Текст книги "The Devil in Montmartre. A Mystery in Fin de Siecle Paris"

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Nevertheless, she was not without friends at the market, most particularly old Mme Gros, who was renowned for the quality of her cabbages and the ardor of her rightist sympathies. She was also a purveyor of Cauchon’s L’Antisémite.

Mme Gros greeted Mme Berthier with a wrinkled, toothless grin. “Good-morning, Madame. How nice to see you again. As always, I have the loveliest and freshest cabbages at the best price, just for you.” She winked, lowered her voice, and beckoned. As Mme Berthier leaned over the stand and drew nearer, the vendor whispered: “That’s not all I have, Madame.” She pulled a copy of L’Antisémite from her apron. “Here’s a special edition hot off the press, all about the Judeo-Masonic conspiracy and the ghastly murder of that poor young girl up in Montmartre.”

Mme Berthier grasped the newspaper, read the headline, and murmured with keen interest, The Devil in Montmartre! Intrigued and eager to finish marketing so she could run home to read the article, Mme decided to dispense with her customary haggling. “Thank you, Madame, this is indeed most interesting. And since you’re the fairest vendor in this market, I’ll not dicker. You may give me two of your freshest, finest cabbages at the advertised price—provided you include this copy of L’Antisémite at no additional charge.”

Mme Gros smiled broadly. “Bless you, Madame. It’s an honor and pleasure to do business with the distinguished widow of one of France’s heroes, the late Colonel; God rest his soul.”

“You’re most kind, Mme Gros.” Mme Berthier stuffed the proffered cabbages into her basket along with the newspaper and then addressed cook with urgency: “All right, let’s finish our marketing. I’m in a hurry to return to the apartment.”

Immediately upon arrival, Madame handed her basket to cook and rushed off to her boudoir with the newspaper. She did not as much as bother to stop by the nursery to greet Adele and Jeanne.

Closeted in her sanctum Madame loosened her stays, removed her boots, rubbed her aching feet, and reclined on a settee. She took her spectacles from a case, adjusted them on her aquiline nose, struck a match, and lit a table lamp. Now comfortable and with adequate reading light, she devoured every word of The Devil in Montmartre! in record time. As the narrative unfolded, she clicked her tongue, gasped, shook her head, and muttered, “Poor thing,” and “it’s just as I suspected” at each gruesome detail and awful revelation.

At last, Madame set the newspaper down on a side table. She sighed deeply, leaned back on the bolster, and stared at the ceiling in the direction of heaven. Her lips moved in hushed prayer: “We renounce the devil and all his works and all his ways.”

There was a gentle knock on the door. “Mama, are you all right? May I come in?”

“Just a moment, Adele,” Madame replied. She sat up slowly and swung her legs over the side of the settee. Bending over with a grunt, she lifted her voluminous skirts, stepped into her boots, and laced them. Then, puffing from exertion, she said, “You may enter.”

The door squeaked open; Adele entered the dimly lit, stuffy room hesitantly. She approached the settee and offered a hand to her mother.

“Thank you, Adele; I’m still capable of rising without your assistance.” Madame braced herself on an armrest and pushed up with another audible grunt.

Adele was concerned that the shopping excursions had become too much of a burden for her aging mother. “I worry about you, Mama. You really ought to leave the marketing to cook.”

Madame sniffed. “Nonsense; she’d be cheated and think nothing of it. After all, it’s our money, not hers.” She paused a moment before pursuing: “Of course, you could accompany her, but I’m afraid when it comes to bargaining you’re no better than our simple cook.”

Adele ignored the insult. “Jeanne asked for you. She wondered why grandmother hadn’t come to kiss her good morning.”

Madame smiled. “That’s sweet, how the little one cares for her poor old grandmamma. I’ll come to her before breakfast. I fear I was preoccupied this morning.” She grabbed the newspaper from the side table and handed it to Adele. “This is a special edition of L’Antisémite that came out this morning. You should read it, my dear. You’ll find the featured article quite illuminating.”

Adele handled the newspaper gingerly, as though it were smeared with dung. “Mother please, you know how Achille despises this sort of thing. He doesn’t want it in the house.”

Madame sniggered. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll hate it all the more when he reads this edition. It appears that Chief Féraud and your brilliant husband have been on the wrong track.”

Adele looked down; she fumbled with some ribbons on her dress. After a moment, she looked her mother in the eye; she tried to remain calm but Madame’s insinuations had provoked her and it was evident in her expression and tone of voice. “What do you mean by that, Mama?”

Madame was vexed by what she considered her daughter’s impertinence. She narrowed her eyes and hissed, “Oh, I think you get my meaning, well enough. Your husband’s bungled the case. It’s clear from the article that the Jewish bankers and their Freemason allies murdered the girl to keep her mouth shut and as a warning to others who might betray their secrets. Perhaps M. Lefebvre’s failure is due to his incompetence as an investigator, but I can think of another explanation.”

Adele’s face reddened; her hands trembled. Feeling the sting of an insult to her husband, Adele’s throat tightened. She swallowed hard before sputtering, “Please be direct, Mother. You have something to say, so come out and say it.”

Madame was an officer’s widow and the granddaughter of one of Great Napoleon’s Old Guard. She came at her daughter with calculated insults like a hot-tempered soldier seeking a duel. “Very well, then. Perhaps your incorruptible husband has been bought by the Jews, and perhaps he’s used their money to keep a mistress in Montmartre, which would explain his long absences better than his feeble excuses about the demands of his job. What’s more, it would also explain the fact that after five years of marriage you’ve produced only one child. Have you considered the possibility that M. Lefebvre has been planting his seed in another field?”

Adele was like a boiler that had blown its safety valve. Her voice quavered but her words hit their mark with blunt force. “How dare you make such unfair accusations against my husband? Show me the evidence, Madame. You have none, just as that gutter press rag you read has no basis in fact for its vile slanders. And I’ll no longer tolerate your corrupting my innocent child with your vicious prejudices.”

Madame stood her ground. “You forget yourself. I’ll remind you, Adele, that you are my daughter and owe me your respect. I ought to slap your insolent face.”

“You can try, but then I might re-pay you in kind.” These words, spoken in the heat of the moment, negated a lifetime of filial obedience.

Madame shook her head and laughed bitterly. “I see how it is. It’s the tragedy of old age. I had a husband and children who loved me but they’re gone and I’m left with you.”

Adele realized that she had opened a vast gulf between them that might never be crossed, at least not in this world. “You needn’t suffer my presence much longer. Our rent is paid to the end of the month. After the first, Achille, the child, and I will make our home elsewhere.”

Madame sank back onto the settee. She spoke without looking at her daughter. “Do as you wish. See how well you manage on an inspector’s pay, and that’s assuming the Sûreté lets M. Lefebvre keep his job. Now please go and leave me in peace.”

Adele left the boudoir, closing the door behind her. Madame sat for a moment, silently staring at her hands. Why have I lived so long? She turned down the lamp, and lay back on the settee, imagining she was already in her grave. Tears welled in her eyes and streamed down her wrinkled cheeks, but she made no sound.

On the outskirts of the forest of Fontainebleau by the banks of a placid river that flows into the Seine sits a medieval town known for its natural beauty, historical monuments, and rural charm. No more than an hour by train from central Paris, the place attracts many visitors, including painters inspired by the history, medieval architecture, ancient ruins, and scenic environs. Many artists have captured a vision of the ancient fortifications, church, monastery, and stone bridge, white walls, shining towers, slate roofs, and spires rising against the background of a cloud-stippled cerulean sky.

Valois, Capet, Angoulême, Orléans, Bourbon, Bonaparte; all had some connection to this place. Wars of religion, internecine feuds, revolutions, invasions, the roar of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the stench of powder smoke, drums rumbling and bugles blaring, the screams of wounded men and horses, the triumphant cries of victors as they charged the fleeing enemy, through all this sound and fury the little town had endured, survived, and even prospered.

At least one great king had kept a mistress lavishly in this place; those out of favor, the victims of intrigue and betrayal, had found less congenial accommodations in the castle dungeon. There, if lucky, they were left to languish and die naturally in obscurity. The less fortunate suffered torture and violent death hidden far away from the king, exiting the bloody stage of royal politics as in the old adage, “Out of sight, out of mind”.

Grass and flowers had overgrown the carnage and waste of centuries; whitewash had covered generations of spattered blood. The pain and sorrow of a thousand years had been recorded in the history books and stored deep within the collective memory of the region’s inhabitants. “History repeats itself.” These scenes would be replayed by a new generation of players, if not within the remainder of the waning century, then surely within the next.

But on this particular morning, all was calm as the meandering river ran slowly beneath the ancient bridge, its surface adorned with fallen leaves tinted russet and old gold. A soft breeze rustled willows, poplars, and tall reeds lining the muddy banks. Morning bells rang; birds sang in the trees, monks prayed, and people went to market as they had since the time of Louis VII and Eleanor of Aquitaine.

On the second story of an auberge, secluded within a circle of acacias, Betsy Endicott lay in bed, her hand gently toying with Sir Henry’s golden chest hairs as he slept quietly by her side. As arranged, she had come alone the previous evening; Sir Henry joined her early that morning. They immediately went to bed and made love. Then he drifted off into a deep sleep, as though he had been up all night.

Betsy’s eyes wandered round the room, past the shadows of branches swaying on the ceiling, toward the white, wind-ruffled curtains and the dim light streaming in through half-opened shutters. Does he love me? She wondered. Betsy had lived with Marcia for more than a decade; until her relationship with Sir Henry, she had never been intimate with a man.

Am I in love with him? That was another question for which she could find no answer. He had stirred something within her; he aroused a passion that she had believed was not there, at least not within the experience of her thirty-nine years. Am I pregnant? That query was at once exciting and frightening; it would soon be answered by her anticipated period. A first pregnancy at her age could be dangerous for both mother and child. Does he want a child? Does he want me?

Betsy trembled, her heart raced, her mouth dried. I’m suffocating; I can’t breathe. She turned away from him and sat up on the edge of the bed. Her naked body dripped with perspiration; it had soaked the sheets. She stepped down onto the cold wooden floor, walked to the washstand, sponged off, and wrapped herself in a large towel. Gazing into the mirror she was almost surprised to see how youthful and lovely she looked.

She turned from the mirror to Sir Henry. His seemingly untroubled sleep annoyed her, as though none of her reasonable doubts and fears had so much as crossed his mind.Can I trust him? Is he as strongly committed to me as I am to him? Betsy finished drying herself, gathered her clothes, and began dressing. As she concealed her vulnerable nakedness beneath layers of linen, lace, and silk, Betsy pondered her plight. Were she and Sir Henry inseparable, Faithful and bound to each other for as long as we both shall live? Or should she remain free with the flexibility to adapt to a sudden change in circumstance? She stared hard at her reflection, sighed, and finished dressing without reaching a firm conclusion.

15

OCTOBER 22, AFTERNOON

The tearoom quintet played a sugary rendition of Sous le dôme épais from Lakmé. A faint murmur of polite chatter, clattering silver, china, and crystal added counterpoint to the sobbing violins. Lady Agatha and Marcia Brownlow sat at a quiet corner table, enjoying an early afternoon tea served by a handsome young waiter.

“What a charming boy,” Lady Agatha observed as she eyed the withdrawing waiter from behind. Then, smiling wistfully, she turned to her friend and took a bite of muffin followed by a sip of tea. She returned her cup to the saucer, brushed away some crumbs and wiped her gloves fussily with the serviette. “Why do we wear gloves when taking tea? I always smear butter on mine.”

Marcia laughed. “I doubt whether future generations of women shall bother with such niceties.”

Aggie grinned wickedly, leaned forward, and whispered, “Future generations of women, my dear, will guzzle gin, smoke cigars, dance like bacchantes, swear like sailors, fight like the apache, and show their naughty bits in public. I regret you and I shall not live to see it.”

Marcia smiled sadly and nodded at the reference to changing times and encroaching mortality. She had acclimated herself to her friend’s decline as she had adjusted to her own. To her painter’s eye, the former Venus of Belgravia, subject of one of Marcia’s loveliest and most admired society portraits, was like a clipped rose pressed between the leaves of a book; there was still just enough color and fragrance in the remains to revive a memory of the flower in full bloom. “At any rate, I’m so glad you decided to call on me before leaving Paris.”

“Of course, darling; I’m off to Vevey on the morning train. I should have despised myself had I missed the opportunity of seeing you after all these years. And I’m delighted to find you well enough to come out to tea.”

“Yes, I do seem to have improved tremendously. Perhaps that’s due to an anticipated change of scenery. Arthur’s arranging our departure; we should be on the boat train to England the day after tomorrow.”

Aggie smiled and patted Marcia’s hand. “It’s awfully sweet to see you and Arthur together again. Just like old times. But what does Betsy think of that?”

“I fear Betsy’s so taken with Sir Henry Collingwood she thinks little of me, or not at all. They’re off together in the country, where I don’t know. I’m not sure I’ll see her again.”

Aggie frowned ominously. “I’m sorry to hear that, my dear. I’ll not mince words. Sir Henry’s a cad.”

Marcia fidgeted nervously with her teacup. Despite Achille’s assurance that the couple were under surveillance, she could not shake off the alarming thought that her companion and former lover might be intimate with a brutal murderer. “Do—do you know that from experience, or are you merely repeating gossip?”

“I was one of his patients, and a bit more than that I’m afraid. Have you submitted to one of his infamous treatments?”

“No, that is to say I haven’t—” Marcia caught herself. The thought of Sir Henry therapeutically manipulating Betsy and Aggie’s private parts made her gag. She coughed into her serviette.

“Are you all right? Perhaps you should drink some water, though Lord knows I never touch the filthy stuff. My father, God rest him, lived past eighty and he never drank anything but whiskey and good English beer. He used to say water makes frogs in one’s stomach.”

Marcia shook her head and cleared her throat. “Don’t worry; I’m fine.” She took a couple of deep breaths before continuing: “He did give me some medicine to help me through a rough patch.”

Lady Agatha nodded knowingly. “Ah, yes. Sir Henry’s medicine. As you know, I was already an opium smoker when I first consulted him. Aside from using my person shamefully, he introduced me to stronger drugs—much more potent than my tainted cigarettes.” She sighed before confessing: “I’m hopelessly addicted, my dear.”

Marcia looked down at her hands. Poor Betsy, she thought. Then, without looking up: “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Aggie laughed bitterly. “Don’t trouble yourself, Marcia. That’s all history. At any rate, I always keep a vial of the stuff in my handbag, a jolly mixture of morphine, cocaine, and chloral hydrate. Perhaps someday I’ll be careless and take a wee bit too much. ‘The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it one gets successfully through many a bad night.’ That’s Nietzsche, a German philosopher.”

Marcia stared at Aggie with a puzzled expression. Her friend’s morose observation was shocking, but its source even more so. Society had attributed many qualities to Lady Agatha, but erudition had not been one of them. To avoid the unpleasant topics of suicide and drug addiction, Marcia resorted to a bland remark. “I didn’t know you read philosophy?”

Aggie smiled. “I don’t, my dear. I received that nugget of wisdom from our mutual friend, Arthur Wolcott.”

“Yes, that sounds like him. I’m afraid morbid German philosophy is Arthur’s forte, though I’ll admit he’s been awfully sweet to me of late.”

Aggie now regretted her gloomy tone. She did not want to burden Marcia with her own troubles. “And I’m glad of it, darling,” she said optimistically. “You’ll be quite happy together, I’m sure.” Then, on a more somber note: “I was sorry to part with your painting. I treasured it; I believe it’s the finest thing I’ll ever own. But I’ll confess that with the passing years I found it hard to look at. It reminded me of what once was and could never be again.

“I had everything, you see: youth, health, beauty, and wealth. The first three must go surely; such is life. But I thought I could at least hold on to my money. I married for advantage twice. The first time worked out wonderfully; within three years the old baronet went to his reward leaving me a title, property, and a handsome annuity. But the second time was a bust. How was I to know that Fitzroy was in so deep to the bookmakers? His credit was blown, and the bailiffs were at the door; they hounded him to his grave. And I had to use much of my own fortune to pay the lawyers and satisfy Fitzroy’s creditors. So you understand my dear, I simply had to sell your lovely painting. I didn’t want to but—but Betsy’s offer was so generous. . . .” Lady Agatha choked up. She opened her handbag, withdrew a lace handkerchief, and wiped a tear.

“Of course I understand, my dear. You did what anyone would do under the circumstances.”

Aggie blew her nose and returned the handkerchief to her purse. She smiled through the tears. “That’s frightfully good of you, my dear. But then, you were always so sympathique.” She sipped some tea; then pursued: “But I suppose you are concerned about Betsy now that she’s taken up with that bounder Sir Henry.”

Marcia thought a moment before replying. “I do worry, of course, but I guess I know Betsy better than anyone, having lived with her all these years. We got along, for the most part, because I rarely contradicted her and she never felt threatened by me. But there were tense moments, and some fearful rows, especially when we were drinking. She could be awfully jealous. In fact it was my interest. . . .” Marcia caught herself. She did not want to mention Virginie Ménard. “Rather, it was Betsy’s misapprehension of my interest in a model that caused our present rift and perhaps made her more susceptible to Sir Henry’s charms.

“At any rate, Betsy’s quite capable of taking care of herself. She’s a crack shot. I’ve seen her cut dead center on an Ace, five times out of six with a revolver at ten paces.”

“Why, she’s a regular Miss Annie Oakley!” Lady Agatha broke in.

Marcia smiled. “Not quite, perhaps, but she’s fearfully good. She carries a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson pocket revolver in her handbag, and on occasion she backs it up with a derringer concealed in a garter holster.”

“A pistol concealed in one’s garter? How exciting. I must get one of those. One never knows when it might come in handy.”

Marcia nodded. “And Betsy’s quite capable of using her firearms in a tight corner. On one particular occasion, her cool marksmanship may have saved our lives.”

Lady Aggie munched her muffin excitedly and washed it down with half a cup of tea. She patted her rouged lips with the serviette; her eyes lit up with anticipation. “Oh, do tell me what happened.”

“Several years ago, when it seemed that I’d fully recovered from my illness, we were on the spree in one of the less reputable districts of San Francisco, a place where ladies never ventured unescorted during the day, let alone at night. Before long, we were accosted by a couple of bully boys exiting a saloon, a pair of ugly, cigar-chomping mugs with black derbies tilted askew and turtleneck sweaters bulging with muscles.

“They blocked our path on the sidewalk. Grinning like an ape, one demanded, ‘You gals is on the wrong side of town, ain’t ya? Anyways, you’ll pay us a toll to walk our streets, or you’ll lift yer skirts for us in that there alley.’ He pointed a thumb toward a dark, evil smelling passageway behind the saloon. Betsy calmly replied, ‘You’ll have neither our money nor our bodies. Now I advise you to let us pass.’

“The mugs nearly doubled over with laughter. The meaner-looking of the pair whipped out a large knife and waved it menacingly. ‘Sister, yer a card. I think I’ll carve a heart on yer pretty little ass, somethin’ to remember me by.’

“I was trembling, perspiring, and felt as though I were about to faint. In a moment, I would have dropped to my knees and begged for mercy. Still cool, Betsy said, ‘Since you put it that way, I suppose I have no choice but to pay you.’ The bully-boy grinned. ‘Now yer actin’ wise, sister.’

“The rest happened so quickly, but I recall every detail as if time had slowed somehow. Betsy opened her purse as if to pull out a wallet. Instead, she drew the Smith & Wesson and shot the knife-wielding thug directly between the eyes. He keeled over onto the boardwalk like a poleaxed ox in a slaughterhouse. The other man stood frozen, stiff as a cigar store Indian. Betsy aimed and pulled the trigger; he joined his companion, face down in a pool of blood.”

“How absolutely ripping!” Lady Agatha interjected.

Marcia nodded. “I was shaking; I felt my gorge rise. Doubling over, I vomited down my dress. Having heard the shots, a murmuring crowd streamed out of the saloon to see what had happened. I heard Betsy mutter, ‘Calm yourself. Don’t let them see you’re afraid.’ The crowd milled round the bodies. Betsy, smoking revolver in hand, shouted above the commotion to a burly bouncer: ‘Will you please call a policeman? We shall wait right here until he arrives.’ We didn’t have to wait long. The cop on the beat had been at the bar all the while, partaking of free beer and sandwiches.

“Of course, it was self-defense, no charges were filed, and Betsy became something of a heroine in the local press. She was even commended by the mayor for her bravery and skill with a pistol.”

Lady Agatha’s face flushed with excitement, her breast heaved and she breathed heavily. Presently she sputtered, “What a fabulous story. And I had no idea what a remarkable girl she was. How I wish I’d been there. At any rate, it seems Betsy should have nothing to fear from that rotter, Sir Henry.”

Marcia stared pensively for a moment before answering: “I certainly hope that’s the case, Aggie.” Then she poured more tea and buttered another muffin, adding a large dollop of refreshing raspberry jam.

Based upon Achille’s evidence, and with the backing of Chiefs Féraud and Bertillon, the juge d’instruction, Magistrate Leblanc, issued a warrant for Jojo’s arrest and an order for his investigative detention in La Conciergerie. The infamous prison adjacent to the Palais de Justice, formerly referred to as the “antechamber to the guillotine,” had been rebuilt during the Second Empire. Following the reconstruction, the mostly modern structure had retained the forbidding aspect of a medieval fortress along with its grim reputation. Deep in the bowels of that dreaded prison, its slate towers looming over the banks of the Seine as a warning to all criminals, Joseph Rossini, aka Jojo the Clown, sat despondently on a hard, narrow wooden bench in a dank cell. He stared at the stone walls and iron bars like an animal in the slaughterhouse pen. But unlike a dumb beast Jojo had a guilty conscience, and that sharp human knowledge of guilt tormented him with images of swift justice and harsh retribution.

Jojo rested his elbows on his knees, closed his eyes, and covered his face with his hands. Why did I do it? I was making good money at the circus. I was popular, a featured act. The answer of course was gold, and he hadn’t been paid for the last job, the one that had got him caught. It isn’t fair. Jojo recalled a life of neglect and cruelty. He blamed his deformity for his misfortunes, and he had taken out his resentment on those weaker than himself, most particularly the young girls who had worked the streets for him. But now all his pent up rage and bitterness against an unjust world was turned on his employer. Why should I take the fall? I didn’t harm the girl. I was nothing but an errand boy, and an ill-used one at that.

Thumping boots echoing down the arched corridor, the clicking of a key turning the lock, the sliding of a bolt and the creak of a heavy iron door swinging on its hinges interrupted Jojo’s ruminations. “C’mon Jojo, my lad” barked the guard, “it’s time for a friendly chat with the Magistrate.”

Sir Henry and Betsy exited the auberge and proceeded down a gravel path winding through the acacias until they reached a gateway that opened onto a narrow cobblestoned street. Betsy wore a gray traveling coat, a jaunty little veiled black hat and scarf, and she carried an umbrella. The air had a singular freshness to it, a crisp autumnal bite and unmistakable fragrance that betokened rain. A bracing breeze stirred, scattering un-raked leaves, rattling semi-nude branches, and fluttering her scarf and the black-ribbon furbelow on her coat. Sir Henry was elegantly turned out in a Savile Row suit and bowler hat. He took her arm possessively as he escorted her through town in the direction of the old bridge.

As they passed by bright yellow– and white-walled shops and stalls, many of the townspeople took a moment from their occupation to admire the handsome couple; but they didn’t gape or let the visitors’ presence overly distract them; they were used to well-heeled tourists down from Paris for a day or two’s sightseeing.

They stepped onto the arched bridge and crossed halfway before stopping to admire the view. Betsy removed her gloves and touched the rough, cold masonry as if by doing so she could connect with the place and experience centuries of history in a moment. We have nothing like this in America, she thought. She glanced up through her veil at a cobalt sky filled with immense white clouds shaded gray round the edges. The diffused autumn light shimmered over steep spires, towers, and slanted slate roofs. Beneath the ancient walls and stone embankments the burnished silver river flowed, reflecting the town’s image on its smooth, barely rippling surface as it lazily meandered toward the Seine.

“A lovely subject for a painting,” she remarked.

His eyes scanned the scene and he spoke while concentrating on some undefined object in the distance. “Indeed yes, and artists have come here for years. We’re not far from Barbizon, you know. I imagine the place as Corot would have painted it; earth tones under a cobalt sky, all visualized through a glimmering coat of amber varnish. But the Impressionists have a different way of expressing it.”

Betsy smiled and eyed him provocatively. “I’d like to see how you’d paint it, Henry.”

“Oh me,” he replied with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m just an amateur. Painting’s not my pigeon.”

“Yes, not like Marcia. She’s a genius. Next to her I’ve always felt so—so ordinary.”

He turned to gaze directly into her eyes and took her by the hand. “Nonsense my dear; you’re an extraordinary woman. I’ve known that since the first day we met.”

Her veiled eyes were questioning, challenging. “What’s so extraordinary about me, aside from the fact that I’m immensely rich?”

“You underestimate yourself. You’re a distinguished collector. Without the support of people like you, the creative arts would wither and die.”

“Perhaps you’re right. After all, we wealthy Americans must be good for something.” She paused a moment to study his expression, as if searching for some telltale reaction. Seeing nothing but his familiar amiable smile she pursued: “Henry, we’ve known each other for scarcely a fortnight. We’ve become intimate, and . . . ,” she paused and lowered her voice to a whisper, “. . . there’s that other business.”

He winced in response to her reference to “other business” but said nothing.

She stared at him searchingly for a moment before continuing: “Yet I know so little about you. For instance, where do you come from? Why did you choose to become a surgeon instead of an artist?”

There was just a wrinkled hint of a frown around his lips and his eyes. “I was born in Abingdon in Oxfordshire, not far from the University. It’s fine country for farming and raising fat, wooly sheep. Our market town is ancient; in many respects it resembles this place. We have a medieval church and abbey, and an old stone bridge like this one, spanning the Thames.