Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [121]
When she came out he had hot tea waiting. He was right—Kathy’s clothes did fit, up to a point. Charlotte’s long arms protruded from the shirtsleeves, which came down just past her elbows. He took her wet clothes down to the laundry room to put in the dryer, and when he returned she was perched on the edge of the sofa sipping Earl Grey (he didn’t care for it much, but something told him that she would). He asked her why she had come.
She clutched her cup in her hands and hunched over her knees. Once again Lee was reminded of a tall, thin bird—an egret, perhaps, or a heron. Her wet hair was plastered to her head, and made her deep-set, luminous eyes appear even larger. He handed her a fresh bath towel for her hair and sat across from her on the leather hassock.
“You must excuse me, but this is very difficult,” she said, running the towel over her hair. He couldn’t help notice how it curled around her face when damp, and looked rather fetching. In spite of her maidenly ways, she was quite an attractive woman.
He cleared his throat to push the thought from his mind. “Take your time.” His words belied the sharp stab of anticipation in his stomach. He did not want to scare her off by appearing too eager.
Her gray eyes roamed the room as if searching for an escape. “I’m afraid my brother has been less than honest with you.”
“Oh?” His attempt to sound disinterested failed, so he tried leaning back in his chair to conceal his impatience. But she wasn’t paying much attention to him; she was too caught up in her own struggle.
“Yes. I—well, this is so hard. Forgive me. I am quite beside myself today.”
“Of course,” he said. “Can I get you some more tea?”
“Yes, that would be nice,” she replied, hastily gulping down the rest in her cup.
He took her mug to the kitchen to refill it, and when he returned she was standing at the window, gazing out. As he entered the room she turned abruptly and blurted out the words as though she were afraid they might choke her.
“My brother and I are living as husband and wife.”
The force of her confession made him take a step backward. Some tea sloshed out of the mug onto the floor, but neither of them made a move to wipe it up.
He tried to formulate a response to her words, but everything that came to him seemed grossly inappropriate or inadequate.
She rescued him by continuing. “No doubt you think we are very wicked.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t. But—”
“We are very wicked,” she said. “Or at least that’s what I think. But my brother … “ She waved her hand as if dismissing the very idea of him. “To my brother it is all very natural, you see—even foreordained.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, still holding her tea in his outstretched hand. Something about her stopped him from crossing the remaining stretch of floor between them. He put the tea on the sideboard.
She paced in front of the window. For some reason the thought went through his head that she was a moving target, in case anyone outside tried to take a shot at her. He slipped behind her and closed the curtains.
“You have no doubt noticed that our attire is somewhat—antiquated.”
“It did occur to me.”
“There is a reason for that. It is not whim or fancy, or eccentricity, as you may have thought. It is because my brother believes that we are the reincarnation of a husband and wife who lived over a hundred years ago,” she said, wringing her hands. “And since our souls are essentially theirs, it is not only right but necessary that we live as husband and wife.”
“Who are they?”
She waved her hand again. “That is not important right now.”
“I see. How long has he had this … notion?”
“For the past fifteen years. Ever since he received the Gift.” “What gift?”
“The Gift of Second Sight—the ability to see through the mists of time.”
“I see. And what do you think about all this?”
“I don’t know what to think. I have always believed my brother to be the wisest and most honorable of men, but now …”
“Has