SEVENTY-SIX

I knew it would be only a matter of time before Constance remembered where she had seen Chance before, only a matter of time before she put one and one together and came up with we two. From there—her remembrance of us together in Sommers Tea Room, her remembrance of my confession to her that Chance was a murdering prisoner and I was in love with him—how much of a leap would it take for her to make the connection that we were somehow involved in John’s death?

As for the first part, it took her even less time than I had suspected:

The day after the Collinses’ party, she was on my doorstep.

The proposal she had for me, delivered in stuttering speech, was remarkably similar to the one she had offered John. The difference was, I had much more to lose.

“I should not, of course, like to tell people that you and your new husband met while you were still married to your old husband, should not like to cause you public embarrassment in that way. I, above all people, understand what it is to find oneself married to the wrong man, understand what it is to be perceived as a public embarrassment.”

I could not stand to hear her go on. “What is it you want from me, Constance?” I asked, perversely needing to hear her speak the words aloud. She was no longer Connie to me, could never be so again.

She would not be rushed, though. “I know I should not have betrayed your trust with John. But then, you had the knowledge within you to convince him of the truth behind my allegations against Charles and yet, to save yourself, you chose to remain silent, didn’t you? Please do not think I am angry,” she hastily added, still wary of causing offense, despite the sword she was holding over my head. Then, cannily, “I know how desperate a person can get to save herself. Shall we say we are even on that score—my betrayal and yours—and let it go?”

For someone so otherwise timid, she was a good chess player in her own way. And she was persistent too—God, she was persistent!—a paradoxical resoluteness of character I had reluctantly to admire even as it worked to my disadvantage.

Arms crossed, I nodded my grudging consent.

“But now the slate is clear, I find I must assume the role of wrongdoer again if I am to save myself. I find—”

This time I would not let her finish. “What is it that you want, Constance?”

“Why, money, of course—the same thing I wanted from John—money enough to get away and start a new life for myself just as you have managed to do here. I am not greedy, Emma.” She spoke in the most persuasive of tones, a wheedling Siren trying to convince all who heard her, including herself, that what she was doing was all right. “I am not looking to bleed you dry—”

“Give me time to talk to Chance about this. I’m quite sure you”—and here I stressed her own signature phrase—“of all people understand that a wife cannot make any financial moves without the consent of her husband.”