But I often found myself alone in my off hours. I experimented with Alex’s camera, wandering about at dusk and—less frequently, for the mornings were increasingly cold—early dawn. The pictures I’d taken of the tableau Frances had left me in my bedroom had not turned out—Mr. Crablow, who developed them for me, showed me that the prints were simply black squares. “Are you quite certain you opened the lens, my dear?” he asked me. I was, but he only shook his head indulgently and encouraged me to try again. So I did.
I had begun using the camera with a specific reason in mind, but to my surprise I discovered I enjoyed using it. When I took photographs, alone in the slowly failing light, huddled inside a sweater and a coat, my feet damp and cold, my pretty dress and borrowed pearls left behind in my room, everything fell away. I did not think about Dottie’s family or my own uncertain future. I did not think about the fact that I could not spend the rest of my life as Dottie’s handmaiden. I did not think about Frances’s mysterious death and who may have pushed her from the roof. And I did not think the thoughts that threatened to consume my mind: that Alex had lied to me. That Alex had come to England without telling me. That he had been seen speaking at length with Frances the day before she died. You met a man, and you married him. But what did you know about him? He was a man, a stranger to me.
In the first days after my conversation with Dottie, the thought was like a fist in my gut. I had spent three years with the Alex I had in my mind, the husband I carried in my memories, so certain that the picture I had was accurate. Dottie’s words changed all of that. I wavered between shaky denial and cold fear, brought on by my memory of Alex’s face, his handsome features and extraordinary blue eyes those of a stranger.
After several days, I could touch the thought of Dottie’s conversation tentatively, like a bruise, run my tongue over the thought like a healing tooth. And then I began to grow angry.
“Mrs. Manders.” This was one of Dottie’s art clients, sitting on the sofa in the parlor, watching me pour tea. I was so lost in my thoughts, so unused to being acknowledged during these meetings, that for a moment I forgot my own name.
“Yes, sir,” I managed.
“You are married to Mrs. Forsyth’s nephew, I believe?”
I paused, the teapot poised just at the end of a pour, and glanced at Dottie. I had not been given instructions should a client ask me questions. Dottie was frowning but silent.
I turned back to the man. He was sixtyish, distinguished, with upright posture and thick, silver hair. A prominent, well-shaped nose, high in the bridge, made him look especially aristocratic. I searched my memory for his name.
“I was married to him, sir.” I choked the words out—had he known I was thinking about Alex? “He died in the war.”
“A great shame,” the man said. His gaze traveled down my arm to my hands, where they held the teacup and pot, and I wondered if he was looking at my wedding ring, the narrow band of gold Alex had given me one golden day in Crete. “An officer, I presume?”
I gritted my teeth. What did Alex’s status matter now that he was dead? “Yes, sir. An officer in the RAF. His plane went down in 1918.”
“Indeed.” He took his teacup from my hand and sat back on the sofa, regarding me. My spinning brain did its job and supplied his name: Mabry. Colonel Mabry, though he did not wear a uniform. “I knew a great many RAF men. They were brave lads.”
I set the teapot down, trying not to bang it. “Yes, sir.”
“Colonel,” Dottie broke in, gesturing impatiently at me for her own teacup, “perhaps you’d like to come to the gallery and see some of the works you’ve expressed an interest in.”
Colonel Mabry turned to look at her, and for a second I thought I saw faint surprise in his eyes, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “That does sound enjoyable,” he agreed, “but there is lots of time.”
Dottie raised her thin eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
“I am staying in the area,” Mabry said. “I have put up in the small hotel in the village. I’m mixing business with pleasure on this particular trip. I spent some time working in the neighboring government installation some years ago, and I am here again at their request, assisting them with a small matter.”
“I see,” Dottie said. “How fortunate.”
“The Ministry of Fisheries?” I asked. “That is a strange assignment for an army colonel.”
The air in the room grew as brittle and cold as the ice over a puddle. I did not look at Dottie, but I felt the blast of her disapproval, and I dropped my gaze to the lap of my skirt as I lowered myself to the sofa.
“It was a personal matter,” the colonel said. His voice was low and cautious, but not angry. “Not official business, I’m afraid. It was some years before the war.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I apologize.”
“It’s quite all right. I am flattered you take a personal interest in me, Mrs. Manders.”
I looked up at him. He was not flirting with me; his expression gave nothing away. I had an inkling that I was dealing with a man whose words carried a great deal of obscure meaning. “Colonel,” I said, ignoring the poisonous look that was no doubt being sent my way from Dottie’s direction, “you say you knew many RAF men.”