me to shield me from the wind blowing over the bridge.
“Can you imagine how many people have crossed this bridge?” I asked. “It must be three hundred years old. Do you think that Marie Antoinette ever stood here and looked across the Seine at the city?”
“Hardly. I think she would have had a greater appreciation for the views at Versailles.”
“We consider this bridge old, but if it were in Athens, would anyone even comment on it? I shouldn’t be impressed with anything less than two thousand years old if I were in Greece.”
“Then you would miss some particularly fine Roman ruins, my dear. Why don’t you plan a nice, civilized trip to Athens on your way to Santorini when you go?”
“I shall have to see how it fits with my plan to visit Troy.”
Colin shook his head and took my arm. I let him guide me back to the hotel, but not before contemplating at some length the pleasure I derived from his standing so close to me.
C OLIN CALLED ON ME the next afternoon, and I confess I was delighted to see him. I planned to dine in my rooms that evening and invited him to join me. He readily accepted.
“What time shall I return?” he asked. “I’ll only need to dress.”
“Don’t be silly,” I replied. “We shan’t dress. I ordered a light supper and asked to have it early. It’s only the two of us, and I don’t think there are society spies lurking to reveal the fact that we intend to dine in afternoon clothes. I imagine that Meg will be suitably shocked, but she’ll most likely recover.”
“I thought ladies enjoy dressing for dinner.”
“I’d enjoy it more if I could wear something other than mourning clothes.”
“Yes, I can see that. Nonetheless it does you credit to honor your husband.”
“I mean no disrespect to Philip,” I said, hesitating.
“Of course not. I know you loved him.”
I closed my eyes and sighed.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Please do not apologize, Colin. But I cannot live the rest of my life being constantly reminded of my dead husband.” I stopped. “I don’t mean to sound cold. Do you understand?”
“I think I do,” he said, and paused. “I should very much like to have a conversation with you during which I do not feel the memory of Philip looming over us.” He looked in my eyes. “Do I offend you?”
“Not at all,” I assured him, feeling a strange sort of thrill at being unable to remove my gaze from his. “I did not know Philip as well as perhaps I ought to have. Our marriage was very short.”
“It takes considerable time for true companionship to develop,” he said. “You need say nothing more on the subject. Tell me your plans instead. When do you intend to travel to Santorini?”
“I’m not sure. Paris has been remarkable, and I have no intention of leaving anytime soon.”
“How long do you think you will stay?”
“I don’t know. I won’t be out of mourning until nearly Christmas, so I can’t really do anything until then. I may as well be here as anywhere.”
“You’re only in half mourning,” he said, running his hand through his thick hair, something he seemed to do rather frequently. I wondered if it was this habit that kept him from adopting the style of wearing it slicked back as Philip had.
“Yes, but that’s really nothing spectacular. You can go wherever you want, just as long as you make certain not to have too good a time. And no dancing, of course.”
“Do you like to dance?”
“I adore it.”
“I admit that I’ve never given much thought to the practices of mourning. Do you think they have helped you manage your grief?”
“Not particularly.” I smiled, liking his direct manner. “Tread lightly, my friend, lest our conversation return again to Philip.”
“Men do not have to abide by such rigorous rules, yet I cannot believe they mourn their wives less than women do their husbands. Perhaps we ask too much of you ladies.”
“A very enlightened comment. I’m most impressed,” I said,
“Can you imagine how many people have crossed this bridge?” I asked. “It must be three hundred years old. Do you think that Marie Antoinette ever stood here and looked across the Seine at the city?”
“Hardly. I think she would have had a greater appreciation for the views at Versailles.”
“We consider this bridge old, but if it were in Athens, would anyone even comment on it? I shouldn’t be impressed with anything less than two thousand years old if I were in Greece.”
“Then you would miss some particularly fine Roman ruins, my dear. Why don’t you plan a nice, civilized trip to Athens on your way to Santorini when you go?”
“I shall have to see how it fits with my plan to visit Troy.”
Colin shook his head and took my arm. I let him guide me back to the hotel, but not before contemplating at some length the pleasure I derived from his standing so close to me.
C OLIN CALLED ON ME the next afternoon, and I confess I was delighted to see him. I planned to dine in my rooms that evening and invited him to join me. He readily accepted.
“What time shall I return?” he asked. “I’ll only need to dress.”
“Don’t be silly,” I replied. “We shan’t dress. I ordered a light supper and asked to have it early. It’s only the two of us, and I don’t think there are society spies lurking to reveal the fact that we intend to dine in afternoon clothes. I imagine that Meg will be suitably shocked, but she’ll most likely recover.”
“I thought ladies enjoy dressing for dinner.”
“I’d enjoy it more if I could wear something other than mourning clothes.”
“Yes, I can see that. Nonetheless it does you credit to honor your husband.”
“I mean no disrespect to Philip,” I said, hesitating.
“Of course not. I know you loved him.”
I closed my eyes and sighed.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Please do not apologize, Colin. But I cannot live the rest of my life being constantly reminded of my dead husband.” I stopped. “I don’t mean to sound cold. Do you understand?”
“I think I do,” he said, and paused. “I should very much like to have a conversation with you during which I do not feel the memory of Philip looming over us.” He looked in my eyes. “Do I offend you?”
“Not at all,” I assured him, feeling a strange sort of thrill at being unable to remove my gaze from his. “I did not know Philip as well as perhaps I ought to have. Our marriage was very short.”
“It takes considerable time for true companionship to develop,” he said. “You need say nothing more on the subject. Tell me your plans instead. When do you intend to travel to Santorini?”
“I’m not sure. Paris has been remarkable, and I have no intention of leaving anytime soon.”
“How long do you think you will stay?”
“I don’t know. I won’t be out of mourning until nearly Christmas, so I can’t really do anything until then. I may as well be here as anywhere.”
“You’re only in half mourning,” he said, running his hand through his thick hair, something he seemed to do rather frequently. I wondered if it was this habit that kept him from adopting the style of wearing it slicked back as Philip had.
“Yes, but that’s really nothing spectacular. You can go wherever you want, just as long as you make certain not to have too good a time. And no dancing, of course.”
“Do you like to dance?”
“I adore it.”
“I admit that I’ve never given much thought to the practices of mourning. Do you think they have helped you manage your grief?”
“Not particularly.” I smiled, liking his direct manner. “Tread lightly, my friend, lest our conversation return again to Philip.”
“Men do not have to abide by such rigorous rules, yet I cannot believe they mourn their wives less than women do their husbands. Perhaps we ask too much of you ladies.”
“A very enlightened comment. I’m most impressed,” I said,
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