Vivienne slept most of the way to Boston. She’d had to be on location at six that morning for a bathing-suit feature, and although it was only two in the afternoon now, she felt drained and exhausted.

Well, Charles was feeling even worse, she thought.

“Maybe,” a recovering Angela had told her from her hospital bed. “And maybe not.”

“Oh, Angie, he sounded so pathetic and lonely,” Vivienne had protested, tossing things in an overnight bag while gripping the cellular phone between ear and shoulder. “Summer colds can make you feel so rotten.”

“I take it Charles does not suffer flus gladly.”

“That was awful!” Vivienne moaned. “You must be getting better! But actually you’re right, he’s miserable when he’s sick. And this is the least I can do, after the way he took care of me on the boat.”

“Ah, the dreaded Elizabeth!”

“‘Dreaded’ is right!”

Now the dark blue Lincoln slowed, and Vivienne, her sleeping mind registering the change, came slowly awake. The tires crunched over the decorative loose white gravel of the circular driveway as the car pulled up in front of the rambling old colonial home Charles had shared with his mother until her death.

Still slightly muzzy, Vivienne signed the driver’s receipt and stepped out of the car onto the driveway, promptly turning her ankle on the loose stones. What ever happened to good old asphalt paving? she wondered.

The driver placed her overnight bag on the porch and drove off as Vivienne looked around her. She’d seen photos of the mini-estate but had never visited it. The house was a perfect example of its type, right down to the antique wicker porch furniture set at careful angles on the wide veranda. The grounds had that ultra-manicured look that implied money and time and only the gardener’s footsteps. It all felt rather like a movie set.

Alerted to her arrival by the sound of the car, Silverton opened the door within seconds of her ring and welcomed her inside. Silverton was the epitome of Elizabeth’s idea of an English butler: slim, tall, and pale, well past middle age, with slightly bulging watery blue eyes and an air of quiet desperation. She’d imported him from London many years before and installed him in the small apartment over the four-car garage. In Elizabeth’s mind, butlers had no personal lives, and so Silverton was kept in virtual isolation, a remunerative but lonely existence. He’d been pathetically grateful when Charles had decided to keep him on after Elizabeth’s death, and during the intervening year had managed to acquire a dog, a mistress, and a sports jacket.

“Happy to meet you, Miss Vivienne,” Silverton told her with a smile. “Mr. Charles is napping, but I expect he’ll wake soon. Meanwhile, perhaps you’d care for a tour of the house or a drink? I’ve just made some lemonade.”

“Lemonade?” said Vivienne, amused.

“Mrs. Spencer-Moore always said there was nothing better for a cold than hot lemonade. You, of course, may prefer it iced.”

Vivienne’s smile faded at the reference to Elizabeth. Now don’t start that again, she told herself firmly. “Iced lemonade would be wonderful,” she said aloud. “And I’d love a tour.”

Setting her carryall to one side, Silverton led her along the large paneled entrance hall to the magnificent drawing room with its Adams mantel. Above it, an impressive portrait of Elizabeth dominated the room. Beyond was a formal dining room done in dusty blue. Across the hall were a morning room in shades of dove gray and ivory, and a cozy masculine study filled with open file boxes. The hall ended at the door to the large contemporary kitchen, warm with stripped pine and butcher block. A pitcher of lemonade and glasses stood ready on a bright red tray.

“Shall I bring it to the drawing room?” asked Silverton, lifting the tray.

“I’d just as soon stay here,” said Vivienne, thinking of Elizabeth gazing chillingly down from her frame. “Would that be all right?”

“Of course.” Silverton poured her a glassful of lemonade as she seated herself in the country-pine chair. “If you need me, I’ll be in there.” He indicated a small door leading to a butler’s pantry lined with cabinets.

“Why don’t you join me?” Vivienne said. “I’d like to hear about Charles. Did the doctor say anything to you about his condition?”

Silverton looked surprised but pleased. “I, er, don’t know whether, uh . . .” His eyes flickered upward in the direction of Charles’s bedroom.

“Charles is sleeping,” Vivienne said with a smile. “And I’ll never tell. Please sit down. How is he?”

Silverton seated himself across from her. “May I?” he asked, indicating the pitcher. When Vivienne nodded and smiled, he filled a second glass and took a delicate sip. “Mr. Charles has got the flu,” he told her. “But then, you know that.”

“Is he very uncomfortable?”

“Well, a summer cold can be very uncomfortable, of course,” said Silverton. “But it is, after all, only a summer cold.”

“In other words, he’s being a pain in the . . . er, difficult.”

Silverton smiled. “I’ve known Mr. Charles for a very long time,” he said. “And he has many wonderful qualities, as you know. But . . .”

“But not when he’s sick.”

“Oh, I expect you’ll brighten him up a bit. He’s been looking forward to your visit.”

From somewhere nearby came a loud buzzing noise. Silverton rose. “He’s awake.” He opened a panel set flush into the wall and flicked one of a number of switches; the buzzing stopped.

“That would drive me crazy,” Vivienne said.

“You get used to it.” Silverton shrugged. “Shall we go up?”

They mounted the magnificent central staircase with its gracefully curving banister. At the top, a wide landing gave onto a long hallway which ran from one end of the house to the other. Doors - bedrooms and bathrooms - opened onto the hallway. There seemed to be a lot of them.

“I’ve put you in the Ivory Room,” Silverton told her, indicating a partially open door through which Vivienne glimpsed the edge of a white marble fireplace, and a pale silk-lined wall flooded with sunlight. “I’ll bring your things up straightaway. Mr. Charles is down here.”

He led her along the opposite corridor and knocked at a nearly closed door. “You’ve got a visitor, Mr. Charles,” he announced.

From behind the door came a prolonged rustling sound followed by a brief silence. “Come in,” a voice croaked weakly.

Silverton winked at Vivienne and swung the door wide. Charles lay in state in a huge four-poster bed, propped against a sea of pillows. Red damask draperies had been pulled across the high windows, leaving the room in semidarkness. As Vivienne approached him across the intricate Chinese silk carpet, she smiled as she spotted the newspaper he’d hurriedly discarded upon her arrival. No doubt the bulb in the now-dark bedside lamp was still hot.

The discreet Silverton disappeared as Vivienne hugged Charles, then leaned back to study him.

“Poor baby,” she said. “You look awful.”

“I feel awful,” he told her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Again she hugged him, but he pushed her away a little. “Don’t catch this thing,” he warned. “It’s deadly!”

“I don’t care,” she said.

“Well, in that case . . .” He grabbed her and wrestled her onto the bed on top of him, kissing her face, her neck, her breasts.

“Damn blankets!” she exclaimed, kissing him back and laughing.

“Damn clothes!” he retorted, slipping his hands under her blouse.

“But surely you’re too sick to make love,” Vivienne teased him.

“On the contrary,” replied Charles. “They say it’s the only thing that’ll save me!”

Later Vivienne brought Charles downstairs for tea. They gave Silverton the evening off, and Vivienne hunted up a canister of Darjeeling and a box of ginger wafers. To Charles’s surprise, she set out the cups and saucers on the kitchen table.

“Are you sure you want it in here?” he asked, “I could carry everything into the drawing room.”

“Oh, let’s stay in the kitchen,” said Vivienne. “It’s . . . homier.”

“It is cozy,” Charles agreed, looking around him. He couldn’t remember ever having had a meal in the kitchen. It was kind of nice, he thought.

“Did Silverton give you the tour?”

“Yes, he did. Oh, Charles, it’s such a wonderful house! Everything in it is so beautiful.”

Charles looked pleased. “Actually, it’s been kind of a mess ever since Elizabeth died,” he said. Vivienne winced; she’d never get used to Charles referring to his mother by her first name. It sounded so . . . so removed. Precisely what Elizabeth had intended, she decided.

“It’s taken me so long to sort through her things,” Charles continued as Vivienne poured the tea. “Her bedroom and sitting room are still full of stuff. And there are cartons of papers in my study. I was just starting to go through them when this flu thing hit me.”

They chatted companionably for a while, but Charles soon grew weary, and she helped him back upstairs and tucked him in. She sat beside him as he dozed, reading the newspaper he’d discarded. She must have dozed off too, because they were both suddenly awakened by the shrilling of a phone on the small antique table that served as a nightstand.

Vivienne reached for it and listened for a moment, then turned to Charles, who was making impatient noises. “It’s your office,” she told him. “They need some papers or something.”

Charles sighed and took the phone from her. “Yes, hello,” he said impatiently. “What is it?” His voice was thick with sleep and sickness.

“I’ll get you some water,” Vivienne mouthed silently and went in search of his bathroom. When she returned, tooth glass in hand, Charles had finished his conversation and was again collapsed against the pillows. He looked tired and pale.

Vivienne extended the water, but he waved her away. “Damn,” he said. “Sorry, not you. I had a bunch of files sent over when I got sick. Now they need some information in one of them.”

“Where is it?” Vivienne asked, looking around the room. “Can I get it for you?”

“It’s not here, it’s downstairs. In the study.”

“Okay.”

“Ingersoll Bank. Merging it with Continental. Major coup, if we can pull it off. Working on it for months. Everything came over in a file box. Look under I.”

Vivienne put the glass of water on the nightstand. “Ingersoll Bank,” she repeated. “I’ll be right back.”

She descended the stairs and entered the hall. Which way to the study? Oh, yes, back here. She passed the morning room and had her hand on the knob of the study door when Charles’s voice rang out from above.

“Stop!” he shouted down to her.

Startled, she hesitated, then went back to the foot of the stairs. Charles loomed above her, grasping the banister rail. “Are you all right?” she asked, concerned. He looked so strange.

“Don’t go into the study!” he said forcefully.

“But the file . . .”

Slowly Charles came down the stairs, his eyes feverish. “I’ll find it,” he told her. “Go wait upstairs.”

“You’re not well,” she protested. “Let me . . .”

“No. Upstairs. Wait.” He brushed past her, then turned back when he reached the study. “Upstairs,” he repeated, then added softly, “Please.”

Somewhat shaken, Vivienne climbed the stairs again. Why should Charles want to keep her out of the study? Silverton had shown her the room when she’d arrived; it had looked perfectly harmless. A desk. Cabinets. File boxes. Stuff from the office.

He’s not feeling well, she told herself. People get testy when they’re not feeling well. To hide her annoyance, she picked up the newspaper and began to scan it again. Eventually, an exhausted Charles returned with a fat beige file and climbed into bed. Vivienne looked at him severely.

“You’ll give yourself pneumonia, running around like that,” she told him. “If you didn’t think I could find it, you could have waited for Silverton.”

“Silverton won’t be back till late,” Charles said. “Anyway, nobody knows my filing system.” He sneezed four times and looked at Vivienne penitently. She extended the tissue box in silence.

Charles blew his nose mightily. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I just feel lousy.”

“I know,” she told him. “I forgive you.” She kissed him gently on the forehead. “Do you really have to call the office back today? It’s nearly six. Can’t it wait till tomorrow morning?”

Charles sneezed again. “Sure,” he said. “It’ll wait.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “I think I just might sleep some more. Would you mind?”

“Of course not,” she said. “Sleep as long as you can. I know where my room is. I’ll make myself comfortable, maybe read for a while. I could use an early night too.”

Charles smiled at her. “It’s for your own sake,” he murmured, turning his cheek against the pillow. His eyes closed.

“What’s that? What’s for my own sake?”

But Charles was asleep.

Vivienne’s overnight bag had been unpacked, and her clothes neatly distributed between closet and dresser. Assorted light reading filled the built-in bookshelves to one side of the fireplace, and a chaise was strategically placed to catch both the last rays of the sun and the light from a brass reading lamp. A large bowl of dried hydrangeas, blue and white, dominated the round table in front of the high windows.

Vivienne looked out over the rolling lawn to the woods beyond. It was very peaceful. The sun was nearly down, and she drew the soft silk draperies and turned on the reading lamp. Then, turning her attention to the bookshelf, she selected a novel and settled herself in the chaise.

She read for a while but couldn’t concentrate. Why didn’t Charles want her in the study? From somewhere a clock struck eight; had she really been reading for two hours? Perhaps she’d dozed off.

Hungry, she decided to see what secrets the refrigerator might reveal. Charles’s door was closed, and no light seeped from beneath it. Good, she thought. He needs to rest.

The house was darker now that the sun had set; the ceilings seemed higher, the shadows longer. Silverton had left several lights burning in the rooms downstairs, but the hallway to the kitchen was dark.

Quietly, so as not to wake Charles, Vivienne made her way to the kitchen and eventually found the light switch. A cold roast chicken and a salad had been left ready for them in the fridge, and Vivienne set out her small feast on the kitchen table, propping her book against a knife rest. When she finished, she carefully cleaned up after herself and made a cup of tea. Then she thought of her cheerful bedroom with its flowers and its chaise, and decided to take the tea upstairs.

She moved slowly and carefully through the darkened hallway so as not to spill her tea on the pale carpeting. The door to the study was firmly closed now, and again she wondered about Charles’s sudden aversion to her entering the room. She passed the morning room and then the drawing room. Glancing in, she was struck by the formidable strength of the face that looked back at her from above the mantel. Elizabeth would never have approved of carrying one’s own tea, she thought with amusement. Face it: Elizabeth would never have approved of her.

Thinking idly about Elizabeth, she began to mount the stairs to her room. She was nearly at the top when it hit her: what was that Charles had said? Something about Elizabeth’s papers . . .

He had just started going through her papers when he’d gotten sick . . . the house was kind of a mess . . . all those file cartons in his study . . . cartons of Elizabeth’s papers.

Was that why he didn’t want her inside? Yet, why should Elizabeth’s papers be of any concern to her?

It’s for your own good, he’d said as he’d fallen asleep. What was for her own good? Not going into the study? Not reading Elizabeth’s papers? But she’d never intended to.

Slowly she turned around and descended the stairs again. This is silly, she told herself. He was just feeling rotten. It’s a coincidence. Yet she continued to make her way along the hall to the study door.

She thought it might be locked, but it wasn’t. Cautiously she pushed the door open; the wooden shutters were closed, and the room was dark. Her searching hand found a switch, and suddenly the room was flooded with soft light. She stood for a moment, surveying the open file boxes which crowded the room. I shouldn’t be doing this, she thought.

She walked around the room, staring at the boxes. Where to start? Most of the boxes seemed filled with miscellaneous paper: letters, receipts, printed notices of various kinds. But in several boxes on the desk, file folders had been set up and labeled in a strong masculine hand: Charles’s work. The folders had been arranged in alphabetical order. She flicked through the folders in the first box: Bantry Financial . . . Dexter-Hoving . . . these must be the files he’d had sent over from the office, she decided. This is where I would have found the Ingersoll file. So what’s the big deal?

She turned her attention to the file box next to the office box. It too had alphabetically arranged file folders: Balenciaga . . . Correspondence, Social . . . Flowers by Renny . . .

Vivienne was puzzled. This stuff was so trivial. Hairdresser. . . Income Tax Returns . . . Institute . . .

Had Elizabeth been institutionalized at one time? Charles certainly might want to keep that hidden, she thought. Not that it would matter to her.

She pulled out the thin file and opened it. Nice to have something against the perfect Elizabeth, she thought, if only for my own peace of mind.

But the letterhead on the top sheet of paper was not that of a mental hospital. Vivienne stared at it: The Reproduction Institute. Slowly she began to read.

“Thank you so much for the generous funding you and your wife have given toward our important work. It is still ‘early days,’ as they say, but I would indeed welcome a visit from you at your convenience . . .”

Not a surprising letter, Vivienne thought. Charles had said that his family had been involved with the institute from the beginning.

“I would caution you to prepare yourself, however,” the letter continued. “Reality is so much stronger than theory.”

Vivienne shivered. Why should one need to prepare oneself for the reality of a genetic blueprint? The remainder of the short letter was bland and pleasant, and Vivienne put it aside. Yet it revived the half-fears she’d felt when Charles had said the cells were . . . how had he put it? Biologically organized.

Her shoulders ached, and she wriggled them to release the tension. She looked again at the salutation and realized it was addressed not to Elizabeth but to Charles’s father, Daniel. Well, if Elizabeth had kept the letter, surely there was nothing incriminating or weird about any of this stuff.

She turned to the next item in the file, a canceled check, and gasped at the amount. She hadn’t realized the blueprint process was so expensive.

The last paper in the folder was a handwritten letter of several pages, addressed to Elizabeth. She turned to the last page; it was signed “Daniel.” An envelope stapled to the back of the last page bore a Barcelona postmark.

Better not read it, she thought instinctively. Reality is so much stronger than theory. From somewhere in the house a clock chimed the hour: nine. She breathed deeply and began to read.

From the first enthusiastic paragraph, she knew why Charles hadn’t wanted her in the study; the letter had been written by Daniel immediately following his first visit to what would become the Institute, all those years ago.

Vivienne read half of the first page, then lifted her eyes from the paper and breathed deeply, her mind racing. Daniel had not been at all specific, but the implications of the first few paragraphs were horrifying. Or was it just her imagination working overtime? She found herself hesitant to read further.

As she stood there troubled and undecided, she heard Charles’s voice call to her. She jumped, then realized he must still be upstairs. She jammed the letter back in the file and the file back in the carton, then rushed to the study door and listened. The jiggle of a doorknob came faintly to her from above. Instinctively she hit the light switch, and the room went dark. He wouldn’t expect me to hear him from the kitchen, she thought, and grabbing her cup of stone-cold tea, left the study, closing the door quietly behind her.

When Charles came downstairs, robe flapping, he found her at the kitchen table, asleep over a cold cup of tea. Head on her arm and heart beating rapidly, she allowed him to wake her and even managed a sleepy smile as he led her up to bed.

All night she lay awake in the Ivory Room, confused and frightened. For a time, she decided that she was glad she’d been forced to stop reading Daniel’s letter; she really was better off not being sure. Then she’d think, I don’t need to read any more; how could it be anything else?

You’re imagining things, she told herself. If you’d read the whole letter, you’d have found out it wasn’t . . . so bad. Maybe.

The next morning she told Charles she thought she’d caught his flu. He was sweet and contrite, and fussed over her like a mother hen.

“I never should have let you come up here,” he sighed, tucking the covers around her. “I hope you’ll be better for the dinner party next week.”

He studied her face, sallow with worry and lack of sleep, and instructed Silverton to make her some hot lemonade. While she was drinking it, Lens called with a booking for that afternoon and could she come back right away? Yes? Wonderful.

While she was on the phone, Charles went downstairs and locked the study door.