by Anne Perry
“At least George’s wife was his own choice.” Vespasia filled the void with chipped ice. “He was encumbered with his family regardless of his wishes, and I think there were times when he found it distinctly a burden.”
“You have no notion of loyalty, Mama-in-law!” Eustace said with a slight flaring of his nostrils and a warning note in his voice.
“None at all,” she agreed. “I always felt it a spurious value to defend what is wrong merely because you are related to its perpetrators.”
“Quite.” Eustace avoided Charlotte’s eyes and looked at Emily. “If we find that the—offender—is one of this family, we will still do our duty, painful as it may be, and see that they are locked away. But discreetly. We do not wish the innocent to be hurt as well, and there are many to consider. The family must be preserved.” He flashed a smile at Sybilla. “Some people,” he continued, “ignorant people, can be most unkind. They are apt to tar all of us with the same brush. And now that Sybilla is at last to bear us a child”—his tone was suddenly jubilant, and he gave William a conspiratorial glance—“we trust, the first of many, we must look to the future.”
Emily had a suffocating feeling of being crowded in. She looked at Mrs. March, who looked away, dabbing stupidly at the water she had spilled across the cloth, but it had long since soaked in. Jack Radley gave a half smile, but it died on his lips as he thought better of it.
William had eaten little and now he stopped altogether. His face was as white as the sauce on the fish. Emily already knew him well enough to be aware that he was an acutely private man, and such open discussion of so personal a subject was agonizing to him. She looked away along the table to Sybilla.
But Sybilla was gazing at William, then at Eustace, her face filled with a loathing so intense it was incredible he should be unaware of it.
Tassie picked up her wineglass, and it slipped through her fingers to crash on the table, spilling wine everywhere. Emily had no doubt whatsoever she had done it on purpose. Her eyes were wide, like pits in the bleached skin of her face.
Sybilla was the first to recover. She forced a smile that was painful, worse than the hate before because of the effort behind it. “Never mind,” she said huskily. “It’s a white wine—I daresay it will wash quite easily. Would you like some more?”
Tassie opened her mouth soundlessly, and closed it again.
Emily stared at William, and he looked back at her, ashen, and with a complexity of emotions she could not unravel. It could have been anything, most probably pity for her; perhaps he also believed she had murdered her husband in a frenzy of hopeless jealousy, and that was what he pitied her for. Perhaps he even felt he understood. Was it Eustace, with his complacency, his boundless energy, his virility which had ultimately exhausted Olivia, who had shadowed William’s marriage for so long? Was he terrified Sybilla would die of excessive childbearing, as his mother had done? Or had he never loved Sybilla deeply anyway? Maybe he even loved someone else. Society was full of empty marriages at all levels; since marriage was the only acceptable state for a woman, one could not afford to be pernickety.
She looked at Eustace, but he was busy again with his food. He had problems to consider: keeping his family from hysteria, preventing scandal in Society, and preserving the reputation of the Marches—especially of William and Sybilla, now that the longed-for heir was to come. Emily was an embarrassment, threatening rapidly, if the old lady were to be believed, to become something far worse. He sliced a piece of meat viciously, squeaking his knife on the plate, and his face remained in deep concentration.
Emily looked across the table at Jack Radley. His eyes were candid and startlingly soft. He had been watching her already, before she looked at him. She realized how often she had seen that expression in him recently. He was attracted to her, very strongly so, and it was deeper than the triviality of a flirtation.
Oh, God! Had he killed George for her? Did he really imagine that she would marry him now?
The room swayed around her and there was a roaring sound in her ears as if she were underwater. The walls disappeared and suddenly she could not breathe. She was far too hot ... suffocating ...
“Emily! Emily!” The voice was booming and fuzzy, and yet very close to her. She was sitting on one of the side chairs, half reclining. It was uncomfortable and precarious. She felt as if she might slide off if she were to move. It had been Charlotte’s voice. “You are perfectly all right,” she said quietly. “You fainted. We expected too much of you. Mr. Radley will carry you upstairs, and I’ll help you to bed.”
“I will have Digby bring you up a tisane,” Aunt Vespasia added from somewhere above her in an unfocused distance.
“I don’t need carrying upstairs!” Emily protested. “It would be ridiculous. And why can’t Millicent bring me a tisane—except that I don’t want one.”
“Millicent is upset,” Vespasia replied. “She weeps at the drop of a hat, and is quite the last thing you need. I’ve put her to the stillroom till she can take hold of herself. And you will do as you are told and not cause yourself any more distress by fainting again.”
“But Aunt Vespasia—” Before her argument was formed Charlotte’s borrowed silk was replaced by black barathea, and Jack Radley put his arms round her and lifted her up. “This is quite unnecessary,” she said irritably. “I am perfectly able to walk!”
He ignored her, and with Charlotte going ahead opening doors, Emily was carried out of the dining room, through the hallway, and up the stairs to her bedroom. He laid her on the bed, said nothing, but touched her arm gently and left.
“I suppose it’s a little late to think of it now,” Charlotte said, unbuttoning Emily’s dress. “But your excess of charm to win George back was bound to attract others as well. You shouldn’t really be surprised.”
Emily stared at the pattern on the coverlet. She allowed Charlotte to continue with the buttons. She did not want her to go.
“I’m frightened,” she said quietly. “Mrs. March thinks I killed George because he was making love with Sybilla. She as good as said so.”
Charlotte did not reply for so long that finally Emily swung round and stared at her. Her face was grave, and her eyes were blurred and sad.
“That’s why we have to discover exactly what did happen, painful as it will be—and difficult. I must talk to Thomas privately tomorrow and see what he has learned.”
Emily said nothing. She could feel the fear growing enormous inside her, roaring into the chasm of loneliness for George; the fierce, gripping pain was like ice. The danger was closing round her. If she did not learn the truth soon she would not escape it, perhaps not ever.
Charlotte woke in the night, her skin crawling with horror, her body rigid under the sheets and her fists clenched. Something appalling had torn her from the dark cocoon of sleep.
Then it came again—a high, sharp scream, ripping through the silence of the house. She sat up, clutching the bedclothes as though the room were freezing, although it was midsummer. She could hear nothing, nothing at all.
She climbed out of bed slowly, her feet touching the carpet with a chill. She bumped against a chair. She was longer than usual accustoming her sight to the denseness of the curtained room. What would she find out there on the landing? Tassie? Horrific ideas of blood and the gaslight at the head of the stairs shining on knives swarmed into her imagination, and she stopped in the middle of the floor, holding her breath.
At last there was another sound, footsteps somewhere far away, and a door opening and closing. Then more steps and the confused sounds of fumbling, of people awkward with sleep.
She pulled her wrap off the chair and put it round her shoulders, then opened the door quickly. At the end of the small passage the landing itself was aglow with light. Someone had turned up the lamps. By the time she reached the head of the stairs Great-aunt Vespasia was standing beside the jardinière with the fern in it. She looked old and very thin. Charlotte could not remember ever having seen her with he
r hair down before. It was like old silver scrollwork, polished too many times till it had been worn away. Now the lamplight shone through it, and it looked vaporous.
“What is it?” Charlotte’s voice cracked, her throat too dry to allow the words through. “Who screamed?”
There was another sound of feet, and Tassie appeared from the stairs to the floor above. She stared at them, her face white and frightened.
“I don’t know,” Vespasia answered them quietly. “I heard two screams. Charlotte, have you been to Emily?”
“No.” It was only a whisper. She had not even thought of Emily. She realized now that she had believed the sound came from the opposite direction, and farther away. “I don’t think—”
But before she could continue Sybilla’s bedroom door swung open and Jack Radley came out wearing nothing but a silk nightshirt.
Charlotte was sickened by a wave of disgust and disappointment, and in an instant the thought flew to her: how could she prevent Emily from knowing about this? She would feel betrayed a second time—however little she cared for him, he had still affected to care for her.
“There’s no need to be concerned,” he was saying with a slight smile, pushing his hands through his hair. “Sybilla had a nightmare.”
“Indeed?” Vespasia’s silver eyebrows rose in disbelief.
Charlotte collected herself. “What about?” she said sarcastically, concealing nothing of her contempt.
William opened his own bedroom door and came out onto the landing looking confused and embarrassed. His face was blurred with sleep and he blinked as though dragged from an oblivion he infinitely preferred.
“Is she all right?” he asked, turning to Jack Radley and ignoring the others.
“I think so,” Jack replied. “She rang for her maid.”
Vespasia walked slowly past without looking at either of them and went into Sybilla’s room, pushing the door open wider. Charlotte followed, partly from some vague idea that she might help but also from a compulsion to know. If Sybilla were ever to tell the truth of what had happened it would be now, when she was still too startled to have thought of a lie.
She followed Vespasia inside and was taken aback. All her ideas were thrown into turmoil when she saw Eustace, decorously wrapped in a blue paisley dressing gown, sitting on the end of the bed, talking.
“Now, now, my dear,” he said firmly. “Have your maid bring you a hot drink, and perhaps a little laudanum, and you’ll sleep perfectly well. You must dismiss these things from your mind, or you will make yourself ill. They are only fancies, quite unreal. You need a good rest. No more nightmares!”
Sybilla was propped up against the pillows, but the bed was in considerable disorder, sheets tangled and blankets crooked, as if she had been thrashing around in them in her sleep. Her mass of hair was loose like a river of black satin, and her face was bloodlessly pale, her eyes wide with shock. She stared back at Eustace speechlessly, as though she barely comprehended his words.
“Perfectly all right,” he repeated yet again. He turned and looked at Charlotte and Vespasia, half apologetically. “Women seem to have such vivid dreams, but a tisane and a dose of laudanum, and in the morning you will have forgotten all about it. Sleep in, my dear,” he said again to Sybilla. “Have your breakfast sent up.” He stood, smiling benignly, but there was a tightness at the corners of his lips and an unusual color marking his cheeks. He looked shaken, and Charlotte could hardly blame him. It had been a terrible shriek in the depth of the night, and Jack Radley’s apparent behavior was inexcusable. Perhaps it was wise for Eustace to try to convince her it was fantasy, although her tight face and burning eyes betrayed her utter disbelief.
“Put it from your mind,” Eustace said carefully. “Right out.”
Involuntarily Charlotte looked at the doorway. William was standing just inside, his face crumpled in anxiety, staring past his father and Vespasia to Sybilla.
She smiled at him, and there was a softness in her face. Charlotte had not seen before. Charlotte knew without question that it was not something sudden, nor was William surprised to see it.
“Are you all right?” he said quietly. The words were simple, almost banal, but there was a directness in them quite unlike Eustace’s assurance. Eustace was speaking for himself; William was asking for her.
Her hands relaxed and she smiled back at him. “Yes, thank you. I don’t think it will happen again.”
“We trust it will not,” Vespasia said coldly, looking back towards the landing, where Charlotte could still see Jack Radley.
“It won’t!” he said a little more loudly than necessary. Looking past Vespasia into the bedroom, he met Sybilla’s eyes. “But if you have any more frights ... dreams”—he said the word heavily—“just scream again. We’ll come, I promise you.” And he turned and walked away, gracefully, the tails of his nightshirt round his bare legs, and disappeared into his own room without looking back.
“Good God!” Vespasia said under her breath.
“Well,” Eustace began awkwardly, rubbing his hands. “Well. All had a bit of a shock. Ah.” He cleared his throat. “Least said, soonest mended. We’ll not refer to it again. All go back to bed and try to get a little sleep. Thank you for coming, Mrs. Pitt, most thoughtful of you, but nothing you can do now. If you need a tisane or a glass of milk, just ring for one of the maids. Thank heaven Mama wasn’t disturbed. Poor woman has more than enough to bear—er ...” He faltered to a stop, looking at no one. “Well. Good night.”
Charlotte went to Vespasia and, without giving a thought to the familiarity of it, put her arm round her, feeling with a start how thin and stiff she was under her wrap, how unprotected her bones.
“Come,” she said gently. “Sybilla will be fine now, but you should have a hot drink. I’ll get you one.”
Vespasia did not shrug off the arm; she seemed almost to welcome it. Her own daughter was dead, now George was dead. Tassie was too young and too frightened. But she was used to servants. “I’ll ring for Digby,” she said automatically. “She’ll get me some milk.”
“No need.” Charlotte walked with her across the landing. “I can heat milk, you know. I do it all the time in my own house—and I’d like to.”
Vespasia’s mouth lifted in the wraith of a smile. “Thank you, my dear. I should appreciate it. It has been a distressing night, and I feel no comfort in Eustace’s rather sanguine hopes. He is quite out of his depth. I am beginning to fear that we all are.”
In the morning Charlotte got up late and with a splitting headache. Hot tea brought to her by Lettie did not help.
Lettie drew the curtains and asked if she might lay out any particular clothes, and if she should draw a bath.
“No, thank you.” Charlotte declined primarily because she did not want to take the time. She must see how Vespasia was, and Emily, and if she could make the opportunity, Sybilla. There was a great deal more to last night’s events than a bad dream; there had been a look of hatred in Sybilla’s eyes, a deliberation in her voice more than the shreds of a nightmare, however vile.
But Lettie remained in the middle of the sunlit carpet, her hands kneading her skirt under her apron.
“I expect the inspector understands a lot of things we don’t, ma’am,” she said quietly.
Charlotte’s first thought was that Lettie was frightened. In the circumstances it was hardly surprising.
“I’m sure he does.” She tried to sound reassuring, although it was the last thing she felt.
But Lettie did not move. “It must be very interesting ...” She hesitated. “Being married to a policeman.”
“Yes.” Charlotte reached for the pitcher of water and Lettie automatically poured it for her. She began to wash.
“Is it very dangerous?” Lettie went on. “Does he get-hurt, sometimes?”
“Sometimes it’s dangerous. But he hasn’t been badly hurt. Usually it’s just hard work.” Charlotte reached for the towel and Lettie handed it to her.
“D
o you often wish he did something else, ma’am?”
It was an impertinent question, and for the first time Charlotte realized Lettie was asking because it was of some personal urgency to her. She put down the towel and met Lettie’s blue eyes with curiosity.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Lettie blushed, and looked away.
“No, I don’t,” Charlotte said honestly. “It was hard to get used to at first, but now I wouldn’t have him do anything else. It is his work, and he is good at it. If you love someone, you don’t want to change them from doing what they believe in. It makes no one happy. Why do you ask?”
Lettie’s blush deepend. “Oh, no reason, ma’am. Just ... just silly thoughts.” She turned away and began fussing with the dress Charlotte was to wear, tweaking unnecessarily at petticoats and removing imaginary specks of dust.
Charlotte learned from Digby that Emily was still asleep. She had taken laudanum and not woken in the night. Even Sybilla’s screams and the comings and goings on the landing had not disturbed her.
She expected Aunt Vespasia to have had breakfast sent up but actually met her at the top of the stairs looking ashen and hollow-eyed, holding on to the bannister, head erect, back stiff.
“Good morning, my dear,” she said very quietly.
“Good morning, Aunt Vespasia.” Charlotte had been intending to go to Sybilla’s room, if necessary to waken her and ask her about last night. Some pretext of concern for her would have been easy enough to find. But Vespasia looked so fragile, she offered her arm, instinctively, something she would not have dreamed of doing a week ago. Vespasia took it with a tiny smile.
“There is no point in speaking to Sybilla,” Vespasia said dryly as they went down. “If she had meant to say anything she would have done so last night. There is a great deal about Sybilla that I do not understand.”
Charlotte let her uppermost thought find words. “I wish we could prevent Emily from finding out. I could strangle Jack Radley myself, cheerfully. He is so abysmally—cheap!”