All day he wore the sign of approaching death.
* * *
BEFORE DINNER he asked Hélène to come into the library. He stood with his back to the bay window, and when she came in he asked her to close the paneled doors. She drew them shut and turned back to face him. The closing of the doors made her serious. Her face was sober, and she folded her hands at her waist.
Dawson spoke in French. “I wanted you to come in because I’ve received some information that I need to ask you about.”
“Oui, monsieur.” Hélène seemed mystified.
“I’ve heard that you’ve been seeing a man,” Dawson said.
“A man?” Hélène widened her eyes as though she hardly knew the word.
“A married man.” He was irritated by the widened eyes, the repetition.
On either side of the doorway hung portraits of the children: Warrington, mournful in a long green coat; Ethel, fey, in a swooping straw hat, a pink ribbon around her waist.
“Monsieur.” Hélène shook her head.
The letter might be untrue, of course.
“Here you are in my charge,” Dawson said. “I take the place of your father. I am responsible for your safety and your honor.”
She watched him, her hands clasped.
“If you have formed an alliance with an honorable man, Madame Dawson and I will be happy to have you married from this house.”
Hélène ducked her chin.
“But if you’re seeing someone unsuitable,” Dawson continued, “someone already married, you must stop. It will destroy your reputation and cast a shadow upon this household. I cannot permit it.”
Still she said nothing.
He raised his voice slightly. “Do you understand?”
“Oui, monsieur,” she said. “I understand.”
“You must reply,” Dawson said.
Hélène shook her head. “I don’t know what you could have heard. I would never put your family under any dishonor. I respect them too much.”
He didn’t want to bully her. He couldn’t remember where, exactly, she’d come from. The agency had been in Lausanne, but she’d have had references from another family. European or English? Sarah would know, but he didn’t want to tell her yet. The letter might be untrue, he didn’t want to raise suspicion.
“You have never met with a married man?” he asked.
Hélène shook her head. “You may trust me, monsieur,” she said. “I would never give you reason to do otherwise.”
“Thank you, Hélène,” he said. “You understand that you must tell me the truth. If you are not telling the truth, I will learn of it.”
“Je vous dis la verité,” she said. I am telling you the truth.
She went upstairs, feeling exalted. She had stood up to the charge, she had not given way. She was like Joan of Arc, though she couldn’t remember exactly what Joan had done. Stood up to kings, defended her honor, was that it? Refused to yield. Hélène felt a kinship with Joan. Though she would not go so far as to be burned at the stake.
McDow would be furious.
She called the children for dinner. “Hurry up,” she said. “Your father waits for you.” She used “your father” like a title, like “the king.” They hurried down; he didn’t like to be kept waiting.
At the table he asked them about the day.
“Ethel-pet,” he said, “tell me about school.”
Ethel gave him a considering look. Her eyes were like Sarah’s. “We have a new girl called Eleanor. She has kidskin boots cut low on the sides.” She made a curve in the air to show the shape.
“And who is this elegant Eleanor?” asked Dawson. “Where does she come from, this Eleanor-of-the-low-boots?”
“Her name is Eleanor Legendre and I don’t know where she comes from. She has long thick curly black hair. She’s beautiful,” Ethel said slowly. “I love her.”
“She must come from somewhere,” Dawson said.
“But I don’t know where,” said Ethel. “She has long hair, down to here.” She set her hand against her forearm.
“Ah!” said Dawson. “She comes from the Country of Long Hair. Your mother probably knows her parents. You may even be related.”
“I’m going to have hair as long as Mamma’s.” Ethel tipped her head back, so her hair hung down farther. “Down to my ankles.”
“You might,” Dawson said.
“I will,” Ethel told him.
“You can’t choose, pet. You might have hair that long, but it’s rare,” Dawson said. “No one else in her family does.”
“Not Aunt Miriam? Aunt Lilly?” Ethel asked. “No one?”
Dawson shook his head, proud.
“Well, I will.” Ethel pointed her chin straight up and put her hand behind her back to feel how far down her hair hung. “I’ll never cut it.”
“It might be as long as your mama’s,” Dawson said. “But it might not. People’s hair make their own decisions. I couldn’t grow a mustache when I was in the war, though I wanted to.” He touched his mustache.
“You couldn’t?” asked Warrington, shocked.
“Everyone had one but me,” Dawson said. “I felt very left out. I felt it made me look young.”
“But you were young,” said Ethel. “Weren’t you?”
“I didn’t think so,” Dawson said. “I thought I was very grown-up.”
“Did anyone else think so?” Warrington asked.
“No one,” said Dawson. “But finally the mustache came, and then they knew.”
“I’m going to be an explorer,” said Warrington.
“Aha,” said Dawson. “Not a pirate?”
Warrington shook his head. “An explorer. Isaac is coming with me to help with the horses.”
Isaac, white-coated, leaned over Warrington with a dish. He held one hand behind his back. When Warrington said his name, Isaac nodded. His eyes nearly vanished when he smiled. His skin was a smooth light brown.
“Is that right, Isaac?” Dawson asked. “Are you leaving me to go off with Warrington? Are you taking Brownie?”
“That’s right, Captain.”
“And Bruno,” Warrington said.
“Bruno!” Dawson said. “My dog?”
Delighted, Warrington nodded. “You’ll just have to manage, Papa.”
Dawson laughed: this was what Sarah told them.
Ethel announced, “I got a bad grade in arithmetic.” She hoped this was a good time to say it, while her father was laughing.
“I’m sorry, pet.”
“Will Mamma be cross?”
“I hope not.”
For some reason they’d all been speaking English. Hélène looked from one to the other. Dawson thought of her in the library, her hands clasped. He wondered if she was telling the truth.
“Alors,” he said, “on a fini.”
Ethel pushed back her chair, but Warrington carefully folded his napkin and slid it into the silver ring marked with his initials. He liked ceremony.
* * *
HÉLÈNE CARRIED THE salad bowl out to the kitchen. She was in charge of the complex ritual of salad, tearing the leaves of lettuce, making the vinaigrette. And the instruments, the oiled wooden bowl, the silver-handled ebony fork and spoon.
Celia looked up when she came in, irritated at once. “Don’t set that here,” she said. “Take it to the scullery.” She was slicing potatoes, the juicy white flesh bright against her red fingers.
Hélène went into the scullery without answering. She washed the bowl, then brought it back to the kitchen.
“How did the captain like that beef?” asked Celia.
Hélène shook her head. “He did not say about the beef.” She would give Celia nothing.
Celia tightened her mouth.
Jane called from the scullery. “He ate every morsel and licked his plate.”
Hélène said, “Before dinner, le Capitaine Dawson asked to speak to me in private. In the parlor.”
Celia narrowed her eyes. “What about?”
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“He had heard some talk,” Hélène said.
“What talk?” Celia asked.
“He want to know if I am seeing a married man.”
Jane came in with a stack of wet plates. She set them down at the other end of the table.
“What did you tell him?” She sat down on a stool and began to dry the plates.
“I tell him he was wrong,” Hélène said, as though this was obvious.
“You told him he was wrong?” Jane repeated. “He was righter than the rain. We see you over there every night. With that doctor. Do you think we have no eyes in our heads?”
“The captain is wrong to ask me,” Hélène said. “What I do is my own affair. I do nothing wrong.”
“We don’t know that,” said Celia.
“I am saying it,” said Hélène.
“And how would you know what’s right and what’s wrong?” Jane said. “You’re French.”
Hélène made a sound of contempt. “You are jealous,” she said. “The doctor is my friend. I have done nothing wrong.”
“Suppose the captain knew how often you see the doctor?” asked Celia. “Suppose he knew you brought him into this house yesterday? Would he say that was right or wrong?”
“It is none of his affair,” said Hélène. “We did nothing wrong. We talk only.”
“None of his affair?” Jane’s face had gone pink, the freckles nearly invisible in the rush of color that rose from throat to hairline. “It’s his house. I think he’ll think it’s his business, you bringing that doctor inside.”
“It is also my house,” said Hélène grandly.
“It most certainly is not your house,” said Jane. “It most certainly is not.”
“It is where I live,” Hélène said.
“It’s the captain’s house,” said Jane. “You brought in a man who was plotting to murder his wife!”
“This is not true,” Hélène said, contemptuous. “This is talk. You know nothing.” She stood with her arms at her sides, her hands in fists.
Celia set down her knife. “Then why did his wife leave him?”
“They are not happy,” said Hélène, prim. “He is not happy with his wife. He has never loved her.”
“His wife left because his brother was going to murder the father and then he was going to murder his wife,” said Jane. “Everyone in Charleston knows.”
“Then everyone is wrong,” said Hélène. “No one knows what happened. She has come back. It is all talk.”
Jane folded her arms. “If you don’t stop seeing that man,” she said, “we’ll tell Mrs. Dawson you brought him into the house. Now you’ve lied to the captain. It’s a disgrace you are to the family.”
Hélène made the noise of contempt. “Madame Dawson will not believe you.”
“We’ll all tell her.” Celia set her hands on her hips. “We’ll tell her together. Isaac, too. We’ve all seen you.”
“You will not,” Hélène said. “You will not say one word. I will tell Madame to fire you. Every one.”
Isaac stood in the doorway, his face troubled. He lived here, with his family. All his children. He said nothing. He trusted none of these women.
“Madame Dawson loves me,” Hélène said. “She will believe me. I am like her daughter.” She narrowed her eyes. “If you say one word, I’ll tell her to fire all of you.” She looked at Isaac. “You, Isaac.”
Celia stood by the table, her face pink. She stared at Hélène with dislike and said something under her breath.
“What do you say?” Hélène demanded, fierce.
Celia didn’t answer. She bent again over the potatoes.
Jane stared at Hélène. Hélène turned on her heel and went out into the backyard.
It was cold, and the air made her face tingle. She felt excited, as though she were rising up in the world. The captain had no business asking her about her private life. She was an adult, in charge of her affairs. The doctor was in love with her. He was going to leave his wife. She was at the center of everything.
She had done nothing. She was honest and loyal. She thought of the Maid of Orleans, who rode a white horse and led an army.
That night, after the children were in bed, Dawson still at the office, Hélène wrapped herself in one of Madame’s shawls and went outside. He was waiting in his garden. She saw him standing in the shadows as she opened the gate. She slipped through and came up to him, smiling in the darkness.
“You’re late,” he said.
He didn’t touch her. Usually he stepped close as soon as she arrived, putting his arm around her.
“It’s the children,” said Hélène. She could see that he was angry. “What is it?”
“’What is it?’” McDow repeated, mockingly. “You know what it is.”
Hélène shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“I saw you in there.” McDow said.
Hélène thought of her conversation in the kitchen. Was he angry that she’d called him just a friend?
“In there?” She nodded at the kitchen building.
“With the captain,” McDow said.
He was close to her. She felt the heat coming from him; he was furious.
“The captain?”
“Don’t repeat what I say. What were you doing with him, in that room? I saw you.”
“What room?”
“That room.” He motioned with his head. “Right there.”
When he slid his fingers down the curve of her hip she felt a long charge run up and down her body. Now she felt his heat, but it was a different sort: rage. Her body became alert, attentive.
“You should not look through other people’s windows,” Hélène said.
“I’ll look wherever I like,” McDow said. “I saw you close the door and stand in there alone with him.”
“He is my employer,” Hélène said. “I have no choice. I must talk to him if he wishes.”
“He has no right to say anything to you,” said McDow. “I don’t want you going into a room with him. I want you to come away with me. I’m going to divorce my wife and marry you.”
“But when will you divorce your wife?” Hélène asked.
“She’s moved out,” McDow said. “The first step.”
“But why did she?” Hélène said.
“I told her I didn’t love her. I told her I loved you.”
“This is not what I hear,” said Hélène.
“I don’t care what you hear,” McDow said. He paused. “What did you hear?”
“I hear she is back.” She didn’t quite have the nerve to mention the murder plot.
“She moved out because I told her I would divorce her. I never loved her. Look at her! She’s fat. She’s a German pig. She has hair in her ears. I married her for her money.” He paused. “She came back because she wants me to change my mind, but I won’t. I’m going to divorce her in North Carolina, I told you.”
“But she is not the woman in your house,” said Hélène. “Perhaps it’s that other woman you must divorce.”
McDow laughed, pleased. “Julia’s an old friend. Don’t worry about her.”
He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. He put the back of his hand against her neck and stroked her with his knuckles. “She’s furious, you know. I’ll toss her away. That’s what you’d like, isn’t it?”
Hélène shrugged. “I don’t have a feeling about her.”
“Yes, you do have a feeling,” McDow said. He squeezed her shoulder hard. “And she has a feeling about you. She’s crazy jealous of you. Green-eyed.”
“Jealous of me! I don’t know why,” said Hélène. This thrilled her. She had no idea why Julia would have green eyes. “I don’t know her.”
“She knows you. She knows I want to marry you.”
“First,” said Hélène, “you must divorce your wife.” She unwrapped his hand from her shoulder.
McDow grabbed her again. “First you must stop going into a room alone with Dawson. What does he sa
y to you?”
“Madame Dawson is away,” Hélène said. “I am in charge. He was giving me directions for the children.”
“What kind of directions?” McDow was angry again. “Why did he shut the door? Does he touch you?”
Hélène moved restively. “Of course not. He is a man of honor. A gentleman.”
McDow stared at her in the darkness. He was pressed hard against her. She felt him ready to hurt her.
“If the captain touches you I will kill him,” he said, and then repeated it. The sentence made him feel powerful. “I will kill him.” Alcohol was on his breath.
“I must go. They will miss me.” She didn’t want to come into the house smelling of drink.
“Captain Dawson will miss you.”
“The children,” she said.
“I think he is in love with you,” said McDow.
“You are wrong,” said Hélène.
“You are lying,” said McDow.
“I am not,” said Hélène. She thought of Joan.
He pulled her close again, and whispered against her hair. “Are you lying to me?” He closed his fingers on her wrist like a handcuff.
“I must go,” Hélène said, and pulled away.
“I’m coming tomorrow morning,” McDow said, “when you get back from school. I want to come inside.”
“Good night.” She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. He was drunk. She moved away. He reached for her arm, but she pulled free, and he staggered a little.
The moonlight drifted down through the branches, making pale patches on the ground; his face was deep in shadow. The doctor’s breathing was slow and thick.
“Good night,” she said, wanting something. But he said nothing, and she went back out through the gate.
She slipped into the house. Upstairs she went through Warrington’s room (he was curled into a ball, asleep) to her own. She turned on the lamp and the room sprang into light: her bed with the embroidered coverlet, the little chair. She took off Madame’s shawl. Her heart was still pounding. She looked in the mirror: her fine eyes were flashing. The doctor had no business speaking to her like this. She folded the shawl. She did not meet him to be insulted. She was not a liar. She had nothing to hide. Both the captain and the doctor accused her of lying.
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