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Back The Shoe Queen Save as PDF
Chapters (67)
  1. Cover
  2. “And may I say, those shoes are adorable.”
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. ( I )
  7. ( one )
  8. ( two )
  9. ( three )
  10. ( four )
  11. ( five )
  12. ( six )
  13. ( seven )
  14. ( eight )
  15. ( nine )
  16. ( ten )
  17. ( II )
  18. ( eleven )
  19. ( twelve )
  20. ( thirteen )
  21. ( fourteen )
  22. ( fifteen )
  23. ( III )
  24. ( sixteen )
  25. ( seventeen )
  26. ( eighteen )
  27. ( nineteen )
  28. ( IV )
  29. ( twenty )
  30. ( twenty-one )
  31. ( twenty-two )
  32. ( twenty-three )
  33. ( twenty-four )
  34. ( V )
  35. ( twenty-five )
  36. ( twenty-six )
  37. ( twenty-seven )
  38. ( twenty-eight )
  39. ( twenty-nine )
  40. VI
  41. ( thirty )
  42. ( thirty-one )
  43. ( thirty-two )
  44. ( thirty-three )
  45. ( thirty-four )
  46. ( VII )
  47. ( thirty-five )
  48. ( thirty-six )
  49. ( thirty-seven )
  50. ( thirty-eight )
  51. ( thirty-nine )
  52. ( forty )
  53. ( forty-one )
  54. ( forty-two )
  55. ( VIII )
  56. ( forty-three )
  57. ( forty-four )
  58. ( forty-five )
  59. ( forty-six )
  60. ( forty-seven )
  61. ( forty-eight )
  62. ( forty-nine )
  63. ( fifty )
  64. ( fifty-one )
  65. Acknowledgments
  66. Acknowledgments
  67. Questions for Discussion

“Robert?” came Felperstone’s calm, even voice. “May I call you Robert?”

“You may not.”

“In situations such as this, it’s sometimes the best policy to take the bull by the horns, so to speak.”

“She’s not in there. I can’t believe it.”

“Well, where is she then? And why did you agree to come here?”

“Sir,” called Pierre, from the front. “We’re going to have to move the car.”

“Do you get a kick out of this?” Robert had his fists pressed hard into his eyes now. “You must have seen so many poor saps catching their wives en flagrante! Ever thought of selling tickets?”

“Robert, I do think…,” the detective began.

“Sir,” said Pierre. “There’s a porter coming over.”

“All right!” Robert uncovered his eyes. “All right. We’re going in. Pierre, please park the car as nearby as possible, and wait for us. I’m afraid I don’t know how long we’ll be.”

( thirty-two )

GENEVIEVE SAMUEL WATCHED, THROUGH her bedroom window, the frost on the grass, the crocuses blooming and dying, then the daffodils, and then the roses coming into flower in her mother’s rose garden. She read Henry James, D. H. Lawrence, Émile Zola (her parents, who had no idea about literature, thought it would help improve her French). And Vogue, of course. She scribbled furiously and candidly in her diary and then burned it in her grate, one night, out of fear of discovery. She longed for communications from the outside world, but the only person she could think of writing to was Irene Nicholas, and the prospect of receiving detailed accounts of her school life and the latest romance filled her with despond.

She thought about Mr. Giles, wondering if he’d taken up with another girl too young and naïve to know better. Then she chased him from her mind, unable to bear anymore the thought of his hands on her body, his mouth finding hers. It made her sick to think of how he’d used her. It made her hate herself.

She saw nobody. The servants were told to bring her food up on a tray, knock on the door and then leave it outside for her to take in. Her room was tidied and her bed made each morning while she was in her bath. A story was put out that Genevieve was “ill”—non-specifically but seriously. Many of the household, family friends and gossipy locals assumed it was tuberculosis. She’d always been prone to coughs. Others thought it might be a “nervous disorder.”

“Cheer up.” Doctor Peters made a note of her blood pressure and began putting his instruments away in his black bag. “Only a few more months to go.”

“You really have no idea, do you?” said Genevieve, propped up on her pillows.

Doctor Peters sighed. “You’re an extremely lucky girl.”