“Nineteen. Nearly twenty. But you’ve seen the letters of introduction I sent you, haven’t you? He’s just back from Princeton, graduated six days ago with the highest possible marks in mathematics, the youngest boy ever to do it. I want him to study with you, Dr. Grant. No one else will do.”
The comtesse’s flat American vowels ring with authority. Violet looks at Henry Mortimer, who should be languishing with humiliation in the blue-silk shadow of his mother’s ferocity, but he only stands there with a patient expression, as if he’s heard it all before. He’s a tall boy, rather handsome, with a thatch of dark hair brushed back from his high pale forehead, and a pair of solemn eyes fixed toward the wall beyond Lionel Richardson’s sturdy right shoulder. His navy blue suit hangs a little loosely on his skeletal frame, held up by the pristine round-edged Eton collar that strangles his neck. Violet knows a few Mortimers, or once did. A Boston family, severely Brahmin, not the sort to breed with flat-voweled professional beauties, and certainly not to divorce them afterward. But then, Violet doesn’t follow scandal very closely.
All at once Violet becomes conscious of the silence teetering in the space between them, the absolute rock-stillness of Walter’s body next to her. She looks back at the Comtesse de Saint-Honoré, whose bright eyes haven’t waved a millimeter from Walter’s stricken face.
Lionel’s laugh fractures the impasse. “Ah! That’s the marvelous thing about American women. You’re never in any doubt where you stand, are you?”
The comtesse laughs, too. “I’m awfully sorry. Was I too direct? Perhaps you might offer us a seat, Dr. Grant, and I’ll promise to be on my best behavior.”
“Of course, of course.” Walter lifts his hand and gestures with relief for the waiter. Chairs are brought, another bottle of wine called for in Lionel’s flawless German. Violet crams herself into the corner, making room for Henry’s lanky adolescent shoulders. He glances at the clusters of dainty green peas on her plate.
“Oxygen?” he asks quietly.
Violet lets out a breath she hardly knew she was holding. “Yes, oxygen.”
She glances up, sensing observation, and finds Lionel Richardson watching them both with his patient gray eyes.
? ? ?
VIOLET WAITS until Walter joins her in the bedroom before making her decision. She is already in bed, a book in her lap; the evening is warm, and for the first time since September she wears a summer nightgown, white cotton trimmed with a token bit of lace at the neck and sleeves. She dislikes the itchiness of lace against her skin, the sense of delicate entrapment.
Walter comes from the bathroom in his thick flannel pajamas, smelling of soap and tooth powder. He bathes every night before bed, no matter how late the hour, and again in the morning when he wakes up, bracketing his sleep with cleanliness. Ordinarily Violet is irritated by this ritual, the way she’s forced to wait for his attention in the evening, and she resents the lemony dampness of his skin when he climbs at last into bed beside her. Tonight, for some reason, she welcomes it.
“I think you should take him on,” she says.
Walter is swinging his legs under the covers. “What’s that?”
“The boy, Henry Mortimer. I think you should take him on.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I think he’s brilliant. I think you should give him a chance.”
“Hmm.”
Violet turns on her side to face him. He has already switched off the lamp on his side of the bed; hers still casts out a gentle incandescent glow. Their Berlin flat is large and quite modern, quite up-to-date, fully wired for electricity and telephone, piping-hot water delivered with casual abundance to every bathroom. There are brand-new Victrola gramophones in the study and here in the bedroom. Violet feels the outline of the electric light along her body and sets the book on the nightstand.
“What did you think of them?” she asks. “The comtesse and her son.”
“I shall take the matter under consideration.” He turns his head to look at her. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, wry or amused. “And you, child? What did you think of my surprise this afternoon?”
“What surprise?”
“Young Richardson.”
“He’s not so young. He’s older than I am.”
“Ah, but you’re very, very young, aren’t you, child? Not much older than Mr. Mortimer.”
“I am several years older than Mr. Mortimer.”
“Did you find him handsome?”
“What, the boy?”
Walter laughs. “No. Richardson.”
“I suppose so. Not really.”
Another laugh. “Which is it?”
“Well, he’s not conventionally handsome, is he? Not an Adonis.” Violet closes her eyes and pictures a silken black head.
“He was quite the most extraordinary student I ever had. Excepting you, of course, little child.” He pulls away abruptly and rises from the bed.
Violet watches him pad across the bare wooden floorboards to the Victrola and sift through the recordings piled up beside the machine. “How so?”
“He murdered his stepfather when he was fifteen.”