There was one servant whose absence from these interviews was glaring: Molly, who, according to my housekeeper, had left the house to visit her ill sister.
“Have you had any problems with her?”
“She’s a perfectly adequate girl, although I have noticed that she’s rather withdrawn from the rest of the staff.” This was hardly surprising, given her experience with Mr. Berry. I asked Mrs. Ockley to send her to me when she returned.
“I wonder about her.” Ivy had stayed with me. “Are you quite certain that she’s not a friend to Mr. Berry?”
“Of course she’s not!” I said. “Think what he did to her.”
“I suppose you’re right. But it’s awfully convenient, don’t you think, for him to have a servant whom he knows in your house?”
“I can’t imagine that he even is aware that she’s here.”
“I’d want to find out if I were you.”
I watched from the window seat as Ivy left, carrying with her four of the most sensational novels I had on hand. I hoped she could lure back Robert’s attention, and I hoped that I would not ever lose her friendship. But I knew that as she was drawn further into the world of the Duchess of Petherwick and her ilk, we would be pulled away from one another. This would trouble me less if I thought it would bring my friend a happy contentment. Though I feared loyalty to her husband might in the end lead her to a life of the worst sort of tedium, I knew that she could never bring herself to choose another path.
These thoughts made me relish my own choices all the more. I might have to tread carefully to keep from alienating society, but I would never have to worry about succumbing to monotony. Quite the opposite.
I
find it difficult to believe that you didn’t know he had a son,” I said to Mr. Barber, whom I had found hard at work on another sculpture in his studio.
“I didn’t even know David had a mistress.”
“But you did know that he offered financial assistance to those he felt needed it?”
“Yes.”
“Did he buy houses for anyone else?”
“I don’t know.”
“Should I expect to find more of his children flitting about London?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“You didn’t know him so well as you thought?”
“No, no, I can’t believe he left a string of mistresses and children,” he said. “He was a devoted husband.”
“Only if you apply a rather unusual definition of
devoted
.”
“You must not tell Beatrice any of this. It would devastate her.”
“Are you quite certain that she doesn’t already know?”
“Of course she doesn’t! She would have told me.”
“Really? That’s an awfully private matter to share with your husband’s friend.”
“If she suspected David of infidelity, she would have bullied me for information.”
“Wouldn’t she have assumed your loyalty would rest with him?”
“Beatrice and I have been friends for more than twenty years. She knows I would never lie to her.”
I stood up and walked over to where he had been working and touched the cool block of half-carved marble. “Were you better friends with her than with him?” He looked away from me. “Were you in love with her?”
“Years ago, but I knew—”
“Did she return the feeling?”
“My income would not allow me to support a wife. At any rate, I can’t remember when I last thought of her in romantic terms. It was for the best that we never married; she’s not the sort of woman who would make a good artist’s wife. I wouldn’t have made her happy. Our interests are too different, as are our temperaments. Furthermore…”
The length at which he went on made his feelings for Beatrice perfectly clear. He still loved her.
“How soon did she marry Mr. Francis after she broke off with you?”
“Beatrice and I never had a falling-out. David proposed to her, and she decided to accept him.”
“Did you try to stop her?”
“How could I? I wasn’t in a position to offer her half what he could.”
I thought of Lord Pembroke, who was calmly standing by, watching the woman he loved prepare to marry Charles Berry. Did men not have the same capacity for love as women? How could they react with such tepid indifference to having their passions thwarted?
“Did it never occur to you that perhaps she cared more about you than the money?”
“Maybe she did. But the reality, Lady Ashton, is that I could not have supported her in an adequate way. As romantic as the idea of an abiding love is, it is not something that can overcome every obstacle.”
“I think you are too quick in jumping to your doomsday conclusions. You live comfortably.”
“What is acceptable for a bachelor is a far cry from what a wife deserves.”
“So we women are left to suffer lost love in exchange for a house and an allowance?”
“It is a man’s duty to see that the woman he loves has that which she needs. Sometimes that requires graciously stepping aside.”
“Oh, Mr. Barber! I do wish men would allow women to make some choices of their own. We’d all be better off.”
I headed directly from the studio to Richmond, thinking during the drive about Beatrice and her husband. Mr. Francis had lied to me about his wife’s personality. Beatrice, who had come to me accusing me of an affair, presented herself as a devoted wife. As I considered her behavior, which had initially struck me as bold and direct, I began to wonder if she had practiced a deception of her own. Her husband’s request that she give me the snuffbox made her believe that he had not been faithful to her. Grief might wreak havoc on one’s ability to
think rationally, but unless she had already suspected that his affections had strayed from home, why would she immediately leap to such a conclusion?
“I wish you had told me about your feelings for Mr. Barber,” I said, sitting with Beatrice in her garden. “I’ve just come from his studio. You were in love with him.”
“Michael is the truest friend I’ve ever had.”
“More so than your husband?”
“Husbands fall into a different category altogether. You know that.” She gazed out over the flowers in front of us. “There is always the desire to bring more comfort than distress to one’s spouse, and the result is that, on occasion, one chooses to bury painful experiences.”
“But I thought that you and Mr. Francis were so close, perfect companions.”
“As perfect as husband and wife can be,” she said.
“And Mr. Barber was your confidant?”
“In the past few years, yes. He was always on hand to listen to those fears and anxieties with which I did not want to burden David.”
“Forgive me for being so direct, but did this have to do with your inability to have a child?”
“What else could cause such pain? I could see the disappointment in David’s eyes. I wanted to mourn, to cry, to shout at the injustice of it, but to do so would only have made him feel more helpless.”
“Did your husband have a confidant, too?”
“You mean did he have a mistress. He didn’t.”
“You thought he might when you first came to me.”
“I was upset.” I watched her as she spoke. “I should never have questioned him. It was disloyal of me.” There was a measured tone in her voice, too measured, that made me continue to doubt the veracity of what she said.
“I’m sorry that I brought it up. It was wrong of me,” I said. “But
I’m afraid I’m going to continue asking difficult questions. Is your financial situation comfortable?”
“Dear me! I’d no idea you were such a competent detective!” She smiled but did not answer my question.
“You mentioned that the pink diamond was not something that your husband could have afforded to buy anymore. What happened to cause that?”
“David had some capital that, coupled with my dowry, enabled us to live without worrying about money. As the years went by, though, and it became evident we wouldn’t have a child, he started spending more. Not on us, but on people he wanted to help. Like Michael. He left enough for me, though. I’ve no cause for complaint.”
T
HIS IS BECOMING A TERRIBLE HABIT,”
I
SAID AS
H
OSKINS LED ME INTO
Colin’s library. “Shouldn’t you be calling on me?”
“I would if you weren’t here so often. Dare I flatter myself by thinking that you are irresistibly drawn to my library?”
I looked at him. He was a bit disheveled, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up, hair tousled. The result was devilishly handsome. “Yes, drawn to the library, of course. Which reminds me, I need to peruse your much-lauded fiction collection. I want to find something quite sensational for Ivy.”
“I’m just lowbrow enough to have an abundance of that,” he said. “What were you thinking? Braddon’s your favorite, am I right?”
“I do adore her.”
“You just like books where husbands get pushed down wells.”
“You’ve found me out.”
“How about Wilkie Collins?
The Woman in White?
That might be good for her.”
“I’d nearly forgotten about that. I don’t think it’s in my library. I read it when I was still at my parents’ house.”
“I’m surprised your mother allowed it,” he said, stepping up a ladder to reach the book in question.
“She didn’t. I borrowed it from a maid.”
“Here you are.” He handed it to me. “Have you something for me?”
“I do.” I gave him the letter I’d brought. “Unfortunately, Cécile doesn’t have much to report.” He leaned against the edge of his large, leather-topped desk so he could read. When he got to the end, he laughed softly.
“I can’t believe that I’ve managed to hide something from you.”
“What?” I asked.
He gave the letter back to me. “Read it again.” I did but still saw nothing of particular interest.
“I’m pleased, of course, that Cécile’s ordered a new dress, and that Caesar is triumphing over Brutus.” I frowned. “She makes no mention of Odette continuing to pine for Davis. I do hope he’s not going to have his heart broken.”
“Is that all you see?”
I leaned next to him, against the desk, so close that my elbow touched his sleeve. “It’s perfectly obvious that you’re bursting at the seams to reveal that which I have missed, and you know that I’d never want to keep any pleasure from you.”
He breathed deeply and crossed his arms. “You will be the death of me.” I met his eyes, doing my best to look all innocence. Neither of us spoke until I dropped the letter. He bent over, picked it up, and, leaning against my shoulder, held it in front of me. “The new dress refers to the planned coup. She knows that the plot has been set in motion but must not yet have an idea of the date. The reference to her dogs means that she is winning over Monsieur Garnier.”
“It’s so obvious now that you’ve told me.”
“Codes generally are once you know how to decipher them.”
“Do tell me that Davis and Odette aren’t code for anything. I’ll be despondent if I find out that what she said in her previous letter had nothing to do with my poor butler.”
“You’re quite safe. Davis and Odette are not part of the code.”
“That’s a relief.” I loved the feeling of him so close to me and for a moment allowed myself to think of nothing but the warmth of his arm against mine. I was not, however, so carried away as to overlook the implication of what he had just shared with me. When I realized what it meant, I was quite overcome. “I am such a fool!”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I understand your reluctance to marry.”
“You’re absolutely terrible,” I said, but couldn’t help smiling. “I’m talking about the correspondence between Marie Antoinette and Léonard. They must have written in code.”
“It’s possible.”
“How can I tell?”
“Well, if the letters are encoded, it’s likely that there’s a simple sort of key. The queen wouldn’t have been able to hide anything in her cell, so she must have been able to decipher and write without consulting a key.”
“Her jailers would have read everything she wrote and received, so it can’t have been too simple or obvious.”
Colin crossed the room to another bookshelf, ticking off each volume with a finger until he found the one that he sought. After glancing through it, he passed it to me, then returned to his search. “This might be helpful, as well, so long as it doesn’t distract you from the matter at hand.” He gave me a second book, this one in French,
Les secrets de nos pères: La cryptographie; ou l’Art d’écrire en chiffres
.
I glanced at both of them while he opened a drawer in his desk. “This is a definitive work, though it’s more pertinent to military cryptography. Fleissner von Wostrowitz is a master, and it’s possible that reading his articles will inspire you, though the more I think about
it, I’m inclined to say your letters rely on both steganography and cryptography.”
“You’ve absolutely baffled me. I’ve not the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Cryptography is codes. If you pick up a document and see a series of numbers or letters that look like gibberish, you know at once that they need to be deciphered. Steganography, however, provides a way to send a hidden message that does not look like a code.”
“Like your letter from Cécile?”
“In a sense, yes, though we’re primarily using a jargon code, substituting words—
Brutus
for
Garnier
. Our system is laughably unsophisticated. Were we to employ a null cipher, for example, it would be much more difficult to crack. In such a case, you might need to read only the second letter of every other word in a document to find the imbedded message. It’s an elegant method—utterly simple once you know the technique that’s been employed—but doesn’t necessarily require a complicated key. And, to the untrained eye, the paper looks like an ordinary letter.”
“Perfect for our jailed queen,” I said, my excitement growing.
“I think so. It will be difficult to figure out their system, but not impossible. You will have to analyze each letter very carefully.” He squeezed my hand so hard that it almost hurt. “I rather envy you the task.”
“I never expected you were a gentleman who keeps ready references on code breaking in his library. I’m beginning to suspect that your work is more fascinating than you let on.”