CHAPTER 47
Lysa lay in the marble tub and enjoyed the warm water. She’d found some expensive bath salts in the cabinet, which made the experience that much more satisfying. Thank goodness Monica had made the suggestion.
The bathroom was nothing special. But the tub.
That was something else entirely. A solid piece of Carrara marble fashioned in the Roman style.
Deep. Long. Like a miniature pool with enough wonderful hot water to submerge herself in.
She was accustomed to luxury and pampering.
After all, she was a royal princess. Their country estate in England was a seventeenth-century lodge that John had converted into a comfortable residence with a dozen bedrooms and even more baths.
They loved to entertain and a constant stream of guests filtered in and out all through the year, especially during hunting season.
John loved to hunt. And she enjoyed indulging him.
The hour was approaching midnight, but she was not tired.
She’d always preferred late night to early morning.
She seemed to come alive after the sun set.
John was the opposite. But they both recognized the other’s preference and worked around it, neither of them complaining.
In fact, John never complained. Sure, they had disagreements.
What married couple didn’t? But rarely had they openly argued and never had they gone to bed angry.
She was lucky to have a man like John. He was a mature adult, not intimidated by her royal status.
Many of her friends were not as fortunate, their marriages unhappy unions with unfulfilled men.
She’d listened to their endless list of things they did not like about their husbands.
Adultery seemed rampant. She could not imagine how a husband could disrespect a wife in such a way.
Thankfully, infidelity had never been an issue with them.
She settled into the steamy, sudsy water, her breath catching in hitches.
A hint of a smile played at the corners of her lips as she bottomed out in the water.
Towels hung from nearby ivory rods, ready for her use.
A Bible verse occurred to her. For all that is in the world—the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and pride of life—is not from the Father, but is from the world.
1 John 2:16.
So true.
She heard the bedroom door open, then close. Odd. Footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor. The bathroom door hung about three-quarters of the way open.
Who was this?
John pushed the bathroom door open.
Lysa lay inside a large tub, facing away from the door, the water clouded and bubbly. She turned her head, and he caught the relief on her face. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the face still made up as if she were about to leave for the night.
“Darling,” she said. “It is so good to see you.”
He entered, approached the tub, bent down, and kissed her forehead.
He knew the rules. Nothing on the lips was ever allowed once lipstick was there, though he wondered if that rule applied when taking a bath.
This was the first time he’d ever approached her while she lay in a tub.
More of her rules. Bathing was not something for husbands to see.
The soapy water concealed her nakedness, and he could tell she was uncomfortable with the situation.
Lysa had always been extremely modest. They’d dressed separately for years in their own bathrooms and closets.
“I was told you were here,” he said.
“What happened to your head?” she asked, noticing the two welts.
“I am afraid I was a bit clumsy and lost my footing. I fell down a few stairs.”
“Were you hurt?”
He heard the concern in her voice.
“Just my pride. This is a bit unusual for you. A bath so late at night.”
“It was hard to resist this lovely tub. Is your business concluded?”
He knelt down close to her head. “Things are moving faster. By morning it will be finished.”
“That is so good to hear. Perhaps we could have a late snack or meal? Could you ask them to prepare something?”
“Absolutely. I want you to know that I could not have done any of this without you.”
“How lovely for you to say. It is the least I could do. After all, I do not get many opportunities to help with your business. Though I have no idea what exactly is going on.”
She’d flown privately from England to Stockholm four days ago on a previously scheduled visit and followed his directions to the letter, cooperating with the staged kidnapping, even allowing her precious dog to participate.
That animal went with her wherever she traveled and ate better than most humans on the planet.
She’d named her Christina, after the Swedish queen from the seventeenth century, a personal favorite of Lysa’s.
Monica had been there to make sure the dog was returned to the apartment safely.
That had been the one condition Lysa had imposed.
“I will explain it all to you over our meal,” he said to her.
He studied her in the water. There was no denying that his wife was still an attractive woman.
She’d aged beautifully. He read once that, contrary to popular belief, older people were happier and more romantically attached than their younger counterparts.
What was the saying? One is never too old to yearn.
So true. Hence the reason for his periodic affairs and his relationship with Monica.
Nothing wrong with his libido. Did happiness and romance decline with age? For him it seemed the exact opposite.
Of late, as he began to realize that his years were numbered and he was now on the downside of life, his perspective had changed.
The present became vitally important. No way he was going to allow maturity to run counter to novelty or excitement.
But the past nine years, being a pariah at the Swedish royal court, regarded secretly as suspect and untrustworthy by various intelligence agencies, had taken a toll.
As the Rolling Stones said, You can’t always get what you want but, if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.
And what did he need?
Freedom.
And to worry less. To be optimistic. Harbor positive illusions.
He thought of himself as a rich man among peasants, seeking solace.
Both he and Lysa existed within defined social networks.
True, he had many business associates, but precious few close friends.
You would think that would mean, as their outer horizons decreased, they would deepen their own private relationship. But that never happened.
Just the opposite occurred.
Yes, they were friendly and respectful toward each other.
Mainly thanks to him, as he’d learned long ago that arguing with her was counterproductive.
He’d read once that, over time, people became accustomed to their spouse’s negative traits.
They learned to live with them while minimizing any harmful impact.
Supposedly, when you realized that your time on this earth was running out, your alternatives decreasing, you were more likely to accept limitations and not pursue other more attractive options.
Not him. He was rich and in good health.
His life seemed an endless realm of possibilities.
And choices.
There were many positives about Lysa. She was an excellent companion for any party or event. Popular, well liked, respected. And she loved him. No. She worshiped him.
But the negatives. Oh, the negatives.
Her aloofness. Formalities. Lack of sexuality.
The illogical dependence on religion. And the immaturity.
That had become the most tiresome. Life was like a fairy tale to her.
Understandable since she’d been born a princess and constantly pampered.
Monica had told him that the SVR considered Lysa a valuable asset.
One of their so-called level five covert sources.
Sporadic, for sure, as the intelligence had to come to her as opposed to the other way around, and she took effort to maintain, but they were patient.
His patience, though, had run out.
Like Monica had said.
Time for this to end.
Behind Lysa he caught movement at the doorway. Monica. Who’d quietly entered the bedchamber when he had, staying outside for a few moments. Waiting. He gently ruffled the top of the water, the ripples masking Monica’s approach across the tile.
“Now, John, you know better,” Lysa said. “Let me finish my bath. You wait outside.”
He ignored her plea, kissed her on the forehead, and said, “Forgive me.”
“For what?”
Monica pressed her hands onto the top of Lysa’s head, forcing her under the water.
The tub was over half a meter deep, more than enough water to keep the head fully submerged.
Her arms flailed. One hand found Monica’s right arm and locked in a vise grip.
Water poured out over the top edges, soaking the bathroom tiles.
He stepped back, horrified at the sight but doing nothing to stop it.
Lysa’s feet came out of the water, her legs thrashing.
Monica did not allow any opportunity for a breath to be grabbed.
Lysa kept fighting. Longer than he’d anticipated.
He shut his eyes to the horror.
Then all movement stopped.
Nothing at all.
He opened his eyes.
Monica did not release her clampdown on the head.
The limp arms and legs relaxed atop the edge of the tub.
The soapy water remained agitated but continued to shield Lysa’s nakedness.
A part of him wanted to rush to her aid, yank her from the water, and revive her.
But another part wanted her gone. Monica kept the head submerged a few more moments.
Then released.
Lysa lay still in the water. Monica lifted the head clear. The eyes were closed. Mouth open.
He stared at the dead face.
Finally. He was a widower.