitations about marrying again were reasonable.”

“If things hadn’t gone so horribly wrong in Constantinople—”

“They would have gone horribly wrong somewhere else. It’s inevitable in this line of work.”

“So I’m to sit at home waiting for news that you’ve finally been bested, that I’m widowed again?”

“I don’t know, Emily.”

“What happened to your easy arrogance?” I asked, my voice growing stronger and loud. “You used to tell me not to worry—that you were trained, that you were invincible. I didn’t believe it, but could understand that confidence helped protect you. What am I to think now? That you’ve lost faith in yourself?”

“There’s no one better than me at this job, Emily,” he said. “But even I cannot go on forever.”

“Then stop.”

He looked up at me, his eyes fixed on mine. “I won’t.”

“And I’ve no choice but to accept that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.” I could no longer stop the tears from pouring down my face. “You are dashing all my happiness.”

“I’d rather have you irritated and alive than dead with a smile on your face.”

“That’s not your choice to make,” I said. “Regardless of your status as my husband.” Even as I said the words I knew they weren’t true. I’d given up everything when I’d married him. If he refused to let me assist his investigations, I would have to stop my work. He was equally aware of this, but had the courtesy—and good sense—not to broach the subject. Instead, he pulled me down on my knees, so that we were facing each other.

“I’m confused, Emily. I don’t know what to do. I’ve not made any decisions, and can’t even tell you our options at this point, because I haven’t figured them out. I need your mind—your quick, wonderful mind—to help me solve Edith’s murder. But there will come a time in the case when you will have to step back. And when that time comes, I can’t have you protesting or sneaking around on your own. I have to be able to trust that you’ll do as you’re told, or I’ll be too distracted to do my work well. And then I will be in danger.”

“I don’t want that,” I whispered.

“Can I count on you to stop when I tell you to?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No, Emily, you don’t.”

“Then why bother to ask?”

“Because it matters to me that you understand why I’m doing this,” he said. “I’m not some unreasonable brute.”

“I know.” My voice was barely audible.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” I said.

He looked at the floor, then rose to his feet, lifting me up with him. “So knowing her child was lost to her made Edith’s mental state deteriorate more quickly,” he said, his voice rough.

“What if a man came to visit her—maybe the man who was looking after the child?—and he agreed to let her meet the little girl?”

“You’re sure it’s a girl?”

“Absolutely,” I said, numb.

“He helped her escape.”

“And months passed before she was found murdered. What happened during that time?” There was no joy in this for me now.

“Forgive me. I see how unhappy you are,” he said. “It’s not that you can’t do anything, Emily, only that you can’t do everything.”

I did understand. I did see the reason in his arguments. I even could accept that his position was just, even correct. But it made no difference. The only thing that mattered was wondering if I’d ever be able to forgive him.

When I woke the next morning, I knew I would forgive him. Anything else was impossible. Still, I was unhappy with what had transpired between us and the cautious and too-tender smile he bestowed upon me as he turned on his pillow to kiss me was like harsh light in delicate eyes. My body responded the way it always did to his touch, but there was a disconnect, and it was as if I watched us from above instead of drowning in pleasure with him the way I used to. As always, he was beyond attentive, deliciously thorough, but I wanted to cry, wanted to erase the hours that had led us to this painful and awkward place.

Painful and awkward for me, at any rate. My husband did not seem troubled in the least. Quite the contrary. He sprung out of bed, bent over to kiss me, and rang for Meg. “Ready for your morning ablutions?” he asked, whistling an obtrusively cheerful tune.

I rolled over and groaned. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“Up, lazy girl,” he said. “I’m not cutting you out of the fun altogether, so there’s no need to mope. What do you think is our best strategy? Talk to the obtuse Monsieur Prier? Grill moody Laurent? Or shall we pester Dr. Girard again?”

I pulled the pillow over my head. “I’ll leave it to you to decide.”

“Oh no, my dear.” He wrenched the pillow from my hand. “I won’t have you making my decision into something it’s not. You’re still involved with this, and I need your opinion.”

Need it now, I thought, but not when things get interesting. No sooner had this flown through my brain than a wave of guilt followed, hard on its heels. I could choose misery or accept the reality into which I’d freely entered, a reality that somewhere in my soul I knew to be reasonable. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. “Monsieur Prier is unlikely to know anything about the whereabouts of the child, and I think that’s the piece of the puzzle we need to find next. Dr. Girard has told us what he will—unless you’ve some hidden plan to torture more out of him when I’m not around.”

“You’re dreadful,” he said, bending over to kiss the side of my neck. Once again, my body betrayed me and my skin delighted at the feeling of his lips.

“I doubt very much he’s the only person at the asylum who knew about the birth,” I said, sitting up. “We need to speak to the nurses, the orderlies, the rest of the staff. Someone may be able to identify Edith’s mysterious visitor. I’m confident he could lead us to the child.”

“Do you think she’s still alive?” he asked.

“The child?” I asked; he nodded. “You agree with me that she’s a girl?”

“I’ve yet to see reason to doubt your intuition,” he said.

This brought immediate tears to my eyes.

“It’s not that I’ve lost any measure of faith in you, Emily. But I’m going to better look after you from now on.”

I wiped the tears with the back of my hand.

“And I won’t have you wallowing,” he said, smiling. “I love you.”

“I love you,” I said, my insides a mass of confusion.

“So?” he asked. “Do you think the child is alive?”

“I do. And we should find her as soon as possible.”

“He was definitely French.” The girl wriggled in her chair, uncomfortable. “I never really talked to him, though. He came every other Friday, I think it was. Or maybe once a month. Can’t rightly remember, but I know I thought of him as reliable. You could always depend on him showing up again.”

The young nurse’s assistant was the eleventh person to whom we’d spoken. Dr. Girard—who assured us he’d not had a recent visit from Laurent—had not objected to us questioning them, even gave us the use of his office, though he made it clear again he had made no progress when searching out the true identity of the man who, according to the nurses, called himself Charles Myriel. Everyone remembered him as kind and constant, and the general consensus was that his presence soothed Edith, even when she was in the midst of a difficult spell. But no one had ever had occasion to extract from him any personal information. He always came on horseback, alone, stayed exactly an hour, and disappeared with no fanfare.