“Letitia was very angry, but she had come to a dead end and could discover nothing more. Later the same year, her own husband died. Letitia left Louisiana to visit friends in Europe. Some time after that she met her second husband and moved to London. She had returned, she told me, to Louisiana from time to time, but she never felt at peace there again. She never heard any more of the extraordinary girl and her brother. All that was left of the entire episode was the dress in this photograph here. A dress that must now be somewhere in the Metropolitan Museum—packed away, carefully protected in acid-free tissue paper.”

She met Rowland’s eyes, then looked quickly away. She turned her gaze toward the fire, the shutters, the paneling, the photographs of mountains with their annotated routes. Rowland said nothing, but she could sense he was affected by this story, as she had been the first time she heard it. His head was bent to the two photographs of Russian dresses. With a sigh, Lindsay rose.

“So you see, it was a love story,” she said. “A love story of an unusual kind.”

“Most are—to those involved,” he replied.

Lindsay continued to stare at those mountains; a log shifted in the fire.

“I’m certain it’s the story of Cazarès and Lazare,” she said at last. “Rowland, I’m sure.”

“I am too. I probably shouldn’t be. There’s no proof beyond the dresses. But I have instincts too, Lindsay—as much as you do. I can hear the truth in it.” He hesitated, then looked up to meet her gaze. “But you have to understand, Lindsay—I’m sure you do. Even if I could prove every last word of it, it’s a story I could never use in their lifetime. Max wouldn’t countenance it. Neither would I. It’s their affair. It’s intensely private—and a child is involved… What are you doing?”

“Getting my coat. I do understand. I knew you’d say that. I knew it could only be background. I ought to go home now.”

“Why? It’s only nine—we could go out for a meal, I thought. I’m very glad you told me all this. There’s a hundred and one things I want to ask you.”

Lindsay stopped in front of those mountain photographs. She looked at their noted routes. She breathed in and out ten times, then put down her coat with a smile.

“Aren’t we married, Rowland?” she said. “I seem to recall we were married yesterday, after a whirlwind romance… So, shouldn’t we act married? Why don’t I cook you a meal?”

Chapter 11

“THIS IS A BAD idea,” Rowland said, clattering down the bare stairs behind her. “Lindsay, I’m warning you. I told you I wasn’t house trained. There won’t be any food.”

“Of course there will,” she replied over her shoulder. “Through here? Every kitchen has food in it, Rowland, even yours.”

It had not escaped Lindsay’s notice that her proposal to cook had caused Rowland deep unease. In the gospel according to Max, of course, Rowland’s one-monthers and three-monthers always insisted on ministering to him.