Henry’s eyes widen into moons, as if he’s found a ten-mark note in some forgotten pocket. He scrambles to his feet. “I’d be delighted.”
Violet leans back on her elbows and watches Lise and Henry stride out of the shade and into the heavy sunshine. At her back, she feels the presence of the third picnic cloth, occupied by Walter and Jane in a tête-à-tête even more tangibly intimate than that of the Hahns.
She has worked perseveringly to banish the thought of Walter from her head. She hasn’t looked in his direction all morning, not during the walk through the grass to Jane’s chosen picnic spot, not during the unloading of the baskets and the spreading of the cloths, not during the picnic itself. One or twice the sight of his uncovered gray head, his light summer suit, crossed her vision, and her belly went sick, her clear head felt dizzy. She hears him now, his voice lifting into laughter, and her throat clots with rage.
A hand falls on her shoulder. Violet leaps to her feet, spilling champagne and deviled egg, but it’s only the Comtesse de Saint-Honoré. Her beautiful face is lit by the sun, and her expression is serious. “Would you walk with me, Violet? We haven’t had a nice chat in ever so long.”
Not since Berlin.
“Of course.” Violet finds her hat.
Even in the shelter of the trees, the air is hot; out in the full throb of sunshine, Violet’s skin scorches under the thin and wilted linen of her dress. Her hair sticks unpleasantly to her neck and temples. Beside her, Jane’s cool composure seems to exist in a separate season altogether.
Jane’s arm loops through hers. She carries a parasol, as if they’re walking along some graveled path in the Tiergarten. “What heat! It reminds me of the summers back home.”
“Really? You look as if it doesn’t bother you at all.”
“Well, I was born to it, I guess. Among other things. Tell me, Violet, how are you and Lionel getting along these days?”
Violet’s throat closes. She makes a dismissive noise and tries to shrug.
“Oh, I don’t mean to pry! You see, I have a little problem of my own at the moment, and its name is your husband.”
“You seem to be getting along very well.”
“Too well. I’ve held him off as best I can, but . . .” She shrugs. “Well, he isn’t the kind of man who’s used to hearing the word no, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you and he . . . I thought he . . .”
Jane turned a curious expression toward her. “What, that we were lovers? I wouldn’t do that to you, Violet. He’s still your husband, and I like you. I told you that, didn’t I? I’ve done all I could to keep him going without it, for Henry’s sake, but last night . . . Well, we had a bit of a struggle. Had to take some stern measures, if you follow me, and while I’ve managed to smooth his poor little feathers this morning . . .”
Violet speaks slowly. “Do you mean to say that all this time—”
“Why, Violet! I do believe I’m insulted. Did you think I’d go to bed with him under your roof? I do have my code, you know, rickety as it is.”
Violet’s mind has ceased grasping. Ahead of them, the grass stands motionless, golden-brown tips pointed to the pale sky. The air is full of it, the stifling smell of hot summer grass. His poor little feathers, Jane said, so dismissive, so careless. “Well, you don’t need to bother. I mean, you’re quite free to . . . to indulge him. I don’t mind.”
“Yes, that’s what I was getting at, just now. Whether it would make things easier for everyone. But you see . . .” Jane gives her parasol a spin. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Yes.”
“You see, I brought Henry to Berlin to study with Dr. Walter Grant, but I don’t believe he’s the one. I think you are.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re doing all the work, the experiments, in that desperate little basement of yours in Berlin, in the laboratory you’ve set up here. Writing the articles. Don’t think I don’t notice. You’re the one on the cutting edge, you and the others. You’re the ones who give a damn about bringing in Henry. Walter, from what I can see, he’s gotten old. He’s given everything up, except to look in and criticize from time to time. He doesn’t give a damn for anyone anymore, except himself. And frankly”—another swirl of the parasol, another squeeze of the arm—“I don’t particularly like him. Not that I let that stand in my way, everything else being equal, but if there’s no use in it, why give myself the bother?”
A pair of sparrows wings by, swooping unexpectedly close. Violet hears the flutter of feathers, the slight impact as a wingtip brushes the Comtesse de Saint-Honoré’s white lace parasol.
“Or so I asked myself, last night,” Jane adds softly.
“Jane,” says Violet. “I have a favor to ask you.”