by Anne Perry
“Oh, yes please,” Veronica said with a smile. “How nice of him to call. Is Miss Barnaby with him, too?”
“No ma’am. Shall I bring him in here?” Nora glanced quickly at Emily, implying that she should leave.
“Yes, do. And have Mrs. Melrose prepare some tea and sandwiches, and cakes.”
“Yes ma’am,” Nora turned on her heel and went out, her skirts swishing round the door before she closed it. In her opinion lady’s maids had no business being where they could meet gentlemen callers. That was a parlormaid’s privilege.
Jack came in a moment later, smiling easily, graceful and full of life. He did not even glance at Emily, but his face lit with pleasure when he saw Veronica, and she held out her hand to him. Emily felt a shock of rejection, almost as if she had been slapped. It was idiotic. Had he spoken to her it would have spoilt everything, and she would have been angry with him. And yet she felt crushed inside because he had carried out his part perfectly. He had treated her like a servant, not a woman at all.
“How kind of you to see me,” he said warmly, as if it was more than just a social ritual. “I should have sent my card, but it was a spur-of-the-moment call. How are you? I heard you had a misfortune in the house. I do hope you are beginning to recover?”
Veronica clung to his hand. “Oh Jack, it really was dreadful. Poor Dulcie fell out of the window, and she was crushed on the stone beneath. I can’t think how it happened. No one saw anything!”
Jack! She had called him by his Christian name so naturally that it must be how she thought of him, even after all this time. Why had she not married him when they knew each other before? Money? Her parents? They might well have refused someone like Jack, who had no prospects. They had picked Robert York instead, an only son who had both money and ambition. But would she have preferred Jack? And infinitely more important, would he have preferred her?
They were talking as if Emily were not there; she could have been another cushion on the chair. Veronica was looking up at Jack, her cheeks flushed, looking happier than Emily had ever seen her. The light shone on that hair like black silk, and her eyes were wide. She was more than beautiful— there was individuality and passion in her face. Emily was caught in a turmoil of feelings that tightened her throat so she thought she might choke. As Amelia she liked Veronica, and pitied her because she realized she was desperately unhappy over something. It came to Emily with clarity, as she sat there like a fool watching Jack, that Veronica was wound up like an old-fashioned thumbscrew inside, hurting a little more each day. Was it still grief over Robert? Or was it fear? Was it because she knew something—or because she did not know, and her sense of uncertainty warped everything?
And at the same time, Emily was burningly jealous. And jealousy brought back the agony of watching George become infatuated with Sybilla, of knowing the man she loved preferred, in fact adored someone else. It was a pain like no other, and the fact that George had woken up from his affair before he died did not wash away her knowledge of what it was like to be rejected. There had been no time for the wound to heal fully.
Emily could not help seeing Veronica as a rival. Jack had started as an amusement, a graceful and charming toy to be played with; then he had become a friend, far more comfortable to be with than almost anyone except Charlotte. But now he was a part of her life she could not lose without profound loneliness. Now he was laughing and talking with Veronica, and Emily was powerless even to speak, let alone to fight for his attention. It was a kind of pain she had never experienced before. Some other time she would give thought to what it must be like always to be a maid, condemned only to watch. Now she was full of her own anger and hurt and had no time for anyone else.
And she should slip away. Maids had no business remaining in the room as if they were guests. She did not excuse herself; that too was unnecessary, an interruption. She simply stood up and tiptoed out. Jack did not even turn his head. At the door she looked over her shoulder at him, but he was smiling at Veronica, and Emily might not have existed.
Charlotte was frightened when Pitt described Emily’s danger with such clarity, but she was helpless to save her sister. Even if Charlotte went to the Yorks’ as often as she could, she could hardly rescue Emily over the teacups and cucumber sandwiches. The only comfort was that she did not actually believe Veronica was Cerise; from what Pitt had said, she had not the nerve to be a spy.
She raised the subject again the next day, hoping to ease the rift between them. “If she is a spy, don’t we have to discover her, for the nation’s sake?”
“No, we do not,” he said pointedly. “I do.”
“But we can help! Nobody in Hanover Close is going to talk to you because you are police, whereas they take no notice of us. They don’t think we have enough brains for them to have to lie!”
Pitt grunted and raised his eyebrows. He looked at her pointedly, and she decided to ignore him. It might be wiser to let the subject drop, in case he forbade her going to the Yorks’: she really did not want to have to disobey him. She wanted very much to avoid another quarrel. She could not possibly allow Emily to face whatever danger there was alone, but there was nothing she could say that Pitt would believe. If she were too docile he would become suspicious, so she merely resumed eating her supper and presently spoke of something else.
The following morning, as soon as Pitt was out of the house, she wrote a letter to Jack Radley and had Gracie put it in the ten o’clock post. While she was ironing Pitt’s shirts, Charlotte laid her plans.
It was Saturday, two days later, when they came to fruition, by which time she had been visited by Jack with an account of his call upon Veronica York. Emily had been in the room on his arrival, but had left shortly afterwards. He had been concerned that she looked very pale and rather unhappy, although he had not dared to do more than glance at her. The news of Emily was not good, but Charlotte was quite elated that he seemed so anxious for her. Looking at his face, which usually revealed nothing but charm and the superficial pleasure Society expected, she saw something of the man beneath, and found she liked it. Perhaps for Emily to be in danger was precisely what he needed, to show her that he had in him the depth she wanted for Emily.
Consequently it was with a high heart and some exhilaration that she set out alone from Emily’s house in the early afternoon, dressed in one of her sister’s older gowns, let out judiciously here and there because she was a couple of inches taller, and handsomer of bust than Emily, even before the tragedy of George’s death. It was golden brown, the color of old sherry, and extremely becoming to her warm-toned complexion and her hair with its auburn lights. She chose a hat trimmed with black fur, and a muff to match. Altogether she had never looked so well in a winter outfit in her life.
She had sent a letter and received one in return from Veronica, so she was expected. She drew up in Emily’s carriage, hoping no one would notice. If asked, she was going to explain that it had been lent for convenience, since Lady Ashworth was out of town.
Veronica was awaiting her in the withdrawing room and her face lit with pleasure as Charlotte was shown in. She rose immediately.
“How nice to see you. I’m so glad you came. Do sit down. I wish it were not so terribly cold, but all the same I thought we might go for a ride, just to be away from the same surroundings all the time. Unless you would like to see the winter exhibition again?”
Charlotte saw the urgency in her eyes as she waited for an answer.
“Not at all—a carriage ride is an excellent idea,” Charlotte responded with a smile. It was not what she had planned, but it might serve, and she must court Veronica’s friendship. If they were alone together in a carriage, secure from interruption, she might elicit some confidence. “I should enjoy that very much,” she added for good measure.
Veronica relaxed, some of the tension easing out of her slender body. She smiled. “I’m so glad. I wish you would call me Veronica, and may I call you Elisabeth?”
For a moment Charlotte was
startled; she had almost forgotten her alias. “Of course!” she said after a moment’s hesitation, then in case Veronica thought she disapproved, “That is most kind of you. Where do you care to drive?”
“I. . .” Veronica’s pale cheeks colored very slightly, and instantly Charlotte understood; she was not yet ready to commit herself to such trust.
“Why not let us see where the wish takes us?” Charlotte suggested tactfully. “No doubt something agreeable will occur to us once we are started.”
Veronica was visibly relieved. “How sympathetic you are.” The moment had passed without the need for explanation, and she was grateful. “Have you had a pleasant time since we visited the exhibition?” she asked.
Charlotte had to invent a reply on the spot. “If you wish for a frank answer, I am afraid nothing worthy of repeating.”
Veronica’s smile expressed her comprehension completely. She had endured years of being a model widow, a decorous wife, and before that a demure young lady seeking a suitable marriage. She had an intimate acquaintance with boredom.
Charlotte was about to introduce another topic when Loretta came in, her face registering good-mannered surprise.
“Good afternoon, Miss Barnaby,” she said. “How pleasant of you to call. I hope you are well, and enjoying your stay in London?”
Before she could fumble for an appropriate response Veronica helped her by announcing their plans. “We are going to take a drive.”
Loretta’s eyes opened wide. “In this weather? My dear, it is bitterly cold and looks as if it might well snow again.”
“Very bracing,” Veronica said immediately. “And I am longing to get a little air.”
The corners of Loretta’s full-lipped mouth curved upward minutely. “Are you going to call upon anyone?”
This time Veronica was slower, and her eyes slid away from her mother-in-law’s. “I . . . er—”
“We have not decided,” Charlotte interrupted for her, smiling at Loretta. “We thought we could go wherever the whim took us.”
“I beg your pardon?” Loretta was put off her stride by such an unexpected answer.
“We have not decided,” Veronica repeated, seizing on the escape. “We shall drive for pleasure. I have been inside too much lately. I am sure fresh air would do me good. I feel peaked.”
“And what about Miss Barnaby?” Loretta inquired. “She is not in the least peaked. In fact she appears in the most robust good health.”
Charlotte knew she had anything but the pale and languid look of fashion, but she did not care. “I am perfectly happy to take a ride,” she insisted. “Perhaps we should see some sights.”
“You are too amiable,” Loretta said coolly. “I thought perhaps you might have considered visiting Harriet Danver.”
They all knew she meant Julian, but they kept up the fiction.
With Charlotte’s moral support Veronica had gathered courage. This time she met Loretta’s eyes. “No,” she said blandly. “We had merely said it would be nice to take a ride. I thought I might show Elisabeth some of the fashionable places in London that she has not seen.”
“In this weather?” Loretta said again. “There is no sun whatever and it will be dark by four. Really, my dear, you are being a trifle impractical.”
“Then we had better hurry.” Veronica was not to be dissuaded. Her will was growing stronger; Charlotte could see it in the angle of her head and the increasing quickness of her answers.
Loretta smiled sweetly, taking them both by surprise. “In that case I shall come with you. Then if you do decide to call upon the Danvers you will not be unchaperoned, which would be most unsuitable. After all, it is Saturday, and Mr. Danver may well be at home. We must not be ill thought of.”
Suddenly Veronica seemed seized by panic, as if she were enmeshed in a net and every new twist to free herself only bound her more tightly. Charlotte could see the rise and fall of her bosom as she fought for bream, and her hands clenched at her sides as if she would tear at her skirt.
“I shall have Elisabeth with me!” Her voice rose sharply, almost out of control. “I know the rules! I—”
Loretta stared at her, eyes careful, steady, almost warning, a tight smile on her lips. “My dear girl—”
“How generous of you.” Charlotte immediately wished she had not stepped in: it might have been more productive to let the scene play itself out. She should have thought more of detection and less of friendship. But it was too late now. “I am sure we should enjoy your company, especially if we take a walk in the park.” She thought of the raw wind slicing in off the open grass and whining through the wet, leafless trees.
But Loretta was not to be deterred so easily. “I think, Miss Barnaby, that when you step outside you will change your mind, but if that is what you wish then I shall wait in the carriage for you.”
“You’ll freeze!” Veronica said desperately.
“I am much stronger than you think, my dear,” Loretta replied levelly, and as Veronica turned away Charlotte was startled to see tears in her eyes. What was this emotion between these two women? Veronica was afraid; Charlotte had seen fear often enough to know. And yet Veronica was not naturally submissive, and now that Robert was dead she ought to have no need to cater to his feelings for his mother. Financially she was secure, and she was all but engaged to marry again. Why was she so afraid? Everything Loretta had done, at least on the surface, had been in her interest.
If only Charlotte could learn what sort of a marriage it had been, how it had begun. Had Loretta adored her only son, and had she been too demanding of her daughter-in-law? Had she interfered, criticized, been open in her disappointment because there had been no grandchildren? There could be a dozen passions or griefs behind the driving emotion that bound these two women.
The tense silence in the room was broken when the door opened and Piers York came in. Charlotte had not met him before, but she knew him immediately from Pitt’s description: elegant, a trifle stooping, face wry with self-deprecatory good humor.
“Ah!” he said with slight surprise on seeing Charlotte.
Veronica forced a smile; it was ghastly, a travesty of pleasure.
“Papa-in-law, this is Miss Barnaby, a new friend of mine who has been good enough to call. We were going to take a short drive.”
“What an excellent idea,” he agreed. “Rather cold, but better than sitting inside all day. How do you do, Miss Barnaby.”
“How do you do, Mr. York,” Charlotte replied warmly. He was the sort of man she liked without needing to think about it. “I’m so glad you approve. Mrs. York”—she glanced at Loretta—“was afraid we should not enjoy it because it is so chill outside, but I feel exactly as you do, that whatever the weather it is better to go out for a little while, even if only to better appreciate the fire when we return.”
“What a sensible young woman.” He smiled. “I have no idea why fashion so admires the drooping young creatures who lie about being bored with everything. They have no idea how tedious they are. I pity the man who is naïve enough to marry one of them. Still, I suppose they are all taking a pig in a poke anyway!”
“Piers!” Loretta said tartly. “Please keep that sort of unfortunate language for your club! It has no place here. You will offend Miss Barnaby.”
He looked surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Barnaby, did I offend you? I assure you I only meant that one can get very little idea of a person’s true nature from the sort of social twitterings that are all one is allowed before marriage.”
Charlotte smiled broadly. “I am not in the least offended. I know precisely what you mean. And then when you do discover, of course it is too late. Mrs. York was just saying that if we come to call upon the Danvers it would be necessary for Veronica to be chaperoned. But I would be quite happy to make sure nothing is done that could be remarked upon, I give you my word.”
“I am sure you mean well, Miss Barnaby, but that is not sufficient for Society,” Loretta said firmly.
“Nonsense,” Piers contradicted her. “Perfectly all right. Anyway, who would know about it? Harriet certainly isn’t going to say anything.”
“It would be as well if I were to go with you,” she insisted, taking a step towards the door. “This is a most delicate time.”
“For heaven’s sake stop fussing, Loretta!” he said with unusual sharpness. “You worry over Veronica far too much. Danver’s a decent enough fellow, and no stick-in-the-mud. Miss Barnaby is perfectly adequate as a chaperone, and it’s good of her to oblige.”
“Piers, you don’t understand.” Loretta’s voice grated with the power of her emotion. “I wish you would accept my judgment. There is far more to this than you realize.”
“About a carriage ride?” His disbelief was tinged with annoyance.
Her face was white. “There are delicacies, things that. . .”
“Indeed? What, for example?”
She was angry, but she had no answer that she was prepared to give him.
Charlotte looked at Veronica, wondering whether the brief escape would be worth the unpleasantness which would undoubtedly follow.
“Come, Elisabeth,” Veronica said without looking at Loretta. “We shall not be long, but it will be good for us to go out.”
Charlotte excused herself and followed Veronica out into the hallway. She waited a few moments while the footman was dispatched to fetch Veronica’s cloak and muff, and Veronica herself went to change her boots.
The withdrawing room door was ajar.
“You know nothing whatever about that young woman!” Loretta’s voice rose angrily. “Most unsuitable. Brash. Totally unsophisticated!”