The inside of her head feels light somehow, as though it has been flushed clean. She starts piling lumps of coal onto the kindling in the grate, lifting the black chunks out of the scuttle with the tongs. Her hands move without her seeming to direct them. She thinks: how odd it is that a woman like Mrs. Robert would have so little in the way of correspondence in her desk. It is almost as though she doesn't know anyone—not just in this city, but beyond it. And how could that be? Does she have no family? No friends? How is it possible to go through this world without ties, unless you are an orphan? Or unless you have cut yourself off because of some shame in your past?
Outside, the sun breaks through the clouds and the room brightens. She crosses to the window. There's a fluttering of wings, and a pigeon lands on the sill. It swaggers up and down, then stares at her with eyes as small and hard as seeds—like Mr. Cartwright's eyes, she thinks. "Got nothing for you," she tells it. "Go on—get going." She waves her hand at it until it takes off across the street.
T
he assistants at Mortimer's General Mourning Warehouse have the serious look of undertakers. Of course, considers Mina Bentley, their profession is not so different. They too deal with the recently bereaved, death after death, day after day. The woman who lays out black silks and bombazine for her on the counter has a face that has set itself into a look of exaggerated sadness. Her mouth sags, her eyes blink too often, and when she speaks to ask if madam would like her dress made up in this fabric or that, her voice is smooth and heavy as lead.
"Yes." Mina lays a gloved finger on one of the black silks. "This one will do."
There is still the undertaker's to visit, but they cannot do that until Mrs. Henry Bentley arrives. After all, it is her husband whom they will be burying. Up above the shelves of fabric and trim hangs a clock adorned with black streamers tied in a bow, like the prey of an untidy spider. Nearly half past ten already. The maids will be having a hard time of it, with their routines thrown off and the extra work of making Henry's room ready for his widow. And in the middle of it the doctor will be calling, for the elderly Mrs. Bentley has not taken the news of her older son's death at all well. As for the fact that she has a new daughter-in-law, Robert has been unable to convince her of it.
Beside her another customer coughs into a handkerchief. A young woman, her belly bulging out from under the seaweed green of her dress. Soon she too will be wearing black. The woman lays her hands on her belly, then walks slowly, so slowly, to one of the chairs that wait by the windows, ready to hold up the grieving whose emotions overwhelm them. She lowers herself onto the one farthest from the door and hides her face as best she can in a small handkerchief.
Mina picks at her gloves. Already they are looking a little shabby, not that it matters since now she'll have to wear black ones. A delicate ring of chimes announces half past ten. The maids should have finished with the bedrooms, and she wonders: Has Sarah found her desk unlocked? Did she look through it? Of all the days for her to leave it open, today surely seemed the most credible. After all, with the confusion of Henry's death, with so much to do, she could so easily have forgotten. What could be more natural? But the larger question is this: Will it teach the girl a lesson? When she finds nothing of interest, will she stop prying?
She glances over at where Robert is being shown hatbands. Already he seems impatient, but they have had to wait. Several other customers were ahead of them: the loss of a ship as large as the S
tar
of the Orient m
ust be good for business, and the thought of it—of the proprietors of this shop reading the news of sinkings and influenza outbreaks and railway accidents with satisfaction—makes her pull her hands away to the edge of the counter.
"Yes, yes," she hears Robert say. "If four inches is customary, I'll take it." He turns away as though that is the end of the matter. But the assistant has not finished with him. There are black gloves to be bought, and she catches his sigh of annoyance.
They will be here for a considerable portion of the morning. After all, although Robert only needs a hatband and black gloves, she must be measured for her dress, her hat decided upon, her gloves chosen. And for the house too—crape tied with white ribbon for the front door to show the city that the household is in mourning.
The shop assistant is back, and she lays samples on the counter. It is a tedious business, not helped by Robert pacing up and down behind her. When she senses someone at her shoulder she turns, expecting him, but it is not Robert. Instead she finds herself looking at a man whose face still has the round cheeks of a child, though he must be at least forty, and what hair is visible from under his hat is so pale that it is almost white.
"Good heavens, it
is
you." He slaps his hands together. "You're so changed, and I was standing there trying to decide if—"
"I'm sorry," she says. Her voice trips only slightly. "You're mistaken. I don't know you."
He blinks at her. "Why, you must remember—our circle was so small. And your father—"
"My father has been dead since I was an infant." She gives him a small nod. "Now, if you will excuse me."
"Of course." He steps away, looking about him as though no longer quite certain where he is. "I'm terribly sorry."
She hears footsteps behind her, and she feels Robert's hand on her shoulder. "Mina?" he says.
The gentleman seems ready to flee, but one of the shop assistants approaches him. "Mr. Popham? I will attend to you shortly. This morning we have been unusually busy."
"The
Star of the Orient,
" says this Mr. Popham to Robert. "My cousin was returning from Bombay."
"Ah," says Robert. "My brother, too. But by a miracle his wife has survived."
Popham fiddles with his moustache. "A terrible business," he says. "And so close to home—off the coast of France. After coming all that way! It is extraordinary."
He looks away, through the windows at the traffic in Regent Street. Then, just as Mina is about to take her husband's arm and lead him away, Popham turns back to them. "I'm sorry," he tells Mina again. He shifts his gaze to Robert. "It's quite uncanny," he tells him. "For a moment I believed your wife was a lady of my acquaintance from a few years ago. The resemblance is quite striking. But of course—" he gives a small bow "—now I see my error."
Such a remark cannot go without comment from Robert.
It
is
extraordinary, he tells Popham, how people who are unrelated can so closely resemble each other that even their relatives can be mistaken. He himself has come across numerous instances of men wrongly accused of crimes because of a remarkable resemblance to the actual culprit. In his experience photographs are especially misleading, and as for using them to identify recidivists—why, any criminal could shave a beard or grow one, or dye his hair and comb it differently, so that even his own mother might be unable to recognize him. It is imperative—absolutely imperative—that the Troup Committee act with alacrity if it is to address this problem, for who knows how many recidivists truly are among the convict population and are being released on an unsuspecting public?
On and on he talks, Popham nodding, while Mina feels her hands growing damp inside her gloves. She nods too; she adds her own exclamation of, "With our cities grown so large, such mistakes are inevitable!" Throughout, she is careful to keep her voice low, and to hold her body still and a little bent, not quite like her usual self.
But what is incredible, she thinks, is that David Popham can stand only three feet from her, talking to her husband, and apparently be persuaded that she is not the woman he once knew.
Surely he knows better than that.
S
he finds him standing by the fire in the drawing room. His hands are on the draperies of the mantelpiece, his head bent so that he seems intent on the flames. He doesn't turn. Coming close, she reaches her arms around to his chest and presses her face against his back. "No, darling," he says softly, then plucks her hands away.
So she sits in the armchair and watches him. There is despair in the curve of his spine, in the angle of his shoulders. The fire must be scalding his legs, but he doesn't move.
"I didn't imagine it would come to this," he says. "Not this quickly, at least. A few days? That's all she has left?"
She says gently, "The second seizure was too much."
He doesn't look at her. "I blame myself. I should never have told her. It was the shock of it."
"How could you have kept it from her? Besides, if
you
hadn't told her—"
"Yes, yes. Price." He lets out a sigh. The coal in the fire crackles and spits, and an ember arcs to the carpet. He stamps on it, once, twice. "Her husband dead, her mother-in-law dying. What a welcome for
her
."
Already Henry's widow has become
her
. They do not know her
name. Indeed, they know nothing about her except that she exists and that soon—in a day, or two at the most—she will be here.
Mina leans forward. "She'll go back to her own family, surely. She doesn't know us. What comfort can we offer her at a time like this?"
He stands up straight and holds his hands out to the fire. "Yes, you're right. I hadn't thought of that. I was expecting that she would stay here for some time."
"Of course," says Mina, "if your mother passes on, it will be her right to stay here for as long as she pleases."
Now he lets his hands drop and looks at her.
She says quickly, "As Henry's widow, she'll have as much right to this house as we have. Isn't that the way the will is written?"
He looks startled. "Ah," he says, then he runs his fingers over his moustache as he looks back to the fire.
He is thinking, and she watches him. Maybe she seems heartless to be concerning herself with such matters. Is that why he won't look away from the flames to where she sits? My poor love, she wants to tell him, you must be on your guard, even at such a terrible time as this. But how to explain? The Bentleys aren't rich, yet there's the house, and his mother's jewelry, and Henry's insurance money. It's enough to catch the eye of the unscrupulous. She must teach Robert wariness, or soon there might be little left of the Bentleys' money, and certainly not enough for them to return to Paris.
The mantelpiece clock ticks under its glass dome. In the hallway, footsteps approach, then pass. She says, "No doubt she'll want to sell, unless she has the means to keep up this house."
"Perhaps she's an heiress," he says, and gives a faint laugh. Then he rocks on his feet, back and forth, back and forth. "I doubt Henry would have left her badly off. Life insurance—he had a policy, and she'll be the beneficiary now. He was farsighted enough to plan for any eventuality, even the unlikely event of his own marriage."
"So she should have enough to ensure a comfortable life for herself. Perhaps more comfortable than she's had before. Though of course," she says, looking up at him, "she won't have her husband. Poor thing. They couldn't have been married long."
She lingers a little on that last word so that it hangs on the air like warm breath on a cold morning, but Robert is intent on the flames curling through the coals. Rain spatters against the window. She shivers. Pulling her shawl around her she stands beside Robert, her shoulder just touching his arm. She holds her hands out to warm them. The thin skin at the base of her fingers turns a dull red with the light of the fire shining through it. She keeps her eyes on her hands, keeps her voice flat as she says, "I wonder what she's like."
"We'll find out soon enough."
"Yes, we will." She takes a newspaper from the table. Today's, but it is still folded. With all the business of buying mourning clothes and the house to prepare, it has lain unnoticed. She turns past the classified advertisements to the main stories of the day. Of course, there is more on the loss of the S
tar of the Orient.
A gale, an attempt to seek shelter in a French port, a young captain, the loss of all but two dozen of the passengers and crew. Bodies washing up on the shore of France, and Monsieur Bertillon called in to photograph faces and do what else he can to identify them. She is about to read out the passage to Robert but stops herself. Later, she thinks, and lets herself sink back in the chair. There are more important matters at hand.
"Is it so extraordinary that he'd have done something as impulsive as this marriage?" she asks.
"Henry? Good God, yes." He gives a brief laugh. "Henry is the perfect administrator. He plans so far in advance that I always suspected he knew what he'd be eating for dinner a fortnight on Tuesday."
"Then"—she looks at him—"she must be quite the woman, to have captured his heart."
"She must indeed."
"Or perhaps under the surface he was a passionate man."
"Henry? I can't imagine that."
She tilts her head. "Well, how do you explain it?"
"I'm sure I don't know." He lets himself down into his armchair. For a few moments he stares at her, a distant look as though he can not quite place who she is, then he sits back with his legs outstretched and closes his eyes. He looks suddenly young, his face all delicate curves, his moustache out of place.
Has she gone too far? Instead of planting the seeds of suspicion, has she suggested too much? Someone has to alert him—this unexplained and unexpected bride, this woman who will inherit enough to keep her in reasonable comfort for the rest of her life. It is— strange. And she is suspicious of such inexplicable strangeness. With all the confusion of the sinking of the ship, exactly how sure can one be that a person is who they say they are? It's possible that over the course of a three-week voyage from Bombay, a young woman could have learnt enough about Henry to cast herself as his wife. If no one raises an objection—why, what could be easier than to collect all that is due to his widow and disappear?