The Adventuress (7 page)

“Suicides are not rational, Emily,” Colin said. “Neville was most likely intoxicated when he returned from the casino. We do not know why he had sunk so low, but for whatever reason, he chose that moment to end his life. I doubt very much that a man who did not care to leave any sort of note of explanation gave much consideration to the mixer for his poison. He drank whisky because there was nothing else in Bainbridge's room.”

“Why didn't he go to his own room?” I asked.

“I haven't the slightest idea. We have no way of knowing,” Colin said. “We can only know the conclusion, and it is a tragic and unsatisfactory one.”

“We always want there to be more, don't we?” Margaret asked, passing Colin the cigar Cécile had rejected. “You are right, of course. None of us can be satisfied by what happened, and I think we must accept that if one is in a state of mind that allows for suicide, one is by definition incapable of rational action.”

“I cannot agree with this, Margaret,” Cécile said. “There are many elaborate suicides, where the victim—or should I say perpetrator?—goes to great lengths to explain his actions.”

“But not always,” Colin said. “In this case, Neville may have acted rashly and with very little planning.”

“I want to know more about what happened at the casino. What catalyzed this in him?” I asked. Colin put his hand over mine.

“My dear, sometimes we must accept that we cannot know everything. Uncovering every detail will not bring back Neville.”

“It might reveal this to be something other than suicide,” I said. “I will never believe that he would have poisoned the entire bottle. Not in Jeremy's room.”

“It was a bloody waste of life, Emily,” Colin said, standing and crossing his arms. “Accept it as that and nothing more.”

“I fear your husband is right, Kallista. There is nothing further for us to do here. Seeking more information can do little but increase the pain Monsieur Neville's friends are already feeling. They miss him keenly and feel as if they let down a man who was always there when they needed support. To ask questions now—do you not think this would only cause Bainbridge to blame himself all the more?”

“Quite right, Cécile,” Margaret said. “He is already miserable enough. He does not need his friends doing anything that would make him feel worse.”

How could I object to such a sentiment?

 

Amity

Five months earlier

When at last the day came to leave India, Amity made a careful study of her every emotion, but could not identify so much as an ounce of regret or sadness. This came as a surprise, for she adored the subcontinent with a passion she had never before felt for a place. Egypt beckoned her, not so much the pyramids or the history or the sweeping desert, but because it brought with it the possibility of meeting the Duke of Bainbridge. Jeremy. Her lips curled into a smile whenever she thought of his name, and if she admitted this response to be foolish, which it was, given that she had not yet met the gentleman, she did not care. She knew, without question, she stood on the precipice of a great change in her life, a change that, at last, would bring her happiness.

No detail of the journey troubled her: stormy seas; dirty, hot train compartments; carriages traversing rough, dusty roads. None of these mattered. They were all leading her to joy. So long, that is, as she could convince Jack to lure his brother to Cairo.

 

5

Many visitors to Cannes, coming to escape the bleak English weather, take extended drives in the countryside every afternoon, rhapsodizing over the trees heavy with lemons and oranges, the scent of rosemary in the air, and the sweeping views of the Mediterranean afforded by the winding roads that climb the hills along the coast. Mrs. Wells had arranged many such excursions for us, but after Mr. Neville's death, none of us had the heart for them. We could not, however, remain holed up in the hotel, morose and despondent forever. To do so would have been decidedly un-English. Furthermore, Jeremy and Mr. Fairchild needed to have some relief from their state of melancholy. Mr. Fairchild had become so bleak, he had not even attempted to discuss cricket with anyone in days, and while I welcomed the absence of such conversation, I knew it signaled deep pain. In an effort to cheer them up, Amity organized an expedition. We were to walk all the way along La Croisette until we reached Le Suquet, the medieval part of Cannes, where we would turn away from the sea and meander up the steep, narrow streets that led to Notre Dame de l'Espérance, a church whose construction was begun in the twelfth century, and the remaining bits of the castle once occupied by the Lérins monks.

Amity's parents, along with Cécile, stayed behind. Cécile insisted she would find no solace in the adventure, and much preferred a quiet afternoon on the terrace. “The south,” she had said, “is meant for relaxation, not for an amateur Cook's tour.” Augustus was nowhere to be found, so we set off without him, Jeremy and Amity leading the way. Jack was carrying Christabel's bulky camera for her, and she accepted the offer of his arm with a blush that betrayed her feelings for him. I wondered if before long we would be celebrating a second engagement. Margaret and Colin were arguing about the relative merits of Romanesque and Gothic architecture, so I walked with Mr. Fairchild.

Mr. Fairchild, the eldest son of a well-to-do banker, had met Jeremy and Chauncey Neville at Harrow, where he had started two years later than most of the other boys, and, hence, was something of an odd man out. Mr. Neville, sensitive to anyone who felt out of place, quietly took him under his wing, and soon he was fast friends with the entire set, as well as the best batsman at Harrow. When it was time for university, Mr. Fairchild and Jeremy went up to Oxford together, while Chauncey made his way to St. Andrew's. Their Oxford years sealed their brotherhood, and it was Mr. Fairchild who was to stand with Jeremy at his wedding.

I did not know any of Jeremy's school chums well. I had met them all at various times, when they had come home with their friend between terms, but schoolboys have little use for girls younger than themselves, and by the time I was out in society and might have proved interesting, they had long since finished university. Mr. Fairchild had taken Mr. Neville's death with a quiet acceptance, but I could tell he had been profoundly affected by the loss. While Jeremy was wont to bury his emotions with an outward show of strength and humor, Mr. Fairchild's sensitivity was not so easily hidden. I had come upon him twice in the past days, staring at the ocean from the pier across from the hotel, his eyes misty. Naturally, he bucked up as soon as he saw me, but I could tell the effort took a toll on his spirit.

We set off along La Croisette, the wind stronger next to the water than it had felt directly outside the hotel, but the bright sun warmed the air, and we could not have asked for a more beautiful day. The weather changed with astonishing frequency, from hot, to perfect, to chilly, sometimes in the space of a single hour, but that only added to the charms of Cannes. While there, one never had to accept for the long term the monotony of that singular grey that plagues the skies of England. Even when it rained, the wind would soon blow away the clouds to reveal the cerulean sky.

“Amity is quite a force of nature, isn't she?” Mr. Fairchild asked as he escorted me along the pavement. “Just the sort of girl for Bainbridge. Until I met her, I never thought he would voluntarily agree to matrimony.”

“He was quite set against it,” I said.

“Yet now he is on the verge of being happily settled. She is a capital girl. I am immensely fond of her.” He coughed. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all,” I replied. “Everyone is immensely fond of Amity. She is possessed of the sort of exuberance for life to which no one can object.”

“No gentlemen, at least. I think she is less successful among the ladies.”

“Her parents give her a wider berth than that to which we are accustomed in England,” I said. “I believe we all envy her that.”

“You are discretion itself, Lady Emily,” Mr. Fairchild said. “Do not think me unaware of her … shortcomings, shall we say? I aim to be congenial and polite in most situations, a position that does not always afford one the pleasure of candor.”

“You are not fond of her, despite your statement to the contrary?” I raised an eyebrow.

“I would not go so far as that. It is simply that—” He blew a silver stream of smoke toward the sky. “I ought not to be so uncharitable.”

“I do not like to think of myself as relishing gossip, but I suspect you and I are closer on this subject than I would have anticipated.”

“Amity acts more like a schoolmate than a fiancée,” Mr. Fairchild said, taking a deep drag on his cigarette before looping my arm through his and starting to walk again. It seemed as if the guests of every hotel in Cannes had poured out onto La Croisette, eager to take advantage of the day. We stepped aside to avoid slamming into a small boy who was skillfully rolling a hoop along the pavement while a smaller girl chased after him. “She is the only lady I have ever met who asked if I would teach her how to bowl a cricket ball. Can you imagine? Christabel nearly fainted when she heard her friend ask, and told me in no uncertain terms that she could think of nothing more tedious than my favorite game.” He smiled. “A point of view that does not trouble me in the least. Once Amity realized Bainbridge has no interest in the sport, she told me she no longer needed to learn. I half expected her to come with us to the casino that awful night, and that she would drink all of us under the table.”

“Come now, Mr. Fairchild, you cannot think her capable of such a thing!”

“It is beneath me to say it, but I implore you not to judge me. I have always felt a bit protective of Bainbridge. There is so much bluster to him, with all his talk of being useless and vapid and bent on nothing but debauchery. Beneath all that, I think he is not so corrupt as he would like us to believe.”

“I could not agree more.”

“If only you had married him!” He finished his cigarette and flicked away the butt.

“That, Mr. Fairchild, would have been a disaster.”

“Forgive me. I speak out of turn. I am a great admirer of your husband. He is a gentleman worthy of you. I suppose if I am critical of Miss Wells it is because so much in her behavior reminds me of one of the first questions Bainbridge posed in a letter he wrote to me soon after meeting her in Cairo. ‘Can such a girl exist?'”

“You think her character false?”

“I should like very much to know if she was so fond of whisky and cards and gentlemen behaving badly before she decided she wanted to be a duchess.”

“She has a fortune of her own and has no need for his.”

“But you know these Americans, Lady Emily. They long for the satisfaction of a title. They are all scrambling to increase their fortunes and their influence. That is the trouble with a meritocracy. One always feels that one must prove oneself, over and over. Once in possession of a title, however, one may sit back, breathe deeply, and enjoy it.”

“I don't see what difference it will make to her father,” I said, “and he is the one scrambling to keep the fortune multiplying.”

“The title secures their social rank, even with their fellow Americans, who are not supposed to care about such things. I have no doubt his business associates are not so immune to the luster of blue blood. After all, what they really want is to be admitted to the club. They cannot be born into it, but with a big enough fortune, they can buy their way in through marriage. Lord knows there are enough impoverished noble families in Britain to satisfy their needs.”

“So you think Miss Wells is after nothing more than a title?”

“I do.”

“I suppose it is difficult for me to understand the appeal.”

“That, Lady Emily, is because you were born with the blood. An earl's daughter will always be an earl's daughter. You take it for granted, and have been afforded the privileges of rank all your life.”

“Do you think she will make him happy?”

“For a while.” Mr. Fairchild tossed his ivory-handled walking stick into the air and caught it without breaking his stride. “Bainbridge is unlikely to remain a devoted spouse when at last the time comes that whisky and cards are less interesting to his wife than they appear to be now. That is not much different than most marriages, so I ought not be concerned. Yet there is something about her…” His voice trailed. “We must speak no more on this subject. Bainbridge is happy, and the choice of wife is his alone.”

“Did Mr. Neville approve of the match?”

“Wholeheartedly. I think he was half in love with Miss Wells himself. Not, mind you, that he would have ever acted on the emotion. Enough, though. Let us enjoy this fine day while we can. Why court trouble before its time has come? It is good to be outdoors and engaged in physical activity. Perhaps we could organize a game of croquet when we return to the hotel.”

“I should have thought you would suggest cricket,” I said.

“We would not have the correct number of players even if I could convince you ladies to play. Although, if I may be so bold, you would look quite fine in whites. Refashioned in an appropriate style, of course.”

The steep streets of Le Suquet had slowed our progress considerably, and our pace was hardly half what it had been along La Croisette. Houses lined the narrow passages, their walls painted pale shades of yellow, ranging from the creamiest vanilla to the deepest gold. Their shutters, pastel green, blue, lavender, and lilac, were closed against the heat of the day—Amity should, perhaps, have had us make an earlier start—and flowers spilled from the window boxes beneath a handful of them. This section of Cannes felt a world removed from the seaside, with its grand hotels and wide promenade. Here no one had bothered to plant palms. The gardens were filled with citrus trees and redbuds and the evergreens imported by Napoleon's soldiers at the beginning of the century. Men in striped shirts populated the outdoor tables at quiet cafés, waiters bringing them cool glasses of the rosé wine produced in nearby Provence.