He shook his head, itching to ram his fingers through his hair but politely restraining. “Records state she is married, but I’m not certain where to locate her husband. I was hoping you could tell me her background, so I might find a charitable family member willing to help her.”

“She does have a child, I believe. She was only a girl of three or four when I last saw her, but quite a bright little thing. Perhaps she might help. Her name is Emily.”

He took a small notebook and pencil from a pocket inside his overcoat. “Emily . . . Freidl?”

“I’m not certain. Rousseau, perhaps. She was born to Annika before she wed.” Color crept over the woman’s alabaster skin. “Annika did marry one of the dancers shortly after she left Craven, the child’s father, I believe, but they had such a rough go of it. I don’t suppose that’s who she’s still married to, is it?”

“John Michelson is on record as her husband.”

The woman before him deflated almost imperceptibly. “She loved Philippe so.”

“Philippe, you say.” He tensed the fingers holding the little pencil. “This Philippe is . . . the child’s father?”

“Yes, Philippe Rousseau, her dance partner in the theater. He was arrested, you see, on old charges from his earlier life, and it changed their circumstances entirely. She could no longer dance, of course, after having her children, and he could earn nothing from prison. They faced financial ruin, the death of five of their six children, and a brutal bout of illness that nearly took her life.”

“What a difficult existence.”

“She was fiercely happy with her Philippe, though, dear Annika.” Miss Blythe’s voice became dreamy. Distant. “She loved her husband with such passion and fought for his release, but she may have felt she had no choice but to marry again, if such was possible. I only wish I knew.” She sighed.

“I brought her ballet students to train, gave them cast-off gowns and plenty of food, but then one day several years after she left the theater, she simply . . . vanished. She and her daughter were gone—into the country, her landlord said, but he couldn’t say where.” She glanced away. “So there my pursuit of her ended, and I’ve hardly heard her blessed name again until this very day.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Something in his chest wrenched at the story of the frail woman under his care, at the large and colorful life that had slipped from her grasp and even her memories. “I wish I had better news for you.”

She straightened, as if determined to strengthen herself. “What of the music box, then? Do you have it?”

“I’m afraid it’s gone too. Not much lasts at a place like Hurstwell.”

Her delicate shoulders slumped.