Callantha Swynford was also a surprise, at least to Charlotte. She had expected someone portly and self-satisfied, perhaps inordinately pleased with her own good sense. Instead, Callantha was on the lean side, with white skin and freckles, which in her youth she had doubtless spent hours endeavoring to remove, or at least to mask. Now she ignored them, and they complemented her russet-colored hair in a surprisingly attractive way. She was not beautiful; her nose was too high and long for that, and her mouth too large. But she was certainly handsome, and, more than that, she possessed individuality.
“How charming of you to call, Lady Cumming-Gould,” she said with a smile, extending her hand and inviting the ladies to sit down. “And Lady Ashworth—” Charlotte had not presented a card, and she was at a loss. No one helped her.
“My cousin Angelica is indisposed.” Aunt Vespasia lied as easily as if she were reading the time. “She was so sorry not to renew your acquaintance in person, and told me to say how much she enjoyed meeting you. She asked me if I would call upon you instead, so you would not feel she was cool in your friendship. Since I had my niece Lady Ashworth and her sister Charlotte already in my company, I felt you would not be inconvenienced if they were to call also.”
“Of course not.” Callantha gave the only possible answer. “I am delighted to make their acquaintance. How very thoughtful of Angelica. I hope her indisposition is nothing serious?”
“I should imagine not.” Aunt Vespasia waved it away with her hand, very delicately, as though it were something vaguely indecent to discuss. “One gets these little afflictions from time to time.”
Callantha understood immediately; it was something it would be kinder not to refer to again.
“Of course,” she agreed. They all knew the danger of her comparing notes with Angelica was now taken care of.
“What a delightful room.” Charlotte looked about her and was able to comment quite genuinely. “I do admire your choice. I feel comfortable immediately.”
“Oh, do you?” Callantha seemed quite surprised. “I am delighted you think so. Many people find it too bare. I imagine they expect rather more in the way of family portraits and such.”
Charlotte seized her chance; it might not come again so felicitously.
“I always think a few pictures of quality that really catch the essence of a person are of far more value than a great number that are merely likenesses,” she replied. “I cannot help observing the excellent portrait over the mantel. Is that your daughter? Great-Aunt Vespasia mentioned that you have a son and a daughter. She is quite charming, and she looks already as if she may grow to resemble you.”
Callantha smiled, glancing at the painting.
“Yes, indeed, that is Fanny. It was painted about a year ago, and she is quite unbecomingly proud of it. I must curb her. Vanity is not a quality one dare encourage. And to be frank, she is not in the least a beauty. Such charm as she has will lie within her personality.” She pulled a small face, a little rueful, perhaps echoing memories of her own youth.
“But that is far better!” Charlotte approved with conviction. “Beauty fades, and often disastrously quickly, whereas with a little attention, character can improve indefinitely! I am sure I should like Fanny very much.”
Emily gave her a sour look, and Charlotte knew she felt she was being too obvious. But then Callantha had no idea why they had called.
“You are very generous,” she murmured politely.
“Not at all,” Charlotte demurred. “I often think beauty is a very mixed blessing, especially in the young. It can lead to so many unfortunate associations. Too much praise, too much admiration, and I have seen even some of the nicest people led astray, because they were innocent, sheltered by a decent family, so did not realize the shallowness or the vice that can exist behind the mask of flattery.”
A shadow passed across Callantha’s face. Charlotte felt guilty for bringing up the subject so blatantly, but there was no time to waste in being subtle.
“Indeed,” she continued, “I have even seen instances in my acquaintance where unusual beauty has led a young person to acquire power over others, and then quite abuse it, to their own undoing in the end—and most unfortunately, to the misfortune of those involved with them as well.” She took a deep breath. “Whereas true charm of personality can do nothing but good. I think you are most fortunate.” She remembered that Jerome had tutored Fanny in Latin. “And of course intelligence is one of the greatest of gifts. Foolishness can sometimes be overcome if one is safeguarded from its effects by a loving and patient family. But how much more of the world’s joys are open to you if you have sensibility of your own, and how many pitfalls avoided.” Did she sound as priggish as she felt? But it was difficult to approach the subject, retain a modicum of good manners, and not sound hopelessly pompous at the same time.
“Oh, Fanny has plenty of intelligence,” Callantha said with a smile. “In fact, she is a better student than her brother, or either of—” She stopped.
“Yes?” Charlotte and Emily said, leaning forward in hopeful inquiry.
Callantha’s face paled. “I was going to say ‘either of her cousins,’ but her elder cousin died some weeks ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” Again Emily and Charlotte spoke together, affecting total surprise. “How very hard to bear,” Emily went on. “It was a sudden illness?”
Callantha hesitated, perhaps weighing the chances of getting away with a lie. In the end she decided on the truth. After all, the case had been written up in the newspapers, and although ladies of excellent upbringing would not read such things, it was impossible to avoid hearing gossip—supposing anyone were even to try!
“No—no, he was killed.” She still avoided the word “murder.” “I’m afraid it was all very dreadful.”
“Oh, dear!” Emily was a better actress than Charlotte; she always had been. And she had not lived with the story from the beginning; she could affect ignorance. “How terribly distressing for you! I do hope we have not called at an inappropriate time?” It was really an unnecessary question. One could not cease all social life every time a relative died, unless it were in the immediate family, or else the number of one’s relatives and the frequency of death would cause one to be forever in mourning.
“No, no.” Callantha shook her head. “It is most pleasant to see you.”
“Perhaps,” Aunt Vespasia said, “it would be possible for you to come to a small soiree at my house in Gadstone Park, if you are accepting invitations. I should be delighted to see you, and your husband also, if he wishes and is free of business functions? I have not met him, but I’m sure he is charming. I will send the footman with an invitation.”
Charlotte’s heart sank. It was Titus and Fanny she wanted to talk to, not Mortimer Swynford!
“I am sure he would enjoy that as much as I,” Callantha said. “I had intended to invite Angelica to an afternoon entertainment, a new pianist who has been much praised. I have planned it for Saturday. I hope she will have recovered by then. But in any case, I should be delighted if you would all come. We shall be ladies, in the main, but if Lord Ashworth or your husband would care to come?” She turned from one to the other of them.
“Of course!” Emily glowed with anticipation. The object was achieved. The men would not come; that was understood. She darted a look across at Charlotte. “Perhaps we shall meet Fanny? I admit I am quite intrigued—I shall look forward to it.”
“And I also,” Charlotte agreed. “Very much.”
Aunt Vespasia rose. They had been long enough for the strict duty call they professed it to be, and certainly long enough for a first visit. Most important, their purpose was achieved. With great dignity she took leave for all of them, and, after the appropriate civilities had been exchanged, swept them out to the carriage.
“Excellent,” she said as they seated themselves, arranging their skirts so as to be crushed as little as possible before the next call. “Charlotte, did you say this wretched child was only t
hirteen when he began his disgusting trade?”
“Albie Frobisher? Yes, so he said. He looked only a little more now—he’s very thin and underdeveloped—no beard at all.”
“And how do you know, may I ask?” Aunt Vespasia fixed her with a cool eye.
“I was in the courtroom,” Charlotte replied without thinking. “I saw him.”
“Were you indeed?” Aunt Vespasia’s brows shot up and her face looked very long. “Your conduct becomes more extraordinary by the moment. Tell me more. In fact, tell me everything! Or, no—not yet. We are going to visit Mr. Somerset Carlisle. I daresay you remember him?”
Charlotte remembered him vividly, and the whole unspeakable affair around Resurrection Row. He had been the keenest of all of them in fighting to get the child-poverty bill passed through Parliament. He knew as much as Pitt did of the slums—indeed he had frightened and appalled poor Dominic by taking him to the Devil’s Acre, under the shadow of Westminster.
But would he be interested in the facts of one extremely unlikable tutor, who was very possibly guilty of a despicable crime anyway?
“Do you think Mr. Carlisle will be bothered over Mr. Jerome?” she asked doubtfully. “The law is not at fault. It is hardly a Parliamentary matter.”
“It is a matter for reform,” Aunt Vespasia replied as the carriage swayed around a corner rather fiercely and she was obliged to brace her body to prevent herself falling into Charlotte’s lap. Opposite them, Emily clung on quite ungracefully. Aunt Vespasia snorted. “I shall have to speak to that young man! He has visions of becoming a charioteer. I think he sees me as a rather elderly Queen Boudicca! Next thing you know, he will have put sabers on the wheels!”
Charlotte pretended to sneeze in order to hide her expression.
“Reform?” she said after a moment, straightening up under the cold and highly perceptive eye of Vespasia. “I don’t see how.”
“If children of thirteen can be bought and sold for these practices,” Vespasia snapped, “then there is something grossly wrong, and it needs to be reformed. Actually, I have been considering it for some time. You have merely brought it to the forefront of my mind. I think it is a cause worthy of our best endeavors. I imagine Mr. Carlisle will think so, too.”
Carlisle listened to them with great attention and, as Aunt Vespasia had expected, distress for the conditions of people like Albie Frobisher in general, and for the possible injustice of the case against Jerome.
After some thought, he posed several questions and theories himself. Had Arthur threatened Jerome with blackmail, threatened to tell his father about the relationship? And when Waybourne had faced Jerome, could Jerome have told him a great deal more of the truth than Arthur had envisioned? Did he tell Waybourne of their visits to Abigail Winters—even to Albie Frobisher—and that it was Arthur himself who had introduced the two younger boys to such practices? Could it then have been Waybourne, in rage and horror, who had killed his own son, rather than face the unbearable scandal that could not be suppressed forever? The possibilities had been very far from explored!
But now, of course, the police, the law, the whole establishment had committed itself to the verdict. Their reputations, indeed their very professional office, depended upon the conviction standing. To admit they had been precipitate in duty, perhaps even negligent, would make a public exhibition of their inadequacies. And no one does that unless driven to it by forces beyond control.
Added to that, Charlotte conceded, they may well believe in all honesty that Jerome was guilty. And perhaps he was!
And would smart, clean, pink young Gillivray ever admit that he might have helped Albie Frobisher just a little in his identification, planted the seed of understanding in a mind so quick, so subtle, and so anxious to survive that Albie had grasped what he wanted and given it to him?
Could Gillivray afford such a thought, even if it occurred to him? Of course not! Apart from anything else, it would be betraying Athelstan, leaving him standing alone—and that would be cataclysmic!
Abigail Winters might not have been lying entirely. Maybe Arthur had been there; his tastes may have been more catholic than for boys only. And perhaps Abigail had tacitly accepted some immunity for herself by including Jerome in her evidence. The temptation to tie a case up conclusively that you were morally sure of anyway was very real. Gillivray may have succumbed to it—visions of success, favor, promotion dancing before his eyes. Charlotte was ashamed of the thought when she expressed it to Carlisle, but felt it should not be dismissed.
And what did they wish of him? Carlisle asked.
The answer was quite explicit. They wished to have correct and detailed facts of prostitution in general, and that of children in particular, so that they might present them to the women of society, whose outrage at such conditions might in time make the abuse of children so abhorrent that they would refuse to receive any man of whom such a practice, or even tolerance, was suspected.
Ignorance of its horrors was largely responsible for the women’s indifference to it. Some knowledge, however dependent upon imagination for the reality of its fear and despair, would mobilize all their very great social power.
Carlisle vacillated at presenting such appalling facts to ladies, but Aunt Vespasia froze him with an icy stare.
“I am perfectly capable of looking at anything whatsoever that life has to afford,” she said loftily, “if there is some reason for it! I do not care for vulgarity, but if a problem is to be dealt with, then it must be understood. Kindly do not patronize me, Somerset!”
“I wouldn’t dare!” he replied with a flash of humor. It was almost an apology, and she accepted it with grace.
“I hardly imagine it will be a pleasant subject,” she acknowledged. “Nevertheless it must be done. Our facts must be correct—one grave error and we lose our case. I shall avail myself of all the help I can.” She turned in her chair. “Emily, the best opinion to begin with is that of the people who have the most influence, and who will be the most offended by it.”
“The Church?” Emily suggested.
“Nonsense! Everyone expects the Church to make noises, about sin. That is their job! Therefore no one really listens—it has no novelty whatsoever. What we need is a few of the best society hostesses, the ones people listen to and imitate, the leaders of fashion. That is where you will assist, Emily.”
Emily was delighted; her face shone with anticipation.
“And you, Charlotte,” Vespasia continued. “You will acquire some of the information we shall need. You have a husband in the police force. Use him. Somerset, I shall speak to you again.” She rose from the armchair and went to the door. “In the meanwhile, I trust you will do everything you can to look into the matter of this tutor Jerome and the possibility that there may be some other explanation. It is rather pressing.”
Pitt told Charlotte nothing about his interview with Athelstan, and so she was unaware that he had tried to reopen the case. But in any event, she had not imagined it would be possible once the verdict was in. If anything, she knew better than he did that those with influence would not permit the result to be questioned, now that the law had been met.
The next thing to do was to prepare for Callantha’s party, when she might have the chance to speak with Fanny Swynford. And if the occasion to speak to Titus did not offer itself gratuitously, she would then engineer some opportunity to speak with him also. At least Emily and Aunt Vespasia would be there to help her. And Aunt Vespasia was able to get away with almost any social behavior she chose, because she had the position—and, above all, the sheer style—to carry it off as if she were the rule and everyone else the exception.
She told Pitt only that she was going out with Aunt Vespasia. She knew that he liked Vespasia enough not to question it. In fact, he sent her his very best wishes in a message of what was for him unusual respect.
She accompanied Emily in her carriage, and had borrowed another dress for the day, since it was impractical for her to spend such allowa
nce as she had for clothes on something she would wear probably only once. The minutiae of high fashion changed so frequently that last season’s dress was distinctly passé this season; it was seldom more than once or twice in six months that Charlotte attended an affair like the entertainment at Callantha Swynford’s.
The weather was perfectly appalling, driving sleet out of an iron-gray sky. The only way to look in the least glamorous was to wear something as gay and dazzling as possible. Emily chose light, clear red. Not wishing to look too similar, Charlotte chose an apricot velvet that made Emily slightly cross she had not chosen it herself. She was too proud, though, to demand they exchange, even though both were her gowns; her reasons would have been too obvious.
However, by the time they reached the Swynfords’ hallway and were welcomed into the large withdrawing room, which had been opened into the room beyond, fires blazing, lamps bright, Emily forgot the matter and launched herself into the business of the visit.
“How delightful,” she said with a brilliant smile at Callantha Swynford. “I shall look forward to meeting absolutely everyone! And so will Charlotte, I am sure. She has spoken of little else all the way here.”
Callantha made the usual polite replies, and conducted them to be introduced to the other guests, all talking busily and saying very little of consequence. Just over half an hour later, when the pianist had begun to play a composition of incredible monotony, Charlotte observed a very self-possessed child of about fourteen whom she recognized from the portrait to be Fanny. She excused herself from her present company—easily done, since they were all bored with each other and had been pretending to listen to the music—and made her way between other groups until she was next to Fanny.
“Do you like it?” she whispered quite casually, as if they were long acquaintances.
Fanny looked slightly uncertain. She had an intelligent, candid little face, with the same mouth as her mother, and gray eyes, but otherwise the resemblance was less than the portrait affected. And she did not look as if lying came to her by nature.
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