An Improper Companion (16 page)

I cried as I read the last few pages in which Laura spoke of preferring suicide to marrying this man she had come to hate. I had just closed the journal when I heard steps outside the door. I turned from the window, where I had stood to read, and saw Philip. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing
here
?”

“Hiding,” I replied, unable to lie. “And you?”

“Looking for you!” he said angrily. “Do you know Uncle I Leslie has turned out the whole castle to look for you? And he’s out in the rain, himself, right now! I know you were upset, but this is the outside of enough! Come on,” he said, grabbing my wrist, “we’ve got to tell Jeffries to signal you’re safe. And hope my uncle hasn’t caught a chill looking for you!”

Philip dragged me down the stairs and I could say nothing as his tongue lashed at me. I had no defense. Nor could I speak to him of the true reason I had for anger. At the foot of the stairs, he shouted and a servant came running. She saw me and halted. “Tell Jeffries to sound the bell!” he snapped, and she turned and ran toward the main hall.

In the distance, I could hear the shouts repeated and then a loud ringing. Philip continued to pull me as we made our way to the drawing room where Mary was waiting. She rose as we entered, and the family assemblage was complete. “Well!” she said, “I knew you were young, Heather, but I had not realised you were so thoughtless! My poor brother is out in the rain because of you. And where were you?”

“In the tower,” I said meekly.

“The tower!” she repeated. “And what have you in your hand?”

I looked down in surprise. I had forgotten I held it still. “A journal. Of a Laura Kinwell.” Then I added defiantly, “Who was forced into an unhappy marriage.”

“Her!” Philip snorted contemptuously. “You needn’t feel sorry for
her.
She ran away the night before the wedding and married a man she had a
tendre
for.”

Mary added, “The silly fool had never mentioned the boy or her father would never have engaged her to the earl. He was of a respectable enough family, though not as good as the Kinwells.” She paused, “Though I grant you he was wrong to betroth her to the earl.”

“Well, what should he have done?” Philip asked. “She had to be married to someone, didn’t she? And the earl was rich and not too old.”

“Don’t you believe one should marry for love?” I asked. “Oh, well, if one is in love, with someone eligible, then by all means, one should marry that person. But if by twenty-eight one hasn’t fallen in love, one isn’t likely to, and one might as well marry an earl.”

I would have answered further, but we all turned at the sound of voices. Leslie’s could be heard loud and harsh, and a softer voice mingled with it. They were coming toward us, and in a moment, Leslie stood in the room. His eyes were dark and large, weary and angry. He stared at me. “Where?”

“The tower,” Philip answered shortly.

Jeffries stood behind Leslie. “Sir, you must change out of your wet things.”

Water dripped from Leslie to the floor. And his hair was plastered about his face. “Stubble it!” he said sharply, and
^:
with a sigh, Jeffries withdrew. “Mary. Philip. You will leave us.”

They hastily withdrew also, and Leslie and I stared at one another, he blocking the door. He stepped forward and I could feel his anger grow. Another step. Then he was towering over me, his eyes stormy. Suddenly, my eyes were full of
^:
tears, and the journal slipped from my hands to the floor. I stooped to retrieve it and felt Leslie’s hand close over my wrist. Frantically, I tried to pull free, but could not. “Heather!” he said sharply. Then, in a voice more gentle, “Please, Heather.” In surprise, I looked up into his face, and saw that
the anger was gone from his eyes. As though he sensed my uncertainty, Leslie added, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I stopped pulling and stood straight. He sighed with relief and indicated I should take a seat as he released my wrist. Nervously, he poured a shot of whiskey and I could see that he shivered in his wet clothes. It was not easy for Leslie to speak and he took some time in choosing his words. “Heather, I don’t doubt that you are angry with me. The books—I should not have ordered them. I admit that. But as for explanation ... I can give you none. I knew it was unlikely you were with child from that night. And I knew that if you were not ... Forget it, can you, Heather?”

I sat stiffly, unwilling to understand, but unable to resist the urgency of his voice. Still, I could not trust myself to speak and I nodded. Leslie’s relief was evident and he smiled as he said, “Thank you, Heather.”

I in turn, needing to fill the silence that followed, said, “You’d best change to dry things, Leslie. It must soon be time for tea.”

He nodded. “You are correct, madam; however you will forgive me if I take my tea alone? Good day.”

And he was gone. Only then did I realise how tightly I gripped the journal. I, too, would take tea in my chamber, I decided. And perhaps begin a record of my own.

Ellen was waiting for me and, for once, had taken Leslie’s side. “You had us all so worried, my lady! And Sir Leslie. He was truly beside himself, I should say.”

“Leave it, Ellen,” I said.

She sniffed. “As you wish, my lady. But you could have come here.
I’d
have kept everyone out. You’d have had your privacy, and no one worried.”

“Ellen!”

She fell silent then and soon left, having laid out a dress for dinner. With relief, I turned to my desk. If Mary and Philip were to be believed, Laura’s journal had omitted much, and I determined mine should not.

It was evening before we were all together again and we spoke as though nothing had occurred. Indeed, the meal was easier than any since my father had arrived at the estate. And the next two days were to be much the same, quiet and easy. I began to feel calmer, and yes, happier. In the mornings I rode, and in the afternoon Mary and I received callers. I sent one of the servants to Jenny Bartlet with presents for the baby. Among these was a christening gown for the ceremony on Sunday. Sunday. If there had been no christening, how different our lives might now be. And yet, it was a day which dawned so quietly.

Chapter 14

“Just a moment more, my lady,” Ellen was saying as she gave a last twist to the curl at my neck.

A voice laughed resonantly in the doorway. Ellen and I both turned to see Leslie standing there. “Impatient, Heather?” he asked.

I smiled. “A little, I confess. I haven’t seen the child since its birth, and I am curious.”

Leslie smiled indulgently in return. “Well, if we don’t hurry, we shall be late and you may not have the chance.”

At that, I was out of my chair and pulling on my gloves as It Ellen fastened the poke bonnet on my head. Then, my hand on his arm, Leslie led me down to the carriage. Philip was waiting beside it, and to my surprise, Mary was also ready. Her lips were pursed in disapproval. “I cannot approve your ... your help in delivering the child ... but it would not do for anyone outside the family to see it.”

I smiled slightly. Mary could be trusted to preserve family unity at all costs. Which was more, I suspected, than could be said for my father. In spite of Leslie’s warning, w-e arrived well in time at the churchyard. Tom, his wife, and the baby were waiting, and I greeted them with a broad smile. “How are you, Mrs. Bartlet,” I asked. “And the baby?”

She smiled also. “Oh, quite well, me lady. And I thank ye for all yer kindliness.”

She even managed a half curtsy with the child in her arms. Mary graciously admired the baby, and then we were being herded inside. I fidgeted, I confess, during the (it seemed to me) long wait. Then the time came and I proudly stepped forward to take the child. He wore a simple beribboned dress along with a hood and cloak. The latter were of my giving. I slipped these off the child and cradled him in the soft shawl I had brought for the purpose. As I held the child I felt something stir within me, and suddenly I was close to tears. The baby began to yell with a lusty, healthy cry. Mr. Watly stopped and smiled wryly. “I like a noisy child at a christening,” he said, “for it means the baby sets forth its determination from the start. It says it
will
have a place in this world!” A ripple of amusement flowed through the church, and then silence again prevailed. Watly continued the ceremony. Finally, he handed the child back to me and I kept it in the shawl, making no attempt to exchange this for the hood and cloak. I had no mind to set the child to crying again. And the shawl was meant to be a gift for Jenny Bartlet in any event. Soon we were seated again in our proper pews.

To my surprise, Watly gave a good sermon that day. I remember part of it still. “Motherhood is the most important and most joyous state a woman can obtain. She is then fulfilled and secure in the love of a being she has brought forth. It cannot but bring a husband and wife closer together, and in that closeness the bonds of marriage are woven stronger. For I speak here of motherhood within the sanctity of marriage. Motherhood without such security is surely a disaster, both for mother and child. The woman is alone and must provide for herself and the child, when both should be provided for by a husband and father. And such a woman brings shame upon herself. And this shame is visited upon the child all its life. In time, each must come to hate the other, mother and child. Better the sanctity of
any
marriage than such a fate.

“But motherhood is not a light burden. Nor is there any guarantee of a personal reward. For the child may die young or grow up to leave his parents. For parents do not own the child. They are, rather, given the child in trust. It is a being unto itself, with a right to its own existence. But this is not to say we must ignore the child when it is grown. The responsibilities of a mother and father never end. From its earliest days, the mother must watch over the child and guard its physical existence. As the child grows it becomes necessary to guide and mold the spiritual existence, for if this is neglected, the child will be an everlasting sorrow to its parents, to society, and to God. This is not an easy task, for there are ever temptations and dangers to guard our children from. But with God’s help...”

At last the service was over and we were outside. I held the child again. And again I felt the tears, and running through me, a terrible loneliness. Suddenly I thrust the child back into its mother’s arms. “Are you all right?” Leslie asked with concern.

“No,” I said, “I feel rather faint.”

“It
is
a very warm day,” Mary said sympathetically.

We made our farewells hastily. I was aware of the whispered comments as Leslie handed me into the carriage. Many of the voices were sympathetic. Others, the uninformed, held secret smiles over the condition they falsely believed existed. Mary looked very thoughtful as we rode home. Home! I felt ill as I contemplated a lifetime in the castle. And when we arrived, I immediately went to my room. Ellen was, of course, waiting. “I shall not be going down for luncheon,” I told her. “I ... I am not feeling well.”

“Yes, my lady,” she said, her eyes wide. “Shall I undress you? No? Shall I bring you some tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Ellen rang for tea and then undid my hair so that it fell in waves about my shoulders. When the tea arrived, a moment later, I dismissed both girls, saying I should ring when the
tray was to be taken away. The cook had provided a few pastries I was particularly fond of, but I had little appetite for them. After a time, I turned from the table to look out the window. I could see some distance from there and the land was green and healthy. Had matters been different ... But they were not. I was shackled to Leslie, yet not truly his wife, and not wanting to be. And I could never have children, Babies such as Jenny’s. Silently I began to cry. Then it grew stronger and I began to sob helplessly as unhappiness washed over me. And in that moment came a knock at the door. “Heather?” Philip’s voice called.

“Go away!” I sobbed.

But he would not, and the door opened and he strode quickly to me. “Heather, Heather, what’s wrong?” I could only cry. His arms encircled me, “Please, Heather, don’t cry. Whatever it is, I’ll help you. Please, Heather, I love you!”

And then he kissed me. And,
God help me,
I did not fight him. In that moment, all that mattered was that someone loved me. Suddenly I was standing alone. I looked up at Philip, then followed his gaze to the door.
Leslie!
I sank into the nearest chair, my face chalk white. Leslie took two steps forward. Philip was trembling, but his chin was thrust out in determination. It seemed an eternity before Leslie spoke, and when he did, his words came as though from far away. “Philip! I shall speak with you in the library shortly. Please go—”

“No. I won’t leave Heather.”

“Please, Philip,” I heard myself say, “go.”

He looked at me a moment and saw the plea in my eyes, for he left. Then Leslie slowly closed the door. “So,” he said softly, as he advanced on me, “I was wrong. Mary said Philip had come up here, but I believed it to be in harmless sympathy. My God, how wrong I was!”

“It
was
harmless!” I cried.

“Harmless!” His anger exploded. “Pray, tell me, madam. Do you
always
receive men with your hair down? Do you
always
encourage men to kiss you? And don’t try to say you were resisting, for I saw you! God, how wrong I was about you! I thought I had to marry you to save your honour. What a fool I was! You are no better than a common slut! You don’t even provide what you have been paid for.
Were
you a virgin, I wonder? Or was it a chicken’s blood in the bed?” Under the fury of his attack, I was incapable of speech. Leslie took my silence for guilt. He advanced closer and grabbing my wrist, dragged me to my feet. “If you must have kisses,” he said savagely, “why not mine?”

And then his mouth was on mine, bruising with its strength. I struggled, but one arm held me firm as the other hand tore at the front of my dress. I was crying, terrified, when suddenly he threw me to the bed. “God damn you!” he swore, and was gone.

I lay, shocked, on the bed. And after a while, I began to cry again. When I could cry no more, I got to my feet and tried to close my dress. But my fingers were too clumsy, and finally I removed it. Trembling, I forced myself to put it away and choose a wrapper. Then I began to pace. If I had felt despair earlier, I felt it threefold now. I had, perhaps, destroyed Philip’s relationship with Leslie as well as my own marriage. For there was no doubt that Leslie hated me now.

Hated me and regretted his marriage. It had not been worth it, the kiss. As I paced I knew I could not stay. I must escape. Today. No, tonight. But I must also be careful. Leslie would put paid to my plans if he knew. I must think. What would seem normal? I could not face the family. But that was all right. Mary thought me ill and Leslie and Philip would not question my decision to remain in my room. But the servants, also, must not become suspicious. Well, Ellen already knew I felt ill. I turned to the tea tray where the pastries still rested untouched. I forced myself to sit and eat them. I should need all my strength tonight. When I had done, I rang for Ellen and a maid to clear away the tray. I told Ellen that I had the headache and that I should like the day’s meals in my room.

“Yes, my lady,” she replied in sympathy. “You’ll become quite thin if you don’t take care.”

I smiled. “Thank you, Ellen. That will be all.”

Then I packed. I still had the bag I had left Mrs. Gilwen’s school with, and in it I placed a few things. Not many. I would have left all behind, if I could, but I was not so imprudent. Soon I was finished and quickly I hid the bag, afraid someone would enter and see it. It was necessary, somehow, to fill the time until the hour of my escape. In my nervousness I could not read, and I paced. Then my eyes fell on the journal I had begun. I spent the next several hours writing much of this account.

As I expected, no one came to chide me for my absence downstairs. But the hardest time for me was when Ellen came to put me to bed. I dared not alter my routine, so I had to sit patiently as she plaited my hair and helped me undress. Finally, I was in bed with a book, and she tiptoed away. Hurriedly I bolted the door, as was my habit. An hour, no more, to wait. Then I must attempt it. Twice, footsteps paused outside my door. And twice they went away. I dressed quickly. Mentally I had already composed my farewell letters, and now I wrote them. First to Mary.

Dearest Lady Mary,

Circumstances make it impossible for me to remain here. You have been kind enough to offer me aid and shelter, but I fear I cannot accept. The proximity to Philip would be unwise. I thank you for all your kindness and hope that now and then you will think of me with fondness.

Heather

It was more curt than I should have liked, but I was too distraught to write better. Next I determined to make an end to the confusion with Philip. No lies now, but the truth.

Dear Philip,

Circumstances make it impossible for me to remain here. But I wish also for you to understand how I feel. I do not love you, Philip, nor could I ever love you save as a brother or nephew. You will wonder at this morning, and I can only say that it is but now that I understand myself. I thank you for your championship of my cause, but too late I see it was something only Leslie and I could have resolved. You will perhaps believe I write so because I am Leslie’s wife. I tell you now that Leslie’s wife or no, I could not love you. Make peace with your uncle, if you can, and try not to hate me.

Heather

That should be sufficiently final, I thought. But one letter left and that the hardest one. For what could I write to this man who was my husband? I forced myself to begin.

Leslie,

I am leaving. You must see that this marriage is impossible. I am sorry to sneak away, but otherwise you would not let me go. I do not know the precise nature of the law, but I am sure you can find a means to end our marriage. You will then be free to find a wife who would love you and could give you heirs. I am taking the guineas you gave me because I must, but I shall repay you as soon as I am able.

I know that you must hate me, and I wish it had not been so. But we were never suited. I would not have you deceived about this morning, however. I am not leaving you to join Philip. I have written him, also, explaining that I do not love him, nor desire his attentions. I beg of you to make peace with him, for I would not have such a breach on my conscience also.

Good-bye, Leslie. Had matters been otherwise, I think I might have loved you.

Heather

I sealed the letter quickly before I could change my mind, and set it with the others. It was late and I determined to delay no longer. I had my reticule and the bag with my clothes and my journal. I needed to travel light, for I should have to walk to the village. Not daring to take a candle, I set my keys beside the letters and resolutely stepped into the darkness. My footsteps seemed to echo loudly, but no one came to challenge me. And then I was outside and I ran, needing to be away from there. I ran until, exhausted, I had to stop, my breath coming in painful gasps.-And tears began to run down my cheeks. I walked, then. I had no notion of how far I must travel, and after a time, I grew weary. Right foot. Left foot. I must not pause. At last, sometime after midnight, I reached the inn. Mike, the fellow I had met the night I arrived, weeks before, was there alone. “Aye?” he said curtly when he saw me.

“Mike?” my voice trembled.

“Lady Kinwell?” he whispered. “Ye are Lady Kinwell, are ye not?” I nodded. “What the divil are ye doing here?”

“Mike, I need help,” I said. “I need to get to London. I’ve money, but I must be on the first coach through. I must be away by morning.”

“There, there, child,” he said soothingly. “Of course I’ll help ye. And put ye on the mail to London if ye are determined. But ye must not stay here, now. My wife will give ye a cup of tea. Come along, child.”

Gently he took my bag and led me to the kitchen of the inn. His wife stood as we entered, her eyes sharp on my face. “Well?” she asked Mike.

“ ’Tis Lady Kinwell, run away,” he said. “I’ve said I’ll help her te London. But it be hours before the mail coach. She could use a cup of tea, love.”

But the last words were unnecessary, for she was already setting the kettle to boil and bringing out cups and the tea. She pointed to a chair, but did not speak until the tea was ready. It was only then I noticed she had put out but two cups. “Mike” I asked, realising he was gone.

“On watch, Lady Kinwell. We’ve a horse ill.”

“Please call me Heather,” I said, “the other sounds so strange.”

She nodded. “Mike said ye’d not be happy at the castle. I see it, too. But we thought, when we heard of yer wedding, that Mike’d been wrong.”

“It was not of my choosing, the marriage,” I admitted. “Still, I think all might have been well had I not been such a green girl.”

She nodded again. “ Tis often so. And to be a
wife
in the castle is different than ... other posts there. Are ye sure, child, ye cannot go back? Begin again? I know yer not lacking in courage. And most ways Sir Leslie is a gentle man.”

I stared at her. “I am sure. I can never go back.”

She sucked in her breath at my tone. “Has he acted so badly? Offended se deeply?”

“It is I who have acted badly,” I sighed. “I who have offended.”

“What will ye do?”

“Find a position, perhaps abroad. I’ve told Sir Leslie to annul our marriage, and I’m not afraid of hard work,” I answered. She looked at me and I knew she was troubled. “Promise you won’t tell Sir Leslie, or anyone else, what you know,” I said.

She hesitated, then with a sigh nodded. “I promise.”

Our talk became strained then, as we pretended it was the most ordinary of conversations. We talked about Leslie, Mary, Philip, and even my father. After a time, however, we ceased to speak. I rested my head on my arms and slept until Mike came to put me on the coach at dawn. “Good luck, lass,” he said.

I suppose I slept a little on the coach, but it was not enough and I arrived early Monday afternoon in London, feeling very tired. But I had already made my plans ... I would go to Mademoiselle Suzette. How different my return to London was from my departure. Then, I had been sure of myself. Now, I felt unalterably cast down. Then, I had been poor, but with a position, albeit no family. Now, I had a father, husband, and a little money. But no position. My father was of no use, for he would but send me back to the husband I sought to escape. The money was only borrowed and, in any case, meagre. Which woman had been more fortunate? I could not say.

I soon discovered I had gained something else in my short marriage: poise. I was incapable of walking to Mademoiselle Suzette’s establishment, even had I known how to find it. So I determined to go by hack. There was no question in the coachman’s eyes as he handed me in and, later, out of the carriage, as there would have been but six weeks before. Nor did Dragon question my demand to speak privately with Mademoiselle Suzette. Indeed, she did not recognise me, and her first action was to glance at my left hand. I was glad, then, that I had not yielded to impulse and left my wedding ring behind. Already it was providing a shield. And I toyed with the idea of posing as a widow. But no, at my age, that would scarcely be convincing. And then, suddenly, I was facing Mademoiselle Suzette. She recognised me at once, and the expression on my face. “
Mon dieu
!” she exclaimed. “Prudence, leave us.” She waited until Dragon had gone, then said, “Well?”

“You said I could come to you for aid,” I began to chatter. “I didn’t know where else to go. I have left Leslie. Forever. You must know we were married. It was against my will. It was impossible. And now he hates me. And I cannot live with him. He found me with his nephew...”

“
With his nephew
?” Mademoiselle Suzette was shocked. “
In bed
?”

“No, no!” I said hastily. “He was kissing me. We were dressed. But my hair was down...”

She smiled. “Well, if that is all ...
tiens,
he must simply send away the nephew. And perhaps bed you more often.”

“He beds me not at all!” I said before I could stop myself. We stared at each other in shock. I was horrified at my failure to guard my tongue and she at the revelation. At last she spoke. “
Mon Dieu!
This is very bad. I think you had better tell me all of it.”

So I did, omitting nothing, for I knew she was discreet. When I had done, she was silent for a moment, then said, “
Tiens,
I do not wonder you have not gone to your father for aid.” She paused and asked shrewdly, “You have not eaten, have you?”

I signified I had not, and she ordered a tray for me. We were both silent, both thoughtful, until it came. I began to feel safe. I knew Leslie well. He would be searching methodically about the castle and grounds for me. Then he would ask in town if I had been seen. Finally, Leslie would try to discover if I had left by mail or post, but I knew Mike would not betray me. I should have two days or more before he would conclude I could only have gone to London. Even then he could not know I had gone to Mademoiselle Suzette. He would come here, but not for two or three days after that. By then I should be gone. Yes, I was safe. When I had done eating, Mademoiselle asked, “What will you do?”

I spoke carefully. “I cannot stay in England. Leslie would find me if I did, and it would be difficult to find a position. I thought to go to France. Surely there are families who would be glad of a governess who might teach their children English. Or perhaps, I might teach in a school for young ladies.”

She tilted her head. “You are very sure. And what do you wish of me?”

“Help in finding such a position. As a
modiste
in France, you must have known many good families.”

She smiled sadly, “
Tiens,
child, you ask much. There have been many changes since I left France; many families have lost their fortunes.”

I was worried, but persisted. “The schools, perhaps, have not changed so much ... and you could give me a reference, could you not?” Desperately I added, “I would even be a seamstress for a good
modiste
!”

“Child, I wish I could help you,” she sighed. “But you must understand. In France, I was not a
modiste.
That is a lie I have used here. In France I was a
femme de chambre
and I left with the son of the house. He established me here. Of the families I know, my reference would ruin you.” I stared at her in dismay, and Mademoiselle Suzette hastened to reassure me. “
Mon Dieu,
child, do not to cry. I will help you. But you must to have patience.”

Somehow her odd English, in that moment, was very reassuring. And with no protest, I allowed myself to be put to bed. This time she put me in the guest room. I was soon asleep.

I woke slowly, puzzled at the strangeness of the room. Then I remembered. I was out of bed quickly and began pacing, trying to form new plans. Mademoiselle Suzette had said she would help me, but perhaps it would be best not to rely on her entirely. By teatime I had achieved no more than to decide to go to France alone, without references, if need be. Lady Kinwell could always write one, after all. Mademoiselle took tea with me and again counselled patience. She was very curious about my life as Lady Kinwell, and I answered her questions in much detail. At one point she said, “
Tiens
, you do not hate him, then?”

“Only because he ravished me,” I said frankly.

“Oh,
mon Dieu,
that is nothing! So many women are ravished on their wedding night! Sir Leslie was only hasty.”

“It is everything to me,” I said coldly, “this hastiness.”

“Could you not begin again?” she asked.

I shook my head vehemently. “Anyway, he does not want me, now.”

After a time, she left. I was alone that evening, for Mademoiselle Suzette felt it best I not be seen. And she would not let me aid with the needlework this time, so perforce I had to think. To my surprise, I found I missed my chamber at the castle, with Ellen and my books and the little things I had come to think of as my own. And Leslie. Above all, Leslie. Resolutely, however, I prepared for bed and extinguished the candle. I lay in the darkness, vainly willing myself to sleep. The first light of morning had appeared before I succeeded. And it was noon before I woke to find Mademoiselle Suzette setting a tray on the table. She regarded me carefully, but shrewdly said nothing. And to my questions, she only would reply, “Have patience,
chérie
.”

That day was the longest I had yet known, and in desperation, I at last turned to the books that filled a small bookcase in my room. It was good practice for my French. Though it was difficult to keep my thoughts on what I read, I forced myself, with the sense of one accomplishing something worthwhile. I saw Mademoiselle but briefly, as there were many important clients that day. Yet I was not concerned, for she said she had determined on a plan, though she would not say what it was. I sought my bed early, for want of aught else to do. But sleep was as elusive as the night before. And, senselessly, I cried. My thoughts were many, but all tangled as a spider’s web. I slept not at all and, at dawn, rose to write. It was sometime later when someone opened my door. Knowing it was Mademoiselle Suzette, or her maid, I did not turn at once as I said, “Come in.”

And then, my heart beating wildly, my pen slid across the page as Leslie said, “Good morning, madam.”