Agnes smiled, remembering her own early crushes. This sounded like a young woman.
Today is six months since we met and I cannot speak to him or even write to tell him how I feel, how he has changed my life. I had hoped to find a way to send a letter, but Madame says it is too dangerous, even if we knew where to send it, and she is right, the last thing I can do is risk his life. I have decided that I will write to him here, and when we next meet I will give it to him.
Agnes leaned against the wall, unsteady. Young love. Full of promise. And agony. She turned the page and was surprised that it was in the form of a letter. A letter intended for Arsov. That was why Arsov had the diary. This was Anne-Marie’s.
Mon Amour, One day when we are old and gray and sit along the Seine enjoying baguettes like we have not eaten now in many in year …
Agnes skimmed ahead.
… I will remember this war and think not of the bad days, but only that it brought us together. Isn’t that enough? We will forget everything that happened to us, we will make our love cancel all the death, the death of our loved ones.
Thinking of Arsov, Agnes smiled. Their love had canceled all other tragedy.
You have my answer, we will marry and it cannot happen quickly enough. Come back to me and we will be united the moment you walk through the door. Then you will be mine forever. I miss you. Return to me dear heart.
She prepared to turn the page when Julien Vallotton appeared at her shoulder. She slipped the book back into her pocket. Vallotton looked out the window briefly.
“You recognized the name of Thomason’s home,” he said. “Once he calmed a little, I asked him about it. They inherited the property from his mother’s family, Harley House, home of the Smythson-Markums.”
“‘My house,’” Agnes said, remembering the words penciled in Felicity’s book beside the photograph of the tall gray house in the north of England.
“At least we know she was trying out the idea,” he said, “and it confirms that she and Thomason had a relationship. Hadn’t you wondered? You had proof of what Graves said—her name, her other life—but still wondered if Thomason was telling the truth about the two of them.”
“He’d have to be a good actor.”
“Not entirely. The relationship could have been in his mind only. Now I think there’s enough to agree that she was thinking of his house as possibly hers.”
“True. What else did Thomason say to you?”
“I barely asked about Harley House when he broke down again. I offered him a sedative and left him in his bedroom. It was cruel to ask more. I think he’s not inventing his connection to her.”
“You’re right, I believe that he had asked her to marry him, but I still need to talk to him; we need to know what he knew about her pregnancy. He’s not in the clear yet.” She turned to face Vallotton. “We’ll give Thomason a little time; until then, what about the missing items? I haven’t forgotten about the theft.”
“Maybe I’ll care next week, but today, knowing a woman died violently I can’t feel that it matters. They were simply things. I have many others.”
Through the ice-frosted window Agnes watched Carnet and Blanchard glance from the site where they found Felicity Cowell to the newly uncovered grave only a few meters away. With so many trees destroyed, the area was now visible from the chateau’s windows.
“I’m afraid I have to care today,” she said. “Maybe Felicity thought Thomason expected her to have money of her own? He certainly thought she came from money. Who knows how far the lie had gone before she realized that Thomason was interested in her romantically. Maybe she introduced herself as having a trust fund, isn’t that what you people usually have?”
Vallotton frowned as Blanchard knelt. “How old do you think the bones are, really?” he asked. “I realize they’re not new, but ten years? Fifty? A hundred? That piece of fabric, or whatever it was, makes me think they’re newer than I would like.”
“Any missing relatives in the family tree?”
“You should also ask about friends of relatives, servants, who knows where this will lead. I have a bad feeling.”
Suddenly, Agnes did as well.
Twenty-five
No one had a right to put her here. That was her first thought when she woke. Then she realized that her elephant, Elie, was not with her and she wanted to cry. She had dozens of hiding places in the chateau, most where she could see and hear what others were doing without being observed. There were cozy warm places and dusty uncomfortable places, but this was different. This place was cold and damp and scary. She hadn’t seen a face when the hands covered her mouth and nose and she had tried every trick she could think of: struggling, kicking, then pretending to go limp. That’s when the nasty person hit her. Or at least that’s what she thought had happened. Now, lying on a cold damp floor, her head hurt and she wished above all things that Elie was with her.
Twenty-six