‘Dad dedicated the book to Mum,’ Emma continued chattily on her way out of the room. Then she stopped in her tracks and turned back to us. ‘Do you know, it’s only just occurred to me, but that’s pretty weird, isn’t it? Two young women not too far apart in age if centuries apart in history and both dying tragically because neither of them knew that what they were doing was so dangerous.’
There followed a slightly uncomfortable pause after she had gone. Until Luc too suddenly sprang to his feet.
‘She knew what she was doing all right,’ he said quietly. ‘Therein lies the tragedy. She knew only too well.’
As he left the room, Jess and I looked at each other. I knew we did not have to ask which woman he was talking about.
When I got upstairs at the end of the evening, I found Emma had left the book for me as she had promised. Aglossy hardback, it looked slightly incongruous lying on my Red Room bed where you’d more expect to see one of those old tooled-leather tomes with the pages deckle-edged in faded gilt. Picking it up, I looked at the cover:Knitting While the Heads Rolled. Under this was a subtitle:Feminism and the French Revolution. Then below that what seemed to be Luc’s full name: Jean-Luc Mandeville. I turned it over. On the back was a black-and-white headshot of Luc looking younger but very serious, yet somehow with a seriousness that suggested he had thought the photograph required him to look serious rather than how he actually felt at the time.
I flicked it open to the inside back flyleaf. The author information was quite short and succinct.
Dr Jean-Luc Mandeville was born in France to a French father and English mother. He gained a First Class degree in Modern European History from Brasenose College, Oxford followed by a doctorate in Feminism and the French Revolution from the Sorbonne. Dr Mandeville lectures in Modern European History at the University of Warwick. He is married to Esther Fielding, the celebrated rock climber, with whom he has a daughter.Knitting While the Heads Rolledis Dr Mandeville’s first book.
I turned back to the imprint. It had been published the year before his wife died. And there on the dedication page sat, as Emma had said, her name. Quite simple, no frills; just two words:For Esther.
I sat down on the bed feeling puzzled. I knew when it came to the dead Esther, I could not deny that when Jess had told me about how she had died, I had experienced an immediate sense of shock that a woman with a childcould do something so irresponsible. However, this had made me annoyed with myself because I also knew only too well that nobody would ever contemplate thinking or saying the same thing about a man. A man would be praised, lauded, made legendary by his bravery in taking the ultimate risk, despite that risk resulting in any child he had being left fatherless.
It now seemed that Luc thought or felt the same. When he had said Esther had known what she was doing, there had been a note not just of bitterness in his voice but also condemnation. It was as though he blamed her for the risk she had taken, as though he didn’t respect her.
I recalled the stuff Jules had told me, the stuff about Luc’s marriage to Esther being a failure, a sham perpetuated only for the sake of their child. Why, then, had Luc dedicated his book to his wife, only a year before she died? I’ve never written a book so know little of such things, but I do know you are not obliged to dedicate your work to someone. It’s arguably an old-fashioned convention. But if you do go in for it, you surely choose somebody you love or admire or at the very least respect?
Luc Mandeville did not seem to have respected Esther Fielding. Did that mean he did not love her?
I cleaned my face, got undressed and jumped into bed.I opened the book and started reading. Perhaps it would provide the answer.
Chapter Eighteen
It was a relief to find Billy in the kitchen the next morning when I got down, a lot later than usual and bug-eyed from oversleeping on account of reading well into the small hours. He seemed so normal compared to the extraordinary individuals who had peopled my night. Greeting me with warmth, he cocked his head at Nicole, who was energetically sweeping up yet another trail of pine needles, this time leading from the door to the hall.
‘Nic tells me the tree died sudden, like,’ said Billy. ‘But I could see that for myself. I’ve put it outside.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I looked after it properly.’
‘Oh no, it’s not your fault, Alix. They sometimes die of shock, you know. Trees are highly sensitive to changes in atmosphere.’
Well, there had been plenty of them round here, I reflected, helping myself to a cup of coffee from the machine.
‘No Madam Mop this morning?’ I asked, watching Nicole wielding dustpan and broom.
‘Nah. She’s gone on her holidays to Martinique with her family.’
‘Martinique? Very nice too. I must be in the wrong job.’
Billy looked gloomy. ‘You and me both.’
‘Where’s everyone else?’
Nicole straightened up from the dustpan. ‘M’sieur Luc and Emma have departed for to visit his father.’
‘Eh?’
‘She means they’ve gone to see Old Man Mandeville’s grave,’ corrected Billy.
Nicole threw Billy a furious look. ‘Yes, this is what I say.’
‘No, sorry, pet, but you didn’t.’
‘Billy…’ I began warningly, but Nicole had now assumed an expression of extreme indifference.
