On a Cold Dark Sea(41)
Her mysterious visitor really should have known better than to show up at ten o’clock in the morning. It was much too early for social calls. When Mrs. Gerstner barged into Esme’s bedroom, saying she had an unexpected guest, Esme had kept her face sheltered in the sheets when she asked who it was. She hadn’t yet felt ready to face the daylight. The housekeeper told Esme the woman hadn’t presented a calling card.
“Said she was an old friend and wanted to surprise you. She has an accent—English, I think.”
The lack of information was irritating, but also effective. It was two weeks since Charlie had died, one week since his funeral. Esme had avoided seeing anyone by playing the grieving widow, which was close to the truth. She was grieving, for so much more than Charlie. Curiosity, however, was enough to overpower her lethargy, and Esme managed to pull herself up and out of bed.
She washed up in the bathroom, her head throbbing each time she leaned over the basin. Then she took her time deciding what to wear. Esme’s vanity was a form of self-preservation, and she couldn’t abandon her fastidiousness simply because Charlie was gone. She had turned forty a few months before the accident, and though it wasn’t a milestone she wanted to acknowledge openly, Charlie had brought her flowers and taken her out to dinner. If she wanted, Esme could choose to remember the evening as a happy one. She had tried very hard to have fun, and Charlie seemed grateful for the effort, even if he spent half the meal hopping to other tables to say hello. When Esme caught a glimpse of herself in the powder-room mirror, she’d been pleasantly surprised. Thanks to the fortune she’d spent on face cream and hair dye, she still looked attractive. For a woman of her age—the inevitable modifier.
Esme decided on a dress of dark-green silk, appropriate for a widow but not too gloomy. She could remember, vaguely, the mourning dresses she’d been forced to wear when her mother died. Thank God that tradition had gone out with the Victorians, because black wasn’t at all flattering to Esme’s complexion. She settled at her dressing table, her fingers moving confidently among the cosmetic bottles and brushes. Her lack of sleep was soon concealed with powder and eye pencil, and a swab of lipstick brought her mouth to life. Her cheek bore almost no trace of the gash she’d suffered in the lifeboat, though she’d feared it would be disfiguring at the time. There was only so much she could do with her hair, but she smoothed it as best she could. Her hairdresser, Mrs. Volensky, usually came every other day, but Esme had given her the week off.
Esme knew the alligator shoes might not be the wisest choice. They were higher and tighter than her other pairs, and she had had a close call when she turned out of her dressing room and nearly fell. But they were the best match for her dress, and Esme refused to cut corners when it came to fashion. She’d just have to be careful. She had an anxious moment at the top of the stairs, when her head went all dizzy and she swayed against the banister. But she managed to stay upright, despite the stabs of pain skittering inside her skull. Esme wrapped her fingers around the wood and stiffened her arm. A confident inner version of herself guided the struggling outer one: Shoulders up, back straight, left foot, right foot. With determined concentration, she made it to the bottom of the stairs and walked with smooth, even steps to the front parlor. It was only when she saw the woman standing by the fireplace that Esme’s composure faltered. Despite the angled hat that covered half the visitor’s face, Esme knew instantly who it was.
“Charlotte Evers,” the woman said, holding out her hand.
“I remember,” Esme said, not taking it.
Charlotte dipped her face toward the floor. At least she had the decency to be embarrassed. Esme’s first impulse was to call for Mrs. Gerstner and have Charlotte escorted out. How dare she show up like this, with no warning? But that initial flash of anger quickly gave way to the disheartening realization that Charlotte’s visit was the most interesting thing that was likely to happen today, or any other day in the foreseeable future. If Charlotte left now, Esme would always wonder why she’d come.
“Please sit,” Esme said, curt but not quite rude. “I’ll send for coffee.”
Mrs. Gerstner wasn’t hovering in the hallway, as she was supposed to when the Van Hausens had company, so Esme excused herself. In the minute it took Esme to track her housekeeper to the kitchen, Esme debated offering pastries as well, then decided against it. No need to encourage a drawn-out visit until she found out what Charlotte had to say. Wound up with anticipation, Esme nearly collided with a doorjamb on her way back to the parlor, and she forced herself to stop and slow her breathing. Charlotte mustn’t see how close she was to losing control.
“I hope I didn’t put you to any trouble,” Charlotte said when Esme returned.
“No trouble,” Esme said. “We so rarely receive visitors these days—the cook is beside herself with boredom.”
She’d meant to lighten the mood, but Charlotte didn’t look amused. Esme had to admit that Charlotte had held up well, though time had hardened her, too. There was a directness to her gaze that Esme found daunting. She seemed to see past Esme’s gracious-hostess manners to the humiliating way she’d been coping with Charlie’s loss.
“I heard about your husband,” Charlotte said, formally polite. “I’m terribly sorry.”
“Thank you.” Esme could never find a suitable response to such well-meant expressions of sympathy. Was she supposed to smile bravely or weep genteel tears? She’d lost her instinct for what was appropriate. “It’s very kind of you, to come in person,” she said. “I didn’t realize you lived in New York.”