Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [12]
“She’s still dead,” Elsa retorted.
Bartle did not reply, but went on laying out the expensive morning gown of printed linen and muslin. It had a deep collar heavily frilled with lace and ribbons, and more lace down the front and at the sleeves. A wide, dark green ribbon tied around the waist and fell on the first tier of the skirt. The middle tier was plain green linen, the third heavily gathered muslin again. Cahoon was generous, and of course he expected his wife to look both beautiful and expensive. It was a reflection upon him. He had married Elsa because she knew how to conduct herself, to say the right things, and use the correct form of address for everyone. She was an excellent hostess. Her dinner parties never failed. She had a gift for knowing exactly who to invite with whom. And she never complained. That was part of the bargain between them.
“Bargain” was a terrible word to describe a marriage, and yet, tacitly, that is what it had been, in spite of the turbulent physical beginning. And that was past now. Emotionally she bored him, which both hurt, because it was humiliating, and was a kind of relief, because she no longer desired him either. He was intelligent, commanding to look at, and he certainly afforded her a life of luxury, travel, and conversation with most interesting people—men who invented, explored, dared, and governed all over the Empire.
Elsa knew she was envied. She had seen the quick fire of interest in other women’s eyes, the flush to the skin, heard the altered pitch in their voices. She had enjoyed it. Who does not wish to have what others so clearly want?
But at the end of even the most vigorous or luxurious day, even if briefly physically intimate, at heart she was alone. She and Cahoon did not share laughter or dreams. She did not know what hurt him or moved him to tenderness, nor did he appear to know it of her. What twisted the knife in the wound was the fact that he did not wish to.
Would life with Julius have been any different? It was a sudden, bitter thought that if he did not love Minnie, maybe then perhaps he was not capable of loving anyone.
IT WAS A long, frustrating morning alone. She did not go to the withdrawing room for the guests’ use until shortly before luncheon. The walls were lined in vivid yellow brocade exactly matching that of the sofas and the seats of the elegant, hard-backed chairs. The enormous windows, stretching almost to the height of the ornate blue-and-white ceiling, were curtained in the same shade. The mantel was also white, with tall blue lamps on either end of it, giving the whole room a delicate, sunny feeling. The carpet was pale blue and russet. The only darker tones were the surfaces of the tables in the center and against the wall, where one might rest a glass.
Elsa found only Olga Marquand there, wearing a plum gown that did not flatter her dark looks. It should have been warming to her sallow complexion, and yet somehow it failed. Nor did its severe line lend her any suggestion of softness. A gathering, a drape, an additional tier of skirt might have helped.
Olga was a little above average height and very slender. With more confidence she would have been elegant, but looking at her now, Elsa realized how little Olga had the spirit to fight. She did not brazen it out and make people believe that her square shoulders and angular grace were more interesting than the more traditional curves of someone like Minnie. She had high cheekbones and a slightly aquiline nose. Her brow was smooth and her black hair swept back from it with unusual classic severity. Her dark eyes were hooded. At their first meeting Elsa had thought Olga uniquely beautiful. Now she seemed beaky, and cold.
Olga turned as Elsa entered the room. “Have you heard anything more?” she asked quietly. Her voice was good, even rich. “Who is it who died? Why is everyone being so secretive?”
“My maid said it was one of the…the women from last night’s party,” Elsa replied, keeping her own voice low as well.
Olga raised her