Long Spoon Lane

by Anne Perry

My dear Sheridan and Cordelia,

  I heard today of your loss and I am dismayed at the pain you must feel. I wish I could offer help, words of comfort and assurance, but I know that grief has simply to be endured. But if faith and friendship can give you anything of worth, now or in the future, please call upon me. I shall always be at your service.

  Sincerely,

  Vespasia Cumming-Gould

  She folded it, placed it in an envelope, and sealed it. She did not reread it or wonder if it was elegantly or appropriately phrased. It was honest, and that was all she could attempt. If she weighed what Cordelia might make of it, she would never send anything.

  Upstairs, she changed into the dark gray silk and surveyed herself in the glass.

  “You look beautiful, my lady,” Gwyneth said from behind her.

  She was right. Vespasia was tall and still slender. Her aquiline features and fine, pale skin were flattered by the cool colors. As always she wore ropes of pearls around her neck, complementing the silver crown of her hair. The dress itself was in the latest cut, narrow at the waist, full sleeved at the shoulder, slender at the hip but flaring more widely at the knee and to the ground. The jacket had the fashionable very wide lapels.

  Gwyneth set the hat upon her head and offered her the gray kid gloves, which were softer than velvet. A small, gray silk reticule carried a handkerchief, a few calling cards, and the letter.

  It was a short journey, no more than fifteen minutes to the Landsboroughs’ house in Stenhope Street near Regents Park. Vespasia alighted from her carriage and went to the front door, the letter in her hand. It was opened within moments and an elderly butler regarded her with courteous inquiry. He recognized the coat of arms on her carriage door, and greeted her by name.

  “Good morning,” she replied. “I am sure the family is not receiving callers, but I prefer to pass my letter of condolences to you rather than send it through the post. Would you be good enough to tell Lord and Lady Landsborough that they have my deepest sympathy?”

  “Of course, my lady.” He held out the silver tray and she placed the envelope on it. “Thank you. It is most gracious of you to come in person. If you would care to step inside, I shall pass your letter to Lady Landsborough. She may wish to acknowledge it.” He stepped back.

  “I do not wish to put her to trouble.” Vespasia remained on the step.

  “It would be no trouble at all, my lady,” he answered. “But if you are previously engaged, then…”

  “Not at all,” she said honestly. “I came out only for this purpose.” It would now be rude to decline. She followed him inside. There was black crepe in the hall. The long-cased clock had been stopped, the mirrors had been turned to the wall. She was shown into the morning room, where no fire had been lit. There were white flowers on the table, ghostly in the half-light through lowered blinds.

  There was nothing to do but wait until the butler should return and convey Cordelia’s thanks; then she would be free to leave. She did not wish to sit down; it seemed inappropriate, as if she expected to stay. One did not make oneself comfortable in such circumstances.

  She looked around idly, trying to remember if it had been just the same all those years ago when she had been a frequent visitor here. The bookcase had been here then, the glass reflecting back so the titles were unreadable. The picture of Venetian canals over the mantel was the one she knew. She had always thought it a genuine Canaletto, but had never been frank enough to ask. She could not imagine Sheridan Landsborough having anything less.

  The house was very quiet, as if its usual business of cleaning and errands had been suspended. The sound of horses’ hooves in the street outside was audible.

  The door opened and she turned, expecting the butler, but it was Cordelia herself who stood there. She had changed little since the last time Vespasia had seen her, perhaps a couple of years ago. There was a hint of more white in her dark hair, but in broad, handsome streaks, not a fading to pepper and salt. Her features were still strong. She was less firm of jaw; the skin of her throat had withered and even a high-necked gown could not completely hide it. Shock had bleached her face today, and naturally she wore unrelieved black.

  “It was good of you to come, Vespasia,” she said, instantly establishing a familiarity that had not existed between them for years. “It is a time when one needs one’s friends.” She glanced around. “This room is chilly. Would you prefer to come into the withdrawing room? It faces the garden and is far pleasanter.” She was allowing Vespasia the opportunity to excuse herself, and yet after such a plea to friendship, that would be a deliberate rebuff.

  “Thank you,” Vespasia accepted.

  Cordelia led the way across the hall and into a warmer, far more agreeable room. It still carried all the marks of mourning, but it was several degrees warmer, and the sunlight coming through the half-drawn curtains made bright patterns on the wine-and-blue carpet.

  Vespasia’s mind was racing as to why Cordelia had asked her to remain. They had never been friends, nor was she a woman to confide either joy or sorrow in someone else.

  They sat on huge, soft sofas opposite each other in the flickering sunlight. It was Cordelia who broke the silence.

  “Sometimes it takes a tragedy of this magnitude to make one realize what is happening,” she said gravely. “One sees things eroded little by little, and each step is so small it hardly registers in one’s mind.”

  Vespasia had no idea what she was referring to. She waited patiently, her face a mask of polite interest.

  “If you had told me ten years ago that police would be having gun battles with anarchists in the streets of London,” Cordelia continued, “I should have said you were mad. Indeed, I would have said you were a political alarmist, almost certainly with some purpose of your own in trying to frighten people.” She took a deep breath. “Now we are forced to admit that it is the truth. There are madmen in our society who are bent upon destroying it, and the police need all our support, morally and materially.”

  Vespasia thought of Pitt, whom she had known since her great-nephew had married Charlotte’s sister Emily. George had been killed, and Emily had married again, but the friendship had continued and grown stronger. “Yes, indeed,” she said aloud. “Theirs is a difficult and frequently thankless task.”

  “And dangerous,” Cordelia added. “A young policeman was shot in the battle. But for the courage and quick thinking of his fellows, he would have bled to death there in the street.”

  “Yes.” Vespasia had read the account in two newspapers. “But it appears he will recover.”

  “This time,” Cordelia conceded. “But what of the future?” She looked at Vespasia earnestly, her face grave, her back ramrod stiff. “We need more police, and they must be better armed. We must not handicap them with antique laws framed for a more peaceful age. London is now teeming with foreigners of all sorts, men with wild ideas of revolution, anarchy, even socialism. And to institute their own insanities upon us they have made it plain that they intend to destroy what we have, and terrorize us into accepting their will.” Her eyes were brilliant with grief and rage. “As long as I draw breath, I will not let that happen! I will fight with every influence I have to see that we uphold and assist them to protect us and all we believe.” She watched Vespasia intently.

  Vespasia felt a vague shadow of discomfort. It was so nebulous she could not be sure if it was something Cordelia had said, or the embarrassment of not being able to say anything that would address the real issue of her grief. Cordelia had had only one child, and yesterday he had been killed. Vespasia had several children and they were all alive and well. They were all married; she saw them seldom, but she kept a warm correspondence with each. It was absurd to feel guilty because she had so much more than this furious woman opposite her. Cordelia was trying to come to terms with her pain by turning it into anger, and a crusade, which would occupy her mind and her energy, and perhaps blunt the raw edge of her emotions with exhaustion.

  Or if she
were honest, Vespasia’s guilt was more truly for the sweetness and the intensity of friendship she had shared long ago with Sheridan Landsborough.

  Cordelia was still waiting for some response to her words. Vespasia was not at all certain that she wished for a police force with more guns, but this was not the time for her to say so.

  “I am sure after this tragedy we will find many people determined that our police will have every assistance we can give them,” she agreed.

  Cordelia forced herself to smile. “We must see to it,” she agreed. “There need to be some changes made. I have scarcely had time to think of details, but every energy I have will be directed to that end. I am sure I can ask you to use your influence also.” She assumed agreement, and yet her eyes searched Vespasia’s as if she still required an answer.

  Vespasia took a deep breath, doubtful of her own motives for being reluctant. Was it some genuine reason of political uncertainty, or her old dislike of Cordelia intruding? The latter would be shameful, and she felt the blood burn up her cheeks. “Of course,” she said too quickly. “I have not had time to think either, I admit. But I shall do. It is an issue that concerns us all.”

  Cordelia sat back a little, and was about to resume the conversation on some other topic when the butler came in, stopping discreetly just inside the door.

  “Yes, Porteous?” Cordelia asked.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Denoon are here, my lady. I have informed them that his lordship is out, and they asked if you wished to see them, or would prefer to leave it until another time.”

  “Ask them to come in,” Cordelia replied. She turned to Vespasia. “Enid is my sister-in-law, as I am sure you remember, although, as I recall, you did not know her well.” She gave a tiny, stiff shrug. “I am not particularly desirous to face her. She is bound to be terribly distressed. She and Sheridan have always been close. It will be difficult. If you would prefer to excuse yourself I shall understand.” Her words made it perfectly acceptable for Vespasia to leave, but her expression left no doubt that she would find it easier were Vespasia to stay.

  Morally speaking, Vespasia had no choice, nor did she have the opportunity to do more than accept before Porteous returned, followed by Enid Denoon and her husband. Vespasia had actually forgotten her, but seeing her again brought back what could have been friendship in other circumstances.

  Enid was tall, like her brother, slender but with squarer shoulders and the upright carriage of a woman who still sat a horse superbly. Her figure had survived the years better than Cordelia’s. There was no thickening of her waist or heaviness in her hips. Her fair brown hair had lost much of its color, but her face was not greatly changed, her high cheekbones and well-defined nose had kept their lines, and her skin had a bloom many a younger woman might have envied.

  Behind her Denoon was darker, heavier, his hair still thick and almost black. He was imposing rather than handsome. All Vespasia remembered of him was that she had not liked him, possibly because he had an odd mixture of high intelligence and an almost total incapacity for laughter. He did not see the joy of absurdity, which she adored. It was one of the sanities of life. Without it, the world of fashion, wealth, and political power would have been suffocating. She had been married irretrievably, with a certain degree of companionship, but without passion. To laugh was the only alternative to weeping. Denoon’s gravity had seemed then to be without delicacy or tenderness.

  Enid was clearly surprised to see her, yet she did not look displeased. But then, she would be too carefully schooled in good manners to show it, even if she were.

  “How do you do, Lady Vespasia,” Denoon responded to Cordelia’s introduction. “It is very good of you to take time to call in person on this sad occasion.” He was just short of expressing surprise.

  “Like us, Lady Vespasia recognizes that we must lend all our support to action,” Cordelia intervened, looking at Denoon intently. She did not even glance at Enid.

  Denoon’s eyes met Cordelia’s with a strange mixture of understanding and an emotion Vespasia could not read, but the power of it remained in her mind. Then he turned back. “How farsighted of you, Lady Vespasia,” he said quietly. “Indeed we are in times more dangerous than I believe most people are aware. The tide of chaos is rising, and yesterday marked a steep increase, to our tragic loss. I am so sorry.” This last remark was addressed again to Cordelia.

  “King Canute was a wise man,” Enid said to no one in particular.

  Cordelia blinked.

  Vespasia looked at Enid in surprise, and saw her eyes far away, sad and angry.

  Denoon swung around irritably and glared at his wife. “He was a fool!” he snapped. “Any man who imagines he could turn back the tide is an idiot! I spoke figuratively. We do not have to await the movement of the earth or the moon in order to alter social trends, or hold up our hands helplessly because things are happening that we do not like. We are masters of our own fate!” He looked back at Cordelia, impatient at Enid’s lack of understanding.

  Cordelia started to speak, but Enid overrode her. “Canute was not trying to hold the tide back,” she contradicted him. “He was demonstrating that even he could not. Human power, even of kings, is limited.”

  “That is obvious!” Denoon said tartly. “And completely irrelevant. I am not attempting to alter the course of nature, Enid, but to prompt people into understanding the laws of the land so we can defend ourselves from the tide of anarchy.”

  “Not the tide of anarchy,” Enid corrected him. “The tide of change.”

  This time he ignored her, but there was a dull flush of anger in his cheeks. “Cordelia, in spite of appearances, we came to say how deeply grieved we are for your loss. If there is anything we can do to comfort or help, we are here, and shall remain so. Please believe me, these are not idle words.”

  “Of course they’re not!” Enid said, her voice suddenly so choked with emotion it seemed to cost her an effort to speak. “Cordelia knows that!” She shot a burning look at her sister-in-law, which seemed more filled with hatred than sorrow. Vespasia was chilled by it, until she remembered that many people’s grief is so threaded with anger that the two become inextricable.

  Cordelia reacted as if she had barely heard her. She continued looking at Denoon with a hard, chilly smile. “Thank you. It is a time for families and friends to draw together, at least all those who are like-minded and perceive the tragedies and the dangers with the same courage and resolve. I am grateful to you, and Vespasia, for seeing things as I do, and realizing that this is no time to indulge private emotions, no matter how deep, while we allow history to overtake us.” She did not specifically exclude Enid, but Vespasia had the strong feeling that she meant to, and that Enid was acutely aware of it.

  She also would like to have removed herself from the sentiment. Denoon was outspoken about increasing the power of police to intervene in people’s lives when crime was suspected, before the proof. She was considerably more cautious, afraid of the possible abuses, and of the public backlash.

  Cordelia and Denoon were still talking. The name Tanqueray was mentioned, a meeting suggested, and other names.

  Vespasia looked at Enid Denoon, who appeared not even to be listening. Her face in repose had a vulnerability to it that was startling, as if pain were familiar to her. She could not have been aware of her expression, or she would have been more guarded, although neither Cordelia nor Denoon gave her a glance.

  There were footsteps across the hall outside. A moment later the door opened. They all turned as Sheridan Landsborough came in. Vespasia had expected to see grief in his face, and yet she was still shocked to see the parchmentlike tone of his skin and the sunken cheeks and hollows around his eyes.

  “Good morning, Edward,” he said coolly, then he forced a smile. “Enid.” He barely looked at his wife before turning to Vespasia. His eyes widened and a fraction of the color returned to his cheeks. “Vespasia!”

  She took a step towards him. The formal words were in her mind, but t
hey died before they reached her lips. “I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “I cannot think of anything more dreadful.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured. “It was good of you to come.”

  Almost as if unaware of doing it, Enid moved closer to him. Standing side by side the resemblance between them was subtle but perfectly clear. It was not in their features so much as the shape of their heads, their way of standing, their weary but effortless grace, which was so innate as to be impossible to cast off, even at a time like this.

  Cordelia stared at him. “I assume the arrangements are complete?”

  There was no softening of his expression as he looked at her. “Of course,” he answered. “There is nothing to choose, nothing to decide.” His voice held no intonation. Perhaps this total control was all he could bear. To have allowed any emotion through might have broken the dam and brought it all. Dignity was a kind of refuge. Magnus had been their only child. Vespasia thought the distance between them was perhaps a safeguard also. Each might have touched the one unbearable wound in the other.

  She was aware of an electricity in the air like that before a storm, and it made her conscious of her intrusion. She turned to Cordelia. “Thank you for receiving me,” she said with a slight inclination of her head. “It was extraordinarily gracious of you.”

  Cordelia made no move to accompany Vespasia to the door. “Your help is invaluable,” she said. “Now, of all times, we must fight for what we believe.” She took a deep breath, the extreme pallor of her skin accentuated by her dark eyes. “You are a true friend.”

  Vespasia could not agree. Cordelia was as aware as she was that they were anything but friends. “I could not do less,” she murmured, hearing the irony in her words.

  Sheridan turned to Vespasia. “May I call your carriage?” He reached for the bell cord a few feet away.

  “Thank you,” she accepted. The atmosphere in the room prickled with tension. Enid looked from her brother to her sister-in-law, but Vespasia was not sure if it was anger or apprehension in her face. Her shoulders were stiff, her head high, as if expecting some old pain to return that all her courage would not offset.