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Prologue

August 4, 1891
London, England

There was a dead man in my boudoir. He lay spread- eagle as I dressed his still figure in the midmorning's dark. It was a difficult task, as he was a tall man to manage and death seemed to have doubled his weight. I had to rock him back and forth to re-dress him. And with each cumbersome move, I stopped to mourn the loss of my lover with a prayer or a tear.

"Dear Father in heaven, help me," I cried.

But I don't think he was listening, for I saw no sign of his holy presence, nor do I think he was anywhere nearby. Perhaps my God had another commitment overseas, or was involved in the creation of a better world than this one. In any case I interpreted his absence from my crisis as a godly commentary about my person and a direct reflection of my soul.

I wished for the outcome of a fairy tale: my tears would fall upon my pale lover's cheek; my longing sentiment would enliven him. And then we would ride off together to his castle, where our embraces would have no consequence other than pleasure.

I hoped my lover could still feel my loving caresses as I pressed my cheek upon his. I wanted my lively blood to make him gasp a reborn breath and his cool cheek rush to its rosy color. And then I thought if I pressed his hand, I might invite his dormant blood to again flow freely within his body. But none of my wishes materialized in my loving partner, and my hopes dwindled with each moment he rested on the other side of death's veil.

My maid had prepared my room that day with bouquets of roses and scented my bed with Parisian lavender talc. Now the sweet air of flowers and lace was fouled by the creeping pallor of death.

Once a horror has taken place in a room, the room is never the same. It forever bears the mark of the event's sadness, and I felt my boudoir respond to its recent trauma. Though I was alone, I didn't feel alone. I sensed a thousand eyes examining me -- even the lamp, bed, and chair were witnesses to my lover's expiration. And if they were not enough, I had Denton's sweet face seeing all. All of it. His eyes were startled, yet his lips still smiled, as if he might come back from the dead to resume our courtship. That smile made me shiver in my abandoned state -- and daggered my guilty soul deeper still.

Oh walls, do not tell of me. Lace curtains, do not proclaim my wrongdoing. Let my shoes hold their tongue. Please, none of you tell of my crime --

I heard footsteps coming to my door and a quick hand rattle the doorknob.

"Don't come in. I'm -- "

"Mademoiselle Nicollette, do you have need of me?"

Marie stumbled on the garish scene. It was too late to wish her away.

She was my confidante and closest friend. She would have the right to be horrified at the demise of the vital man she knew to be alive just moments ago. Instead, she closed the door quietly, took my hand, and knelt next to me. So calm was her demeanor that the pause settled me.

She looked at me with a pure heart, not that of someone who would endanger me or spill my secrets -- with no mind to their scandal or consequences. I trusted her.

I didn't know what to say to explain my dilemma, and so I remained kneeling near the body -- as if I were praying over Denton.

But I did not pray for Denton. I prayed for the impossible: an understanding spirit that could soothe my soul.

Copyright © 2006 by Colleen Hitchcock