The opportunity to escape, even if only through intellectual or spiritual means, must have been a heady temptation. If this was the beginning of a love affair, Gwen could well understand being toppled by the gift of a book.

My dearest A.,

Your beauty at dinner tonight made a startling contrast to the melancholy that I know you to be feeling. My brother’s behaviour was appalling—as was Constantine’s. If I only knew some way to give you comfort. Perhaps we could take a stroll along the lakeside tomorrow? I have yet to see the paintings inside the Kapellbrücke—will you accompany me? I am sure the girls will be amply cared for by their nanny. Say yes, I beg of you!

Your loving C.

The old “let’s take a walk and see the historic paintings” gambit. How many young men approached Gwen during her time in Geneva with some similar line? Yet Alice seemed to have taken the bait quite readily.

My dear C.,

The paintings were quite ordinary, the bridge was old and plain, yet the two of them in your company became something magical. My heart feels lighter than it has since we fled Greece, and I have you to thank for it. Let us make these walks a regular part of our existence!

Your friend, A.

Still friends, are we? When do we get to the good parts?

There were not many letters, which was not surprising when she thought about it. They lived in the same place, attended the same functions, ate at the same tables. There were lapses of time between the letters as a result, but when each appeared, the intimacy of the tone progressed by leaps and bounds.

My dearest A.…

My darling C.…

Your most loving A.

Your devoted C.

Yes, get on with it, Gwen thought impatiently. Then she came to one dated May 1918.

My darling,

It was wrong of you to kiss me. It was wrong of me to let you. I cannot, cannot believe that I followed you to the roof while the others were dancing, but Andrea was so oblivious, and you were so kind. The touch of your hand on my waist as we danced was agony—that that, and mine on your shoulder and our other hands clasped were all the contact that we were allowed was a cruel jest. But then we slipped away and found ourselves high above the world, dancing on the roof, our bodies drawing ever closer, the strains of the music drifting up from the ballroom so far below. I could no more have withstood you in that moment than I could a hurricane.

Oh, my, thought Gwen. I don’t know if I could have held out under those circumstances, either. The trick is to not follow him to the roof in the first place, but Alice had gone, knowing full well what was coming. Knowing it was what she wanted.

She would have been, what, thirty-three then? Only a few years older than Gwen was now. Married at eighteen, so fifteen years into it, and with a husband who no longer cared for her.