“Why?” Bridgette countered coyly, but she stopped waving the folio. “You’re afraid I’ll damage Helen Watt’s papers?”
It was the way she pronounced the name—each syllable a slash of fury. Aaron understood that he wasn’t the focus of Bridgette’s interest after all. Something about Helen had stung Bridgette—and Bridgette wasn’t going to rest until she’d repudiated it. Flirting was merely Bridgette’s way of getting things done.
Opening the folio, Bridgette made a show of choosing between several pages, peeled out one with a flourish, and passed it to him.
He accepted it casually, with a smile that hurt.
The letter was addressed to Thomas Farrow, and signed Isaac Vossius. A man, if Aaron was remembering right, known in Europe for his large personal library. Vossius seemed to be responding to a query about several texts—the letter was written in Latin in a cramped hand, and Aaron struggled to make out the titles. A find, yes, but nothing on the level of Spinoza. It might show some later development of Ester’s interests, though.
“So was she right?” Bridgette prompted. “Is this some rare discovery?” She leaned over Aaron’s shoulder, her bright hair brushing the side of his neck.
He shrugged. “It’s a note from a man with a famous library, answering a question about some books.”
“Fascinating,” said Bridgette drily. She pulled another sheet from the folio and dangled it before him. “Bet you can’t resist one more.”
He produced an unconcerned laugh. “How about if we leave the research work for Helen?”
“Don’t think you fool me,” she lilted. “You know you want it.” She tilted her head at him. “I’m referring to the papers, of course.”
How had it ever felt natural, to dance this dance with this woman?
“You were all right, you know,” she said.
“You were more than all right,” he countered.
A brief, grateful smile broke on Bridgette’s face—a smile that seemed, for an instant, genuine. He hated himself then as he’d never hated himself. Whatever sort of person Bridgette was, he was doing wrong against her right now by flirting to gain time.
She handed him the paper, but held on a moment before letting go. “You’re sure you don’t only think of me as provenance?”
He didn’t answer. He dipped his eyes and scanned the Latin.
There, at the base of the letter, in the thick defiant script of a man whose beliefs had damned and sustained him, was the signature. Benedictus de Spinoza.
What he did next, he did for Helen. Because what did it matter if he no longer liked himself, if he could save this one thing for her? With difficulty he raised his heavy head, looked at Bridgette, and forced a shrug. He handed the paper back to her as if it were nothing. Letting his voice convey all the irritability he could muster, he said, “Let Helen spend her retirement money on these. I don’t care anymore. She’s been a regal bitch to me.”
Bridgette took the page, but instead of looking at it, she gazed in the direction of the balcony. She seemed to be thinking.
“Are you going to leave Ian?” he said, surprising himself.
She turned. “What’s it to you?”
“Nothing,” he said simply. Only for some reason he couldn’t explain, he wanted them to be truthful with each other. “I’m spoken for. I was just wondering.”
She cut her eyes at him. “What makes you wonder?”
“Well, you taking me up to your bedroom, for one.”
She laughed but said nothing.
“Should I assume you do that sort of thing often?”
“You certainly should not,” she shot back. “Just because I flirt doesn’t mean I go further.”
He didn’t believe her. Then, a heartbeat later, he did. “Sorry,” he said.
“I made an exception for you.” Her voice was fierce—but it was something in herself, not in him, that she was trying to govern.
“Why?”
“I was curious.”
“Bullshit,” he said.
“What, you don’t think there’s anything intriguing about a stranger who comes to my house to exhume some history no one else cares about?”
“No, actually I don’t.”
“Well,” she said, “you’re right. There’s nothing so special about you.”
He let his gaze fall on several canvases propped against a wall—more of Bridgette’s art, wrapped in a clear plastic packing material thick enough to render the bold images impressionistic. He stared at the vague forms: hints and evocations, shimmering with the possibility of some elusive wisdom beyond what might be visible in the ordinary light of day. He liked them that way. “You know,” he said quietly, “pissed-off women have been telling me that for a long time. It’s finally sunk in.”
When he looked up, Bridgette’s face wore a scrim of confusion, as though she’d been counting on him to be someone more mockable.
“The thing about you,” she said, “is that you’re so damned focused on history.” She toed a box. “You love it.” It was an accusation.
“So what if I do? I mean . . . you love art, right?”
“No,” Bridgette said. “I like art.”
She set her foot on a wooden crate in front of her. Slowly, she leaned forward. The crate slid against the floor with a scraping sound, which seemed to satisfy her.
“I took a drawing class, once. And some art history classes. And I have taste,” she said. “Which mainly means I’m good at figuring what will sell. And I have some money too, don’t I? But it’s rather disappointing, isn’t it, not to be more impassioned than that?” She’d tried for irony, but her voice was hoarse. “You should be proud, you know. My ridiculous aunt would have approved of the way you and Helen Watt are about history.”
He watched Bridgette lift her foot off the crate, then set it on another—then hesitate.
“Ian and I don’t love anything that way,” she said. “Or at least I don’t. Ian might love me that way.” She grimaced, then added, “At least, he used to.”
This time she shoved the crate long and loud. Then she squared herself, and faced him.
“If everybody thinks I’m soulless, then I might as well act the part, shouldn’t I? Sell the documents to the most craven collector I can find, one who’ll lock the papers away from historians. And then I’ll use the windfall to fund my fondest wishes.”
“Like what?” Aaron asked.
“Like,” she said, “a new bloody kitchen.” She laughed sharply—then rested the weight of her gaze on Aaron. “That’s what Ian wanted. But I said we had to use the full renovation budget for the gallery’s public spaces. I won the argument, as usual.”
From beyond the door, the sound of visitors shuffling patiently along the balcony.
“I’m going to be a father,” Aaron said.
Bridgette let out a hoot. For a moment, she stared. On her face a faint, wistful glimmer. “The poor kid.”
He nodded.
After a moment, she hooted again.
It was clear to him, suddenly, that he wanted no power over Bridgette Easton. Over anyone. He no longer trusted himself with it.
I’m sorry. He sent the words silently to Helen, whom he’d failed.
“Bridgette,” he said. “These letters? They aren’t like the—”
“Of course they’re not like the other ones,” she snapped. “I’m not stupid, you know. And you’re a terrible actor. If she wants them that badly, there’s something different about them.”
“Different,” he said, “is possibly an understatement. I have to tell you something. There’s at least one piece of paper in there signed by Spinoza.”
Bridgette’s brows rose. Then he watched her pretend not to be impressed. “Well,” she said, studying her nails. “Twenty is enough for Ian’s kitchen.”
“That folio you’re holding,” Aaron felt compelled to press on, “might well be worth more than that.”
Bridgette raised her chin. “Don’t discuss money with the English. It’s uncouth.”
Aaron shook his head. Then shook it again.
Bridgette was enjoying his incredulity. He let her stare him down.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he said after a moment.
“Other than getting the hell out of my house?”
“Other than that.”