Free The Memorist by M. J. Rose Page B

living again because of that hope.
    “I’m pleased to see your mourning period is over,” the British officer said as he expertly led her in a dance.
    Tonight, for the first time in nine months, Margaux Neidermier wore her emerald-green ball gown. Yesterday’s news had caused her to fold up the black frocks and put them away.
    “You’ve been misinformed, Major. I’m not a widow.”
    “Forgive me but even in England we followed your husband’s explorations. We all heard about his tragic death in the Himalayas.”
    Margaux hesitated, wondering if there was any reason to keep her news a secret. “That was what I also believed but just yesterday I received correspondence that’s convinced me Caspar is very much alive and being nursed back to health by a group of monks in the mountains. I’m determined to raise funds to send a search party to bring him home. That’s why I’m here tonight.”
    “How wonderful. Congratulations, Madame. While you’re working so hard you will need some distraction. Let me seduce you.”
    “I’m afraid I’m old-fashioned about faithfulness.”
    “Faithfulness is no more valuable a currency these days than the coins Napoleon had minted.”
    Despite herself she smiled; there was no denying Archer was charming but for Margaux, a liaison was out of the question. He was right; taking a lover was no more serious a diversion than a game of whist and of course she was free to do what she wished. She always had been. Caspar hadtaught her about free will: a woman’s not a possession. His ideas were revolutionary, a word that was tarnished in these post-war days. When they’d traveled across the continent after their wedding, during the worst of the Wars, he’d insisted that for safety’s sake she dress as a young man in his employ and then had been delighted when the freedom exhilarated her. Margaux was in the unfortunate position of being very much in love with her husband. That’s why it didn’t matter that the British major held her too close as they waltzed. If with each one, two, three, one, two, three, memories of what it was like to be a woman in a man’s arms returned, it was only because she was imagining her husband’s hand on her back.
    Caspar, hold on, I’m coming.
    She had to close her eyes lest the major see them filling up with tears.
    “If you won’t let me seduce you, then perhaps you’ll allow me to help you raise the funds you need. If what I’ve heard is correct, there may be something that belongs to you that would be of value to some friends of mine. It’s rumored that while in India your husband found an ancient flute, is that true?”
     
    “Meer?”
    Whose name was that? Whose voice?
    “Meer?”
    She looked around in the shimmering air and found the face. A different face, a different time. The metallic taste dissipated. She wasn’t as cold anymore. But the sadness…the sadness was unbearable.
    “Meer?”
    Meer knew what had just happened to her: she’d experienced a detailed but false memory her mind had manufactured to cope with the stress of her father’s disappearance. It was similar to the way the unconscious translates actual incidents into symbols and far-fetched actions in dreams. Except if that was all it was, how could the grief and passion some unknown woman felt be lodged so deeply in Meer’s own heart?

Chapter 14
    Vienna, Austria
Saturday, April 26 th —10:45 a.m.
    T he black sedan came careening toward him, and for an instant David contemplated taking a step forward instead of back and putting himself in its path. But instinct took over and he jumped back. He watched the car as it disappeared and memorized the license plate number. Had he just avoided an accident? Or a hit? How far had Wassong gone in selling him out? Dying didn’t scare him but being locked away in a prison remembering for the rest of his life did. He’d been a journalist for twenty years and had seen enough men in prison to know that just breathing and eating