VIII

von Wilkie Collins

June 19th. I had just reached the top of the stairs when I heard Laura’s door click shut, which reminded me to lock my own door too. I decided to keep the key with me while I was out of the room. My journal was already tucked away with some other papers in the drawer of the table, but my writing supplies were still out. Among them was a seal with the familiar image of two doves drinking from the same cup, along with some sheets of blotting paper that bore the faint impression of my writing from the night before.

With the growing suspicion that had taken root in me, even these small items felt too risky to leave unguarded. I even questioned whether the locked drawer was secure enough in my absence, so I made sure everything was properly locked away.

When I returned to my room, there was no sign that anyone had entered while I was with Laura. My writing materials, which I had specifically instructed the servant not to touch, were scattered across the table just as I had left them. The only thing that caught my attention was that the seal was neatly placed in the tray with the pencils and wax. It wasn’t like me to put it there, and I couldn’t remember doing so. But since I couldn’t recall where I had left it either, I decided not to dwell on it. I locked the door, pocketed the key, and headed downstairs.

Madame Fosco was alone in the hall, studying the weather-glass.

“It’s still falling,” she said. “I’m afraid we can expect more rain.”

Her face had returned to its usual calm expression and color, but her hand trembled slightly as she pointed to the dial.

Could she have already told her husband that she overheard Laura calling him a “spy” in my presence? The strong suspicion that she had, along with an overwhelming dread of the potential consequences, flooded my mind. I was convinced, based on the little signs women often notice in each other, that Madame Fosco, despite her polite demeanor, hadn’t forgiven Laura for standing in the way of her inheritance of ten thousand pounds. All these thoughts pushed me to speak, hoping to use my influence to mend the rift caused by Laura’s words.

“May I ask for your kindness, Madame Fosco, to excuse me if I bring up a very painful subject?”

She crossed her hands in front of her and bowed her head solemnly, keeping her gaze fixed on mine.

“When you kindly returned my handkerchief,” I continued, “I fear you may have accidentally overheard Laura say something I’m reluctant to repeat and won’t attempt to defend. I can only hope you didn’t think it was important enough to mention to the Count?”

“I consider it of no importance whatsoever,” Madame Fosco replied sharply. “However,” she added, quickly regaining her icy composure, “I have no secrets from my husband, even about trifles. When he noticed that I looked distressed just now, it was my duty to tell him why, and I must admit to you, Miss Halcombe, that I HAVE told him.”

I braced myself for her words, yet they sent a chill through me.

“Please, Madame Fosco—please ask the Count to consider the difficult position my sister is in. She spoke in the heat of the moment, hurt by the insult and injustice from her husband. She wasn’t herself when she said those things. Can we hope for some understanding and forgiveness?”

“Most certainly,” came the Count’s calm voice from behind me. He had approached silently, a book in hand, having come from the library.

“When Lady Glyde spoke those hasty words,” he continued, “she did me an injustice that I regret—and forgive. Let’s not dwell on this matter, Miss Halcombe; let’s all agree to forget it from this moment on.”

“You are very kind,” I replied, feeling an immense weight lift off my shoulders.

I tried to continue speaking, but his gaze was fixed on me, his deadly smile—one that concealed everything—set hard and unwavering on his broad, smooth face. My distrust of his unfathomable deceit and my own discomfort at having to appease both him and his wife left me so unsettled that the words caught in my throat, and I stood there in silence.

“I’m begging you, Miss Halcombe, please stop talking,” he said, his voice polite but strained. “I’m genuinely shocked that you felt the need to say so much.”

With that, he took my hand—oh, how I loathed myself for allowing it! Even knowing I did it for Laura’s sake brought me no comfort. He pressed his lips to my hand, and in that moment, I felt a wave of horror wash over me. That innocent gesture felt like the most vile insult a man could offer. Yet, I masked my disgust, forcing a smile. I, who had once scorned deceit in other women, was now as false as the worst of them, as false as the Judas who had dared to touch my hand.

I don’t know how I managed to keep my composure—it’s the one thing that redeems me in my own eyes to know that I couldn’t have done it if he had continued to look at me. His wife’s fierce jealousy came to my rescue, drawing his attention away the moment he took my hand. Her cold blue eyes sparked with life, and her pale cheeks flushed with color, making her look years younger in an instant.

“Count!” she exclaimed. “Your foreign manners aren’t understood by Englishwomen.”

“Forgive me, my angel! The best and dearest Englishwoman in the world understands them.” With that, he dropped my hand and raised his wife’s hand to his lips instead.

I hurried back up the stairs to the safety of my room. If I had had time to think, my thoughts would have caused me immense pain. But there was no time for reflection. Thankfully, all I had time for was action, which helped me maintain my calm and courage.

I needed to write letters to the lawyer and to Mr. Fairlie, so I sat down immediately, without hesitation, to focus on them.

I had no multitude of options to confuse me—there was no one to rely on but myself. Sir Percival had no friends or relatives nearby whose help I could seek. He was on the coldest terms—with some, even the worst terms—with the families of his own rank living close by. We two women had no father or brother to come to our aid. The only choice was to write those two uncertain letters or to put Laura and myself in a position where any chance of peaceful negotiation would be lost if we secretly fled Blackwater Park. Only the most immediate personal danger could justify taking that second route. The letters had to be sent first, so I wrote them.

I didn’t mention Anne Catherick to the lawyer because, as I had already hinted to Laura, that topic was tied to a mystery we couldn’t yet explain. It would be pointless to bring it up with a professional. I let him assume Sir Percival’s disgraceful behavior stemmed from fresh disputes over money and simply asked about the possibility of legal action for Laura’s protection if her husband refused to let her leave Blackwater Park and return with me to Limmeridge. I referred him to Mr. Fairlie for the details of that arrangement, assured him I was writing with Laura’s authority, and urged him to act on her behalf as quickly as possible.

Next, I turned to the letter for Mr. Fairlie. I appealed to him in the way I thought would motivate him best; I enclosed a copy of my letter to the lawyer to emphasize the seriousness of the situation, and I framed our move to Limmeridge as the only compromise that could prevent the danger and distress of Laura’s current position from affecting her uncle as well.

Once I finished writing, sealed the envelopes, and addressed them, I returned to Laura’s room to show her that the letters were ready.

“Has anyone disturbed you?” I asked when she opened the door.

“No one has knocked,” she replied. “But I heard someone in the outer room.”

“Was it a man or a woman?”

“A woman. I heard the rustling of her gown.”

“Was it a rustling like silk?”

“Yes, like silk.”

Madame Fosco had clearly been lurking outside. The trouble she could cause on her own was minimal, but the damage she could inflict as an ally of her husband was far too dangerous to ignore.

“What happened to the rustling when you no longer heard it in the ante-room?” I asked. “Did you hear it pass by your wall, down the hallway?”

“Yes. I stayed still and listened, and I just caught it.”

“Which way did it go?”

“Towards your room.”

I paused to think again. The sound hadn’t registered with me. I was completely absorbed in my letters, writing with a heavy hand and a quill pen, the scratching noise echoing across the paper. It was far more likely that Madame Fosco would hear the scraping of my pen than for me to catch the rustling of her dress. That was another reason—if I needed one—for not trusting my letters to the post-bag in the hall.

Laura noticed my contemplation. “More difficulties!” she said wearily. “More difficulties and more dangers!”

“No dangers,” I replied. “Just a little difficulty, perhaps. I’m trying to figure out the safest way to get my two letters into Fanny’s hands.”

“You’ve really written them, then? Oh, Marian, please don’t take any risks—please, please don’t take any risks!”

“No, no—there’s no need to worry. Let me see—what time is it now?”

It was a quarter to six. I had enough time to get to the village inn and return before dinner. If I waited until the evening, I might miss my chance to leave the house safely.

“Keep the key turned in the lock, Laura,” I said. “And don’t worry about me. If you hear any inquiries, just call through the door and say I’ve gone out for a walk.”

“When will you be back?”

“Before dinner, for sure. Be brave, my love. By this time tomorrow, you’ll have a clear-headed, trustworthy man looking out for your best interests. Mr. Gilmore’s partner is our next best ally after Mr. Gilmore himself.”

Once I was alone, I realized it would be better not to put on my walking clothes until I figured out what was happening downstairs. I still hadn’t determined whether Sir Percival was in the house or not.

The sound of canaries singing in the library and the faint smell of tobacco smoke wafting through the slightly open door told me where the Count was. I glanced over my shoulder as I passed the doorway and was surprised to see him charmingly demonstrating the birds’ docility to the housekeeper. He must have invited her to see them; she would never have ventured into the library on her own. Every little action of his seemed to have a purpose behind it. What could he be up to now?

There wasn’t time to ponder his motives. I looked for Madame Fosco next and found her walking in circles around the fish pond.

I felt a bit uncertain about how she would react to me after the jealousy I had stirred up not long ago. But her husband had tamed her in the meantime, and she greeted me with her usual politeness. I only wanted to find out where Sir Percival was. I managed to bring him up indirectly, and after some back-and-forth, she finally mentioned that he had gone out.

“Which horse did he take?” I asked casually.

“None of them,” she replied. “He left on foot two hours ago. As I understood it, he was going to make fresh inquiries about a woman named Anne Catherick. He seems unreasonably anxious to track her down. Do you know if she’s dangerously insane, Miss Halcombe?”

“I don’t know, Countess.”

“Are you going inside?”

“Yes, I think so. It must be almost time to get ready for dinner.”

We entered the house together. Madame Fosco strolled into the library and closed the door behind her. I hurried to grab my hat and shawl. Every moment was crucial if I was to reach Fanny at the inn and return before dinner.

When I crossed the hall again, it was empty, and the birds in the library had fallen silent. I couldn’t afford to investigate further. I just needed to ensure the way was clear and then leave the house with the two letters safely tucked in my pocket.

As I made my way to the village, I prepared for the possibility of encountering Sir Percival. As long as I faced him alone, I felt confident I wouldn’t lose my composure. Any woman who trusts her own wits can hold her ground against a man unsure of his temper. I didn’t fear Sir Percival as much as I did the Count. The news of his errand actually calmed me. As long as he was preoccupied with finding Anne Catherick, Laura and I might have a reprieve from his active harassment. For both our sakes and Anne’s, I hoped and prayed she would remain safe from him.

I walked briskly, despite the heat, until I reached the crossroad leading to the village, glancing back occasionally to ensure I wasn’t being followed.

The only thing behind me was an empty wagon rumbling along the road. The sound of its creaking wheels was irritating, so when I realized it was headed toward the village like I was, I paused to let it pass and fade into the distance. As I glanced back, I thought I saw the shadow of a man walking closely behind it, the driver in front with his horses. The stretch of the crossroad I had just crossed was so narrow that the wagon brushed against the trees and bushes on either side. I had to wait for it to pass before I could confirm my suspicion. But once it rolled by, the road behind me was completely clear.

I arrived at the inn without encountering Sir Percival or noticing anything unusual, relieved to see that the landlady had welcomed Fanny with warmth. The girl had a small parlor to sit in, away from the noise of the taproom, and a clean bedroom at the top of the house. She burst into tears when she saw me, lamenting that it felt terrible to be cast out into the world as if she had done something unforgivable, especially when no one, not even her master who had sent her away, could blame her.

“Try to make the best of it, Fanny,” I said gently. “Your mistress and I will support you, and we’ll ensure your reputation stays intact. Now, listen carefully. I don’t have much time, and I’m putting a lot of trust in you. I need you to take care of these two letters. The one with the stamp goes in the post when you get to London tomorrow. The other, addressed to Mr. Fairlie, you must deliver to him yourself as soon as you get home. Keep both letters close and don’t give them to anyone. They’re crucial for your mistress’s sake.”

Fanny tucked the letters into her dress. “They’ll stay there, miss,” she promised, “until I’ve done what you asked.”

“Make sure you’re at the station early tomorrow morning,” I continued. “And when you see the housekeeper at Limmeridge, send her my regards and let her know you’re in my service until Lady Glyde can take you back. We might see each other again sooner than you think. So keep your spirits up, and don’t miss the seven o’clock train.”

“Thank you, miss—thank you so much. It gives me strength to hear your voice again. Please send my regards to my lady and tell her I did my best to tidy everything up in the time I had. Oh, who will dress her for dinner today? It breaks my heart to think about it.”

When I returned to the house, I had only fifteen minutes to get ready for dinner and to speak to Laura before heading downstairs.

“The letters are with Fanny,” I whispered to her at the door. “Are you joining us for dinner?”

“Oh, no, not for anything.”

“Has something happened? Did someone disturb you?”

“Yes—just now—Sir Percival…”

“Did he come in?”

“No, he scared me with a loud knock on the door. I asked, ‘Who’s there?’ He replied, ‘You know.’ Then he said, ‘Will you change your mind and tell me the rest? You will! Sooner or later, I’ll get it out of you. You know where Anne Catherick is right now.’ I insisted, ‘I truly don’t.’ He shouted back, ‘You do! I’ll break your stubbornness—remember that!—I’ll get it out of you!’ He left with those words—just five minutes ago, Marian.”

He hadn’t found Anne! We were safe for the night—he hadn’t discovered her yet.

“You’re going downstairs, Marian? Come back up in the evening.”

“Yes, yes. Don’t worry if I’m a bit late—I have to be careful not to offend by leaving too soon.”

The dinner bell rang, and I hurried away.

Sir Percival escorted Madame Fosco into the dining room, and the Count offered me his arm. He looked flushed and was dressed less meticulously than usual. Had he been out before dinner and returned late? Or was he just feeling the heat more than usual?

Despite everything, it was clear that he was grappling with some hidden worry or irritation that he couldn’t quite mask, no matter how skilled he was at deception. Throughout dinner, he was nearly as quiet as Sir Percival himself, and occasionally cast furtive glances at his wife that revealed a new layer of unease I hadn’t seen before. The only social duty he seemed able to perform with his usual grace was to remain consistently polite and attentive to me. I still couldn’t figure out what his true intentions were, but whatever his plan might be, he had been using unwavering courtesy towards me, constant humility towards Laura, and a determined effort to suppress Sir Percival’s clumsy aggression since he arrived at the house. I had sensed something was off when he first intervened on our behalf the day the deed was revealed in the library, and now I was certain of it.

When Madame Fosco and I stood to leave the table, the Count rose as well to escort us back to the drawing room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sir Percival asked, directing his question at the Count. “I mean YOU, Fosco.”

“I’m leaving because I’ve had enough dinner and enough wine,” the Count replied. “Please, Percival, try to understand my foreign habit of going out with the ladies as well as coming in with them.”

“Nonsense! Another glass of claret won’t hurt you. Sit down like an Englishman. I want to have a quiet talk with you over our wine.”

“A quiet talk, Percival, I’m all for it, but not now, and not over the wine. Later in the evening, if you don’t mind—later in the evening.”

“Civil!” Sir Percival snapped, his irritation evident. “Civil behavior, I swear, to a man in his own house!”

I had noticed more than once how Sir Percival looked at the Count with unease during dinner, while the Count deliberately avoided returning his gaze. This, combined with Sir Percival’s desire for a quiet conversation and the Count’s stubborn refusal to sit back down, reminded me of the earlier request Sir Percival had made for a private talk in the library, which the Count had postponed. Whatever they needed to discuss, it clearly mattered a great deal to Sir Percival, and judging by the Count’s reluctance to engage, it might be a risky topic for him.

These thoughts occupied my mind as we moved from the dining room to the drawing room. Sir Percival’s angry remarks about his friend’s departure had no effect on the Count, who stubbornly followed us to the tea table. He lingered for a moment before stepping out into the hall, only to return with the post bag in hand. It was eight o’clock—the usual time for letters to be sent from Blackwater Park.

“Do you have any letters for the post, Miss Halcombe?” he asked, approaching me with the bag.

I noticed Madame Fosco, who was preparing the tea, pause with the sugar tongs in hand, waiting for my response.

“No, Count, thank you. No letters today.”

He handed the bag to the servant in the room, then sat down at the piano and played the lively Neapolitan street song, “La mia Carolina,” twice. His wife, usually so deliberate in her movements, made the tea as quickly as I could have done, finished her own cup in two minutes, and quietly slipped out of the room.

I stood up to follow her, partly because I suspected she might be plotting something with Laura upstairs, and partly because I was determined not to be alone in the same room with her husband.

Before I could reach the door, the Count stopped me with a request for a cup of tea. I handed him the cup and tried again to leave. He halted me once more, this time returning to the piano and suddenly asking me a musical question, claiming that the honor of his country was at stake.

I tried to explain that I knew nothing about music and had no taste for it. But he wouldn’t hear of it. With an intensity that left no room for further argument, he pressed on.

“The English and Germans,” he declared, “are always criticizing the Italians for not embracing the finer aspects of music. We boast about our Oratorios, while they rave about their Symphonies. Have we forgotten, or have they forgotten, about his legendary friend and fellow countryman, Rossini? What was *Moses in Egypt* if not a magnificent oratorio, performed on stage instead of just sung in a concert hall? And what about the overture to *Guillaume Tell*? Isn’t that just a symphony by another name? Have you heard *Moses in Egypt*? Listen to this, and this, and this, and tell me if anything more sacred and grand has ever been composed by anyone!”

Without waiting for my response, he locked eyes with me and began pounding on the piano, singing with a booming enthusiasm. He interrupted himself every so often to announce the titles of the pieces: “Chorus of Egyptians in the Plague of Darkness, Miss Halcombe!”—“Recitativo of Moses with the Tables of the Law.”—“Prayer of the Israelites at the Passage of the Red Sea. Aha! Aha! Is that sacred? Is that sublime?” The piano shook under his forceful touch, and the teacups on the table rattled as his deep voice filled the room, his foot keeping time on the floor.

There was something unsettling—almost feral—in the way he reveled in his own performance, watching me shrink closer to the door. Finally, I was saved, not by my own efforts, but by Sir Percival, who burst into the dining room, demanding to know what “that infernal noise” was all about. The Count immediately stopped playing. “Ah! If Percival is coming,” he said, “then harmony and melody are both finished. The Muse of Music, Miss Halcombe, abandons us in despair, and I, the old minstrel, will exhale the rest of my enthusiasm in the fresh air!” He strode out to the verandah, hands in his pockets, and began to hum the “Recitativo of Moses” softly in the garden.

I heard Sir Percival call after him from the dining room window, but the Count ignored him, clearly determined not to listen. Their long-overdue conversation would have to wait for the Count’s convenience.

He had kept me in the drawing room for nearly half an hour since his wife left us. Where had she gone, and what had she been doing all that time?

I went upstairs to find out, but discovered nothing. When I asked Laura, she said she hadn’t heard anything. No one had disturbed her; not even the faint rustle of a silk dress had reached her ears in the ante-room or the hallway.

It was now twenty minutes to nine. After grabbing my journal from my room, I returned to sit with Laura, writing occasionally and stopping to chat. No one came near us, and nothing happened. We stayed together until ten o’clock. I finally stood up, offered her my last encouraging words, and wished her goodnight. She locked her door after we agreed that I would come in to see her first thing in the morning.

I had a few more sentences to jot down in my diary before heading to bed. As I made my way back to the drawing room after leaving Laura for the night, I planned just to show my face, make my excuses, and then retire early.

Sir Percival, the Count, and his wife were sitting together. Sir Percival lounged in an easy chair, yawning; the Count was reading, and Madame Fosco was fanning herself. Oddly enough, her face was flushed. She, who never seemed to be affected by heat, was clearly feeling it tonight.

“I’m afraid, Countess, that you’re not quite yourself this evening?” I said.

“That’s exactly what I was about to say to you,” she replied. “You look pale, my dear.”

*My dear!* It was the first time she had ever addressed me so casually. There was an arrogant smile on her face when she said it.

“I’m suffering from one of my bad headaches,” I replied coolly.

“Ah, I see. A lack of exercise, I suppose? A walk before dinner would have done you good.” She emphasized the word “walk” strangely. Had she seen me leave? It didn’t matter; the letters were safe in Fanny’s hands.

“Come have a smoke, Fosco,” Sir Percival said, rising with an uneasy glance at his friend.

“With pleasure, Percival, but only after the ladies have gone to bed,” the Count replied.

“Excuse me, Countess, if I lead the way to my room,” I said. “The only cure for a headache like mine is sleep.”

I said my goodbyes. The same arrogant smile lingered on the woman’s face as I shook her hand. Sir Percival barely acknowledged me; his gaze was fixed impatiently on Madame Fosco, who didn’t seem in any hurry to leave the room with me. The Count sat behind his book, a small smile playing on his lips. Once again, my chance for a quiet conversation with Sir Percival was slipping away—and this time, it was the Countess who was in the way.