bachelor. And he was not overly concerned about the true nature of Betsy and Marcia’s relationship. He believed he understood women and, in his opinion, Betsy could be quite happy with the right man, that is to say a man like Sir Henry Collingwood.
“My dear Miss Endicott, I shall wire one of my colleagues and make appropriate arrangements for my practice. You needn’t worry in that regard. If you and Miss Brownlow are agreeable, I shall most certainly accompany you to Colorado.”
Marcia Brownlow appeared doll-like as she sat, her back supported by two plump down pillows, in the midst of an immense Louis XV canopied bed. Betsy reclined on the bedcovers beside her friend. She clutched one cold bony hand between her warm, soft palms as if by that operation Betsy could reinvigorate her dying companion.
When Marcia hemorrhaged and collapsed on the floor, her last thought had been: This is the end—so be it. But upon regaining consciousness, a strong will to live had given her strength to crawl to the settee and struggle to get back on her feet. She was thirty-nine, older than her mother had been when she died of typhoid. The last time Marcia looked in the mirror she saw her dead mother staring back at her—gaunt, pale, and exhausted from her battle with death.
Her dry, un-rouged lips smiled wanly, her green eyes gazed searchingly at Betsy. Marcia sighed as she wondered: Why persist in this farce? But she would not succumb to despair; as long as she lived and had the use of her eyes and hands, she would draw and paint. And she had discovered a new source of inspiration, Virginie Ménard. She would try to explain her fascination with Virginie to Betsy, but before making the effort she again sighed deeply.
Taking the sigh as a sign of discomfort, Betsy asked with a worried frown, “Are you all right, dear? Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I’m quite well, I assure you. Frankly, I’m getting cabin fever lying in this catafalque of a bed day and night. This afternoon, I’m going to insist that Sir Henry let me get up and walk about.”
This was what Betsy wanted to hear. “I shall insist upon it too! If the weather permits, I’ll hire an open carriage and take you for a ride through the Bois de Boulogne.”
Marcia smiled and nodded in agreement. “Yes, that would be splendid.” She paused a moment to collect her thoughts before pursuing a touchy subject. “I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking, these last couple of days. There’s something I must explain to you; I want you to understand—”
Betsy apprehended her meaning, and interrupted: “Let’s not discuss anything unpleasant, dear. It’s unnecessary; I understand perfectly.”
Betsy understood nothing, and her moods shifted unpredictably between passivity and aggression. At times, she would confront danger or adversity with an almost inhuman composure. At others, she used wealth to avoid unpleasantness, purchasing a first class cabin ticket on the next luxury steamer bound for somewhere else.
Marcia thought she knew all Betsy’s moods; she would plead for comprehension and hope for the best. “Please dear, what I have to say is important. It’s the truth, and it’s not what you think. I’m going to tell you everything about Virginie Ménard.”
Betsy dropped Marcia’s hand. “No, no, no! I don’t want to hear it!” She put her hands over her ears like a petulant child.
Marcia put her arms around Betsy and held her until the tension subsided. “Darling,” she whispered, “believe me, I don’t want any more lies on my conscience. Not now; it’s too late for lies.”
Betsy retrieved a lace handkerchief, wiped her tears and blew her nose gently. “All right, Marcia, I’ll listen. I apologize; I’ve promised the doctor not to do anything to upset you.”
Satisfied that Betsy had pulled herself together, Marcia began her “confession” with the past as prelude. Years earlier, Marcia had impersonated a man to achieve