by Anne Perry
And even if she were entirely successful in duping them, would she discover anything at all that could shed any light on Robert York’s death? Perhaps this whole attempt was nothing to do with Robert or Veronica York, but was merely a silly farce to take Emily’s mind off her boredom, and an opportunity for Charlotte to make some judgment on Jack Radley, and only a temporarily successful attempt at that!
The carriage door was open and the footman was waiting to hand her down. She stepped out, glad of his grip for a moment or two as the cold, acrid air hit her like wet muslin. Then she went quickly up the steps and into the wide, warm hallway.
There was no time to look at the furnishings or the pictures beside the flight of stairs that swept upwards to the landing. The butler took her coat and muff and a maid held open the door into the withdrawing room. Charlotte took Jack’s arm and tried to sweep in with confidence, holding her chin high, her silk skirt swishing—or to be accurate, Emily’s silk skirt.
Jack nudged her sharply and she realized she was overdoing it. She was supposed to be modest, and obliged for their help. She lowered her gaze with a sense of irritation. She was tired of being obliged.
They were the last to arrive, which was very suitable, since they were the only ones not known closely to the others already. The six people in the room turned to look at them with varying degrees of interest. The first to speak was a young woman in her late twenties with a most individual face which only just missed being pretty; her nose was tip-tilted too far from the classic, and there was a frankness in her dark eyes that seemed out of place in an unmarried woman. Her figure was not nearly rounded enough for fashion, but her dark hair was shining and thick enough to have pleased anyone. She came forward to greet Charlotte with a good-mannered smile.
“How do you do, Miss Barnaby. I am Harriet Danver. I am so pleased you were able to come. Are you finding London agreeable, apart from this wretched weather?”
“How do you do, Miss Danver,” Charlotte replied courteously. “Oh yes, thank you for asking. Even in this fog it is such a nice change from the country, and people are so kind.”
A tall, lean man with an aquiline, highly ascetic-looking face came forward from where he had been half sitting on the back of a huge armchair. Charlotte judged him to be in his mid-forties, until he passed directly under the chandelier and she saw that the graying at the temples touched the rest of his head as well; the lines on his face were finer and more numerous than the shadows had betrayed.
“I am Garrard Danver.” His voice had a fine timbre to it. “I am delighted to meet you, Miss Barnaby.” He did not take her hand but instead smiled at Jack, bidding him welcome also, and introduced them to the remaining people in the room. Of these the most interesting by far was Julian Danver; indeed he was the principle reason Charlotte had been so keen to come. He was about the same height as his father, with a more athletic build, but it was his face that held her attention. He must have gotten his features from his mother, because Charlotte could see no family resemblance to Garrard at all, whereas in Harriet it was quite recognizable, especially about the eyes. Julian was fair, his eyes were gray or blue—she could not tell in the light of the chandelier—and his hair was brown with a fair streak across the front. His features were strong, and there was intelligence and restraint in his bearing. She could well imagine that Veronica York found him most attractive.
The last member of the Danver family was Garrard’s maiden sister, Miss Adeline Danver. She was rakishly thin, her deep green dress failing to mask the sharp bones of her shoulders. Her features exaggerated the flaws in Harriet’s face—her chin was smaller, her nose more prominent—but she had the same dark eyes and fine head of hair, more faded but still thick.
“Aunt Adeline is hard of hearing,” Harriet whispered softly to Charlotte. “If she says something odd, please smile and disregard it. She frequently gets quite the wrong sense of what is said.”
“Of course,” Charlotte murmured politely.
The only other guests were Felix Asherson and his wife. A striking man with black hair and unexpectedly vivid gray eyes, he worked in the Foreign Office with Julian Danver. But it was his mouth Charlotte noticed. She could not make up her mind about it; was it sensuous and strong, or was that wide lip a sign of self-indulgence? His wife Sonia was a handsome woman with bland, regular features, empty of expression, the sort of face fashion advertisers like because it sets off a hat without drawing the eye from it in the least. Her figure was well-proportioned, and on this occasion she wore a gown in a most becoming shade of coral pink, revealing plump, milk-white shoulders.
After the formal greetings had been exchanged, the usual small talk began. Since all the others were known to each other, it centered upon Charlotte and Jack Radley, and Charlotte concentrated on giving answers that made sense factually and were also in keeping with the character she had created for herself. She was supposed to be a young woman of modest means and good breeding, and, naturally, in search of a husband. Maintaining this role required all her attention, and it was not until they were at dinner round a table gleaming with silver and crystal, partaking of a rather too salty soup, that she was able to take time to observe the rest of the company.
The conversation was still very general: comments upon the unpleasantness of the weather, then minor points of news—nothing political or even remotely contentious—and then remarks about a play that most of them had seen. Charlotte replied only when good manners demanded, which gave her time to think. She might not get this opportunity again, so she must take full advantage of it.
The things she hoped to discover were few, but they would add to the little she had learned from Pitt. How long had Julian Danver and Veronica been acquainted? Did their love predate Robert York’s death, and thus cause it? Was Julian Danver an ambitious man, either in his profession or socially? Was there a noticeable difference in their financial status, so that money might have been a motive, either for Veronica or for him?
Charlotte had grown up in a home where quality was intensely admired, even on those occasions when it could not be afforded. It was one of a well-bred young lady’s attributes that she should be able to distinguish the excellent from the merely good, and naturally also its cost. She had been in the hall and withdrawing room of the York house, and she judged that they had had money long enough to be comfortable with it. There was none of the tendency to show off which so often accompanied recent acquisition. They felt no necessity to parade new furnishings or decorations, or put objets d’art in prominent positions.
Of course, she was quite aware that people’s circumstances can change; she had seen many houses with fine rooms where guests were received, while the rest of the building lacked even a carpet and grates did not know a fire from one Christmas to another. And some prefer to keep a full complement of servants while they themselves eat barely enough to keep alive, rather than be seen to have a poor establishment. But Charlotte had noticed the women’s clothes. They were of the latest cut and there were no worn places on cuffs or elbows; nothing had been altered to fit another season, or turned to hide patches. And she had done enough of that kind of thing herself to know precisely where to look for the telltale needle holes, the slightly different shading of fabric.
Now as she pretended to listen to the conversation across the table, she glanced as discreetly as she could at the dining room and its furnishings. The whole effect was silver and blue, pale on the immaculate wallpaper, dark royal blue in the curtains, which seemed to be without the usual faded marks that the sun so quickly made in blues, which meant they were not above a season old. Perhaps that indicated a tendency to extravagance? There was a painting of a Venetian scene on the wall opposite her, but Charlotte could not tell whether it was excellent or merely agreeable. The table itself was mahogany, or at least the legs were; the top was completely covered by crisp damask of heavy quality. The chairs and two sideboards were of the Adam style, and might well be genuine.
After checking that
no one was watching her, she took a quick glance to see the hallmark on the reverse of her silver spoon. Perhaps the salty soup was a mere mischance; even the best people could have an accident with a cook. Perhaps they even liked it like this.
She considered the women’s clothes again with an eye to cost as well as to the indications to character they might show. Presumably both Harriet and Aunt Adeline, as unmarried women, were dependent upon Garrard for their support. Adeline’s gown did not have the panache of high fashion, but then nothing she wore ever would; she was not that kind of person, and Charlotte guessed she never had been. Nonetheless, the dress was well cut and of excellent fabric. Much the same could be said of Harriet’s gown.
No, unless there was some hidden factor, some inheritance or the like, it did not seem as if money entered into the match.
“Don’t you, Miss Barnaby?”
She realized with a start that Felix Asherson was talking to her—but what on earth had he said?
“I find Mr. Wagner’s operas a little long-winded and I am tired some time before the end,” he repeated, looking at her with a slight smile. “I prefer something rather closer to life, don’t you? I don’t care for all this magic.”
“I’m not surprised,” Aunt Adeline put in suddenly, before Charlotte had time to find an answer. “There’s enough of it we can’t avoid as it is.”
Everyone stared at her, and Charlotte was totally confused. The remark seemed to make no sense.
“He said ‘magic,’ Aunt Addie,” Harriet said quietly. “Not ‘tragic’ ”
She did not seem in the least put out. “Oh, really? I don’t care for the magic element very much. Do you, Miss Barnaby?”
Charlotte swallowed. “I don’t think so, Miss Danver. I am not sure that I ever met with it.”
Jack coughed discreetly into his napkin, and Charlotte knew he was laughing.
Julian smiled and offered her more wine. A footman and two maids served the fish course.
“Unrequited love seems to be the theme of a great many operas and plays,” Charlotte said to break the silence. “In fact, it is almost a necessity.”
“I suppose it is something most of us can imagine, even if we have been fortunate enough not to feel it,” Julian answered.
“Do you think such tales are true to life?” Charlotte asked gently, watching his face for sympathy or contempt.
He gave her the courtesy of a thoughtful answer. “Not in detail. Drama has to be condensed, or as Felix says, it becomes too boring; our attention is short. But the emotions are real, at least for some of us—” Suddenly he stopped and looked down at the table, then quickly up again at her. In that moment she found herself liking him. He had said something he had not meant to, but she was certain his embarrassment was not for himself—there was no anger or resentment in it at all—but for someone else at the table.
“My dear Julian,” Garrard said irritably. “You are far too literal. I don’t suppose Miss Barnaby intended anything so grave.”
“No, of course not,” Julian agreed quickly. “I apologize.”
Charlotte was intensely aware that they were talking about something real and known to both of them. It had to be either Adeline or Harriet. Harriet was past the age when one might have expected a personable and well-bred woman of sound financial prospects to marry. Why had they not arranged a suitable match for her?
Charlotte smiled charmingly; her warmth was quite truly felt. “Indeed, I was only thinking, as you were, that too much magic or coincidence spoils one’s belief in the story, and therefore one’s emotional rapport with the characters. It was quite a trivial remark.” She plunged on. “Mrs. York has been kind enough to invite me to go and view the winter exhibition at the Royal Academy with her. Have any of you been yet?”
“I went,” Sonia Asherson said mildly. “But I can’t say that I recall anything in particular.”
“Any portraits?” Aunt Adeline inquired. “I love faces.”
“So do I,” Charlotte agreed. “As long as they are not idealized so that all the flaws are removed. I often think the true character lies in those lines and proportions that depart from the classic—where the individuality is revealed, and the marks of experience.”
“How perceptive of you,” Aunt Adeline said with sudden pleasure, and for the first time she looked with interest directly at Charlotte. Charlotte realized at once what a vivid creature lived inside the thin, rather quaint exterior. How shallow to judge from smooth, conventional looks, like Sonia Asherson’s. Instinctively her eyes went to Felix. How trivial of him to have preferred a bland creature like Sonia rather than someone unconventional but full of feeling, like Harriet.
But perhaps he didn’t. She had no right to assume he was happy; anything might lie behind Felix’s polished manners and elusive face. This was another line of thought altogether, Charlotte reminded herself, and nothing to do with Veronica York, or Robert’s death.
“It was so kind of Mrs. York to invite me to accompany her,” Charlotte repeated a little abruptly. She must keep the conversation to the point. “Do you know, does she paint? I like portraits, but I love those delicate watercolor pictures some travelers make so clearly and with such sensitivity that you can imagine yourself there. I recall some wonderful pictures of Africa; I could almost feel the heat on the stones, so well was it drawn.” They were all looking at her now; right round the table their faces were turned towards her. Sonia Asherson was clearly surprised at her sudden garrulity, while Felix seemed amused; Harriet was looking but not listening, her thoughts elsewhere; Garrard gazed at Charlotte politely. Only Aunt Adeline had a brightness in her eyes that followed her sentiment. Jack was uncharacteristically silent. Apparently he was going to leave the field to her.
It was Julian who answered.
“I don’t think she does paint. We’ve never spoken of it.”
“Have you known her long?” Charlotte asked, trying to be artless, and wondered immediately if she had been too blunt. “I imagine in the diplomatic service you must have traveled?”
“Not to Africa,” he said with a smile. “But it is something I should like to do.”
“Far too hot!” Felix said with a grimace.
“I can understand you’d rather not,” Aunt Adeline said with a sharp glance at him, “but it might be an excellent thing all the same!”
Harriet caught her breath. Her fingers round the stem of her wineglass were so tight the knuckles paled. In that instant a dozen memories flooded back to Charlotte of how she had felt before she had met Thomas, when she was still in love with Dominic, her eldest sister’s husband. She remembered the agonizing fear, the hopelessness of being left out, the wild moments of imagined intimacy, a glance, an accidental touch, the singing heart when he seemed to take extra care speaking to her, the tenderness she thought she saw, and underneath it all the cold, sane despair. But she would not have dreamed of marrying anyone else, no matter what efforts her mother made. Was this not what she was seeing now in Harriet’s lowered eyes, pale lips, and hot cheeks?
“He did not say he would rather not, Aunt Addie,” Julian corrected. “He said it was far too hot. I presume he meant for Veronica to accompany me.”
Aunt Adeline dismissed the idea with scorn. “Nonsense! Some Englishwoman, I forget her name, went up the Congo all by herself. I’d love to do that!”
“What an excellent idea,” Garrard said waspishly. “Shall you go in the summer or the winter?”
She looked at him with bright eyes of disgust. “It is on the Equator, my dear, so it hardly matters. Don’t they teach you anything in the Foreign Office?”
“Not how to row up the Congo in a canoe,” he retorted. “It doesn’t seem to serve any purpose. We leave it to spinster ladies, who, according to you, have a taste for it.”
“Good!” she snapped. “You had better leave us something!”
Jack came to the rescue. He turned to Julian. “I knew Mrs. York several years ago, before her marriage to Robert, but I can’t
remember whether she was interested in travel, and of course one may change. I daresay marrying into the Foreign Office will have broadened her knowledge, and perhaps her ambitions.”
Charlotte silently blessed him, and composed her face into an expression of great interest. “Was Mr. York a traveler?”
There was a moment’s silence. A knife clinked on someone’s plate. Out in the hall a servant’s footsteps sounded quite clearly.
“No,” Julian replied. “No, I don’t believe he was, although I did not know him well. I came to the department in the Foreign Office only a couple of months before his death. Felix knew him better.”
“He liked Paris,” Sonia Asherson said suddenly. “I remember him saying so. I wasn’t at all surprised; he was such a charming man, elegant and witty. Paris would be bound to please him.” She looked at her husband. “I wish we could go abroad sometimes, to somewhere sophisticated like that. Africa would be terrible, and India only marginally better.”
Charlotte looked at Harriet, and this time she was almost sure her guess was right. The dark, hollow look in her eyes, the aura of loss surrounding her was exactly what Charlotte herself had once felt when Sarah and Dominic had talked quite lightly of moving away. Yes, Harriet was in love with Felix Asherson. Did he know it? Dominic had never had the faintest idea of the turmoil he had caused in his sister-in-law, the agony, the embarrassment or the idiotic dreams.
She looked at Felix Asherson, but he was staring at the white damask cloth in front of him.
“I shouldn’t anticipate anything,” he answered her irritably. “I can’t imagine any circumstance in which I should be sent to any part of Europe, except perhaps Germany. All the interest in my department is with the empire, particularly Africa and who colonizes where. And if I went there it would be on business. I should be there and back in weeks, and most of the time would be spent on the voyage.”
Harriet was still too absorbed in trying to hide her feelings from the company to say anything. Garrard was leaning backwards in his chair, admiring the sparkle of the wine in his glass as the light from the chandelier caught it. A little self-consciously elegant, Charlotte decided, although she felt there was more emotion behind that highly individual face than she had first imagined—deeper lines round the mouth, a sharper curve to the lips, gestures that told of control mastering an inner restlessness. He was not as unlike Adeline as he had seemed at first.