Chapter Thirty-One
It was no easy matter to keep RJ fooled.
In fact, keeping up the farce was wearing Florence almost to exhaustion.
They would always leave the house together, Florence and Astrid, on their way to do preapproved activities.
But down the street and out of view of the house, they would part ways—Astrid to the studio in Notting Hill, and Florence to any number of places: the Red Cross to help organize donations, an art class at the local university, tennis lessons at the club.
Then they’d meet up again, Astrid slipping into the appropriate attire for whatever activity she was supposed to have come from.
They’d get their stories straight so that Astrid could keep up the conversation at the dinner table—how Margaret Thompson had mislabeled the kitchenware at the Red Cross and Astrid had had to spend all afternoon redoing it, how Professor Wallace was having them paint still lifes this week, how she was working on her backhand serve.
The studio was set up as a makeshift stage, rows of chairs facing the mirror.
It was crowded by the time Florence got there; every chair was taken, so she stood in the back and craned her neck to see.
Madame Petrov introduced each act, and Mary accompanied them on the piano.
There were young girls, age twelve, doing pirouettes and older girls doing a dance from Swan Lake.
Florence looked expectantly for Astrid in her grand tutu—surely, she would be impossible to miss—but every act came and went, and she did not see her.
Then Madame Petrov was standing in the middle of the stage, thanking them for coming and wishing them all a good night.
Florence waited by the back door as the guests and dancers filtered out. Madame Petrov was one of the last to leave. Florence reached out and touched her arm to stop her.
“Madame Petrov,” Florence said, “where is Astrid? I thought she was supposed to perform tonight.”
“Perhaps she got cold feet,” Madame Petrov said, clucking her tongue. “I gave her the solo she begged for, but she never showed up.”
Florence couldn’t get home fast enough. She didn’t even take her coat off or remove her gloves at the door, she was in such a rush. Her hand was on the railing, her foot on the first step, when she heard his voice.
“Florence,” RJ said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
A cold dread filled Florence’s body, and she inadvertently shivered. She turned to see RJ standing there, just outside the parlor.
“RJ,” she said, “I didn’t realize you were home.”
There was a party in Mayfair; she’d expected him to be out all evening.
“Yes, there’s been a lot of that going around tonight,” RJ said. “Misunderstandings. Realizations.”
Florence swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“If you’re looking for my wife, she’s upstairs,” RJ said.
Florence’s hand tightened on the railing.
“I’d ask you not to disturb her at the moment, though,” RJ said. “She’s resting. It’s been a difficult night for all of us. You see, she’s had an accident.”
Florence’s heart quickened. “An accident?”
“Please, come sit with me in the parlor,” RJ said. “There’s much I’d like to say to you.”
Florence’s knees trembled. For a moment, she contemplated bolting up the stairs to Astrid’s room.
But what good would that do? RJ could easily catch her, tackle her, do Lord knew what with her if she provoked him.
It was his home. Florence knew none of the staff would come to her rescue.
They’d done nothing to restrain him or check him, even though everyone knew about the bruises that Astrid hid under her clothes.
If Florence remained calm and civil, maybe he would too.
So she turned and followed RJ into the parlor.
A fire was going in the hearth. RJ poured them both a glass of brandy.
“Is Astrid all right?” Florence asked, trying to keep her voice level.
RJ motioned toward the sofa, ignoring her question. “Please, sit,” he said.
Florence sat, and RJ handed her a glass and took the armchair next to her.
“I’ve underestimated you, Florence,” RJ said, crossing one leg over the other.
“When I first met you, I thought you to be meek and pious—a timid little church mouse. I thought you’d be a calming presence for my wife, a familiar balm in an unfamiliar place.
But you’re not a mouse, are you, Florence? You’re a snake.”
Heat flamed in Florence’s cheeks, and she looked down at the floor.
“Don’t you think I know what goes on in my own house?” RJ said.
Florence looked up at him. “Please,” she said. “We meant no harm.”
“I think it’s time for you to go back home,” RJ said, taking a sip of his drink. “Back to Cliffhaven. I’ve spoken with Scarlet. It’s all been arranged; your ticket’s booked. You leave at the end of the week.”
Florence’s heart stuttered in her chest. “Does Astrid know?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“I’ve had a conversation this evening with my wife,” RJ said. “We are—as we are in all things—in complete agreement on this matter.”
It was the next morning before Florence was allowed into Astrid’s room to see her. Astrid was still in bed, the curtains drawn, her body curled into itself, facing the windows.
“Are you awake?” Florence asked.
Astrid sniffled in response. “Yes,” she said, her voice hoarse. “But I wish I wasn’t. I wish I were dead.”
Florence sat down on the bed next to her. “What happened last night?” Florence asked. “Are you okay?”
Astrid pulled the covers back, and that’s when Florence saw it—her right foot was in a cast. Her toes peeked out, a gruesome blue-black color, blood crusted under the nails. Florence gasped.
“The doctor says I’ve fractured the sesamoid bone,” Astrid said despondently. “It’ll never heal properly, he said. I’ll never dance en pointe again.”
“How did it happen?” Florence asked, her voice quiet, lest anyone stood at the door, intent on eavesdropping on their conversation.
“I’ve always envied you,” Astrid said.
“Envied me?”
“Yes,” Astrid said. “You can go anywhere, be anything.”
“So can you,” Florence said.
“No,” Astrid said, and Florence didn’t think she’d ever heard anyone sound sadder. “I’ve exchanged one cage for another.”
“Why do you stay?” Florence asked.
“You act as if it’s some choice I’m making,” Astrid said.
She let out an exasperated laugh. “Where would I go? What would I do? I’ve nothing that truly belongs to me.
Everything I have belongs to my husband or my family.
I’ve no right to any of it without them.
And they keep me yoked to them like a . . . like a prized calf.”
“We could go to Paris,” Florence said before she knew what she was saying.
“Paris?”
“We could get an apartment there, on the Seine,” Florence said. “Our own apartment, and no one could tell us what to do.”
“That’s a pretty thought,” Astrid said.
“I’m serious,” Florence said.
“How would we get there?” Astrid asked.
“We’d take the train,” Florence said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, the train,” Astrid said teasingly. “But with what money, my pet? I have but pocket change, and you have even less than I do.”
Florence’s hand went to the necklace that she wore under her dress, the one Doris had left her. She fingered the canary yellow diamond under the fabric, the halo of pearls.
“Leave that to me,” Florence said.