Mary jumped at Louisa’s voice. She was standing in the doorway with Alfred.
Louisa looked over Mary’s shoulder. “Is that Mister Petrie getting into the carriage?”
“Yes.” Mary felt a catch and cleared her throat. “He returned your muff.”
“I see.” Louisa took her arm. “Come inside. You look all in.”
Mary looked over her shoulder at the departing carriage and followed her sister-in-law into the house.
In the hall, Louisa said, “Give Alfred the box and your painting things. There’s tea in the drawing room. Come and join me.”
Mary obeyed her in a trance.
Louisa had taken the seat at the head of the table with her back to the door. She was seated with her hands in her lap, and a second cup was on the table across from her. Mary sat and eyed the tea her sister-in-law had already poured. Close to Louisa’s right hand, a gleaming knife balanced on the edge of a cake plate.
Mary stared into the amber liquid in her cup.It cannot be. I must be mad.Then she thought,Is Louisa?
“I added the sugar.” When Mary didn’t answer, Louisa said, “You’re not drinking, my dear.”
Mary lifted her eyes and found her sister-in-law staring at her.
Louisa sighed. “It’s a pity you and Mister Petrie arrived together.” Louisa smiled tightly. “I told him I would collect the muff, but tradesmen will always curry favor when they can.” She shook her head. “We might have rubbed along together at least for a while, you and I. But now . . .”
Mary measured the distance from her chair to the door. She stiffened when Louisa picked up the knife. If what Mary was thinking were true, then her sister-in-law had used one before. Louisa held it suspended for a moment. Then she sliced the seedcake.
Still gripping the handle, she said, “Now, I’m afraid it’s impossible.”
When Mary opened her mouth, Louisa said, “Don’t. I must think a little.”
She turned the knife to look at the sharpened blade. Sounding meditative, she said, “It was surprisingly easy . . . although I made a mess of my muff when I hid the scalpel inside.”
Mary felt as if she’d swallowed sand. She rasped, “Why, Louisa?”
“Why?” Louisa frowned, considering. “Do you mean why Margot Miller? Or why Doctor Scott?” She looked into Mary’s eyes. “Or why Charles?”
Mary gasped. “You don’t mean . . .”
“Death for death, Mary. Three dead babies, and I’ve had my death sentence, too.”
Still holding the knife, Louisa opened her clenched left fist. For once, she wasn’t wearing her knit gloves. Red sores dotted her palm.
“I don’t understand. . . .”
“Syphilis. Charles knew he was diseased, and he infected us with his foulness. He murdered my children with the connivance of Doctor Scott. They made me think the miscarriages were my fault. My failure. My lost babies are little angels now. In heaven.”
“How did you realize—”
“I found out the night I nursed Charles after his skating accident. Lesions covered his back and chest. Blistered and hideous like marks of Cain. Then I understood why he hadn’t shared my bed in months.”
Louisa held up her palm again. She turned her hand to look at it.
“This ‘rash,’ as Doctor Scott called it, is only the beginning. I know what comes next. Miss Nightingale took us through the hospital wards in training for the Crimea. So many soldiers were infected, you see. She had to prepare us. Still, I was blind to my early symptoms. In the dark, like other wives before me. And Charles . . . well. He could hide it no longer.”
“But Louisa, how could you—”
“How couldI? How couldthey?And that blackmailing harlot, that creature . . . that she should carry a child and not I.”
“How long had you known about them?”
