“Did you sleep well, madam?”
“Oh yes,” I said, pushing back thoughts of being awakened. “You can call me Grace, though.”
“Perhaps I can call you Mrs. Harding.”
“Okay.” I wanted to ask her about Phillip, my husband, but I couldn’t think of a way to bring up the subject without it seeming awkward. Did she know we barely knew each other?
“Mr. Harding—your husband, that is—is a lovely man,” she said, offering me tea.
“Oh, thank you. Yes, he is. Isn’t he?”
“He works so hard, though. I barely see him anymore. He’s only home at night.”
“Oh.” I wondered if she’d seen his face. Silly! Of course she had. “Have you known him long?”
“Oh yes, ma’am. His whole life. I was employed by his father when he was growing up. He was such a sweet boy, always offering to help me around the house or bringing home an injured baby bird. And he’s a kind man. He even gave my dear son Albert money to continue his schooling.”
“That’s lovely.” I wanted to ask her what he looked like, but that would seem odd. I would see him soon enough, in any case. Still, I looked around to see if there were any photographs. There were, but all of other people, including a woman who must have been his mother. There was one of a family. I walked over to it. I recognized the man in it. Mr. Harding, Phillip’s father.
“Ah, you want to see what Phillip was like as a lad,” Mary said.
“Yes. Is that him?” He was a handsome boy who resembled his father.
“Yes, and his sister.” She picked up the plates and went to the kitchen.
I wanted to call her back, ask more questions. But, of course, it would be awkward.
After breakfast, I met the other servants, a manservant named Bryson and the cook, an Irish lady named Maeve. Then I fairly ran around the house, examining artwork on the walls, fine moldings on high ceilings! I had gone from nothing to such affluence! In the study, I threw myself onto a thick rug and just rolled on it! Then I ran to the music room and played all the records. I tried to play the piano. I remembered Minuet in G, and it sounded so elegant on the beautiful grand. Finally, I went back to the library and read my book, stopping only when Mary brought in tea. I wanted to finish reading so I could tell Phillip about it. At five, I went to my bedroom and changed into my second-best dress, after the one I’d worn for the wedding. I wanted to look beautiful for my husband. I would finally see his face!
But, alas, the sun set and he was not home. It was winter, after all, and the sun set so early. When he finally came home, I fairly flew to the door, wanting to see him. But the light was dim, and he was merely a tall, elegant shadow, a shadow that took me in his arms and kissed me.
“I’m sorry I’m so late, my darling.”
“Can we not turn on the lights?” I asked. “There are curtains over the windows.”
“I know.” His voice sounded nervous in the darkness. “I . . . I can’t. It’s part of the curse that I cannot show myself to you.”
“Oh.” He had not told me.
“I was afraid to tell you. And now I know you must be frightened, believing me to be hideous.”
“Oh. No.” Was he?
And suddenly I remembered Phillip, Phillip in the darkness, in my arms, Phillip the hero. I didn’t care. I didn’t care what he looked like. “It’s all right,” I said. “Come. Maeve made dinner. It’s on the table.”
Over dinner, in the pitch-darkness, I told him, “I finished Mam’zelle Guillotine. Thank you for leaving it out for me.”
I could almost see the outline of his smile, I thought. “You liked it then?”
“Yes. I loved it.”
He laughed. “Tell me about it. What did you think of Gabrielle?”
“Oh, she was fascinating. To go from being an innocent young girl to a master executioner! I loved it!” It was so wonderful to have someone to talk to. At home, Mum was sullen and silent. My sisters spoke mostly to one another, and Father only wanted to talk about the war, the war all the time. I knew it was important, but sometimes, I wanted to forget.
After dinner, we went to the music room, and in the darkness, Phillip played the piano, and I sang. I asked him if he knew “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square,” and he happily obliged. I sang along.
“I wish I could hear that nightingale,” I said when it was over.
“I heard it,” he said. “You sing like one.” He pulled me toward him in the darkness and kissed me. I kissed him back.
“I love . . . your piano playing,” I said.
“After the curse is over, I’ll teach you to play. In the light.”
I nodded eagerly, and I kissed him again. With my hand, I felt a roughness on his cheek. What was it? Phillip flinched, but he did not try to move my hand away. I touched the rest of his face, and it was smooth.
Finally, we retired to the bedroom.
Phillip slept through the night.
4