“I hope you’ll dance with me.” His voice was low and firm.
Even though I could hear Mummy’s voice in my head cautioning me against dancing with a man to whom I had not been properly introduced, never mind that he had somehow wrangled an invitation to the Ugbrooke House ball and laid waste to my dance card, I said, “Yes.”
Because really, how dangerous could one dance be?
Chapter Two
Day One after the Disappearance
Saturday, December 4, 1926
Hurtmore Cottage, Godalming, England
The precision of the Jameses’ breakfast table setting inspires in him a sense of rightness and contentment that he has rarely felt since his return from the war. The gleaming cutlery lies adjacent to the Minton porcelain, each utensil lined up exactly with the next. The delicately etched plates, a Grasmere pattern he believes, are an impeccable two inches from the edge of the table, and the floral centerpiece—a restrained yet elegant seasonal spray of winterberries and greens—is placed at the center. By God, he thinks, this is the sort of order that can put a man at ease.
Why doesn’t his home bear this level of perfection? Why must he be constantly assaulted by its lack of household rigor and the emotions and needs of its inhabitants? With these thoughts, a sense of righteous indignation blooms within him, and he feels perfectly justified.
“I do believe that a toast is in order,” his host, Sam James, announces with a nod to his wife, Madge. She in turn signals to the uniformed housemaid, who reaches for a bottle of champagne that has been chilling in a crystal bucket on the sideboard.
“Archie, we had wanted to toast your plans last evening, but the unexpected visit by Reverend—” Madge starts to explain.
A soft pink hue begins to spread across Nancy’s cheeks, and though she looks lovely with her cheeks aflame, Archie understands that the Jameses’ focus on their situation is the cause of her discomfort and wants to placate her. Raising his hand, he says, “The gesture is much appreciated, my dear Madge, but not necessary.”
“Please, Archie.” Madge holds fast. “We are well pleased with your plans. And you will have little enough opportunity to celebrate.”
“We insist,” Sam echoes his wife.
To protest further would be impolite, which Nancy implicitly understands. This sense of decorum is a quality they share, and he relishes it in her. It obviates the need for the firm guiding hand toward properness that he must exercise elsewhere in his life. His home, in particular.
“Sam and Madge, thank you. Your support means the world,” he answers. Nancy nods in agreement.
The crystal flutes sparkle with the honey-colored champagne as the maid fills each of their glasses in turn. Just as she finishes pouring the final glass, a knock sounds at the dining room door.
“Pardon the interruption, sir,” a woman’s voice, thick with a country accent, calls through the closed door, “but there is a telephone call for the colonel.”
He exchanges a quizzical glance with Nancy. He hadn’t expected a call so soon, if at all, particularly since he’d kept his weekend whereabouts as quiet as possible. For the obvious reason. Nancy sets her glass down and gently touches his elbow over the crisp linen tablecloth. It is a silent acknowledgment of their shared concern about the call.
“Pardon me,” he says with a nod to their hosts, who place their flutes back down on the table. Standing, he buttons his suit jacket and nods to Nancy with a confidence he does not feel. He strides out of the dining room, quietly shutting the door behind him.
“This way, sir,” the maid says, and he follows her into a tiny room tucked under the intricately carved main staircase of Hurtmore Cottage, a misnomer for the grand home. There, the candlestick telephone, its receiver sitting on the desktop, awaits him.
Sitting down at the desk chair, he places the receiver to his ear and the mouthpiece to his lips. But he will not speak until the maid has closed the door behind her.
“Hello?” He hates the uncertainty he hears in his voice. Nancy prizes his self-assurance above all else.
“My apologies, sir. This is Charlotte Fisher.”
What in the devil is Charlotte thinking, ringing him here? He had entrusted her with the Hurtmore Cottage information with the gravest of admonitions. Even though he’d gone to great lengths in recent months to curry favor with the family secretary and governess—necessary, he believes, to effectuate the smooth transition for which he hopes—he makes no effort to coddle her now by keeping the anger from his voice. Damn the consequences. “Charlotte, I thought I instructed you not to contact me here except in the case of an extreme emergency.”
“Well, Colonel,” she stammers, “I am standing in the foyer of Styles next to Constable Roberts.”
Charlotte stops speaking. Does she really think that the mere mention of the presence of a police officer in his home should explain all? What does she want him to say? She waits for him to speak next, and in the quiet, dread fills him. He can find no words. What does she know? More importantly, what does the constable know? Every word seems a trap he’ll spring.
“Sir,” she says when he does not respond. “I do believe that this qualifies as an extreme emergency. Your wife is missing.”
Chapter Three
The Manuscript
October 12, 1912
Ugbrooke House, Devon, England
A murmur of surprise rose up from the revelers as the Irving Berlin tune became more recognizable. While the older guests seemed uncertain about the propriety of dancing to such a modern song, my partner did not hesitate to pull me onto the dance floor. He led me directly into the bold one-step, and the younger set followed in our wake.
Without the intricate dance steps of the waltz to place distance between us, our bodies felt awfully close. It almost made me wish for the old-fashioned gowns with their armor of corsets. In an effort to create some sort of barrier between myself and this very forward stranger, however artificial, I kept my gaze fixed firmly over his shoulder. His eyes, however, never moved from mine.
Normally, my dance partners and I fell into easy chatter, but not this time. What could I say to such a fellow? Finally, he broke the silence. “You are even prettier than Arthur Griffiths described you.”
I could not say which part of his remark astonished me more: the fact that I shared an acquaintance with this unusual man or that he had the audacity to call me “pretty” when we hadn’t even been formally introduced. My set had firm rules governing our behavior, and although those unspoken guidelines had relaxed in recent years, commenting on my appearance right out of the gate broke even the loosest conventions. If I were honest with myself, I found his candor refreshing, but girls like me weren’t supposed to like directness. He’d left me with two choices—either to stomp away at his effrontery or to ignore it entirely. Given that this man intrigued me despite his gaffes, I chose the latter and benignly asked, “You know Arthur Griffiths?” The local vicar’s son was a friend.