by Anne Perry
From those who hated her he heard the notes of envy and fear. They were frightened of her. She disrupted what they knew and understood. She threatened their peace of mind and unsettled thought.
He also detected through their stories, of both those who admired her and those who scorned her, a consistent thread of manipulation, a love of power and the will to use it, even for its own sake.
He pursued it until after dark. His back ached, he was exhausted and hungry, and had found he still knew little he could not have guessed. He could no longer put off going home. He walked along the footpath in Gower Street, crossed the intersection at Francis Street and Torrington Place, and went on. His feet hurt. Perhaps that was why he was walking more and more slowly.
There was damp in the air and a slight haze around the new moon above the bare branches of the trees. It was possible they had not seen the very last of the frost. What should he say to Charlotte? She had been so angry this morning she had refused to be present so she would not have to speak to him.
Did she care for Dominic so very much … even now? He was part of a past Pitt could never share in, because it had happened before he had known her. It was part of the life she was born to, of sufficient money and beautiful dresses, not hand-me-downs from Aunt Vespasia or gifts from Emily. It was parties and dances, soirees, the theater, having one’s own carriage instead of using a hansom on the rare occasions one went out. It was being known in fashionable circles, never having to explain yourself, to conceal the fact that your husband worked for a living, that you had only one resident maid and no manservant. It was the whole world of leisure.
It was the whole world of idleness, of seeking petty occupations with which to fill your day, and at the end wondering why you were still unsatisfied. Even Dominic had grown tired of it and chosen, with a passion, to do something difficult and consuming with his life. That was what Charlotte admired in him, not his handsome face or his charm or his social position. He had no social position.
She had said “Poor Dominic.” Did he ever want to hear her say “Poor Thomas” like that?
Never! The thought made his stomach hurt.
He turned the corner into Keppel Street. He was a hundred yards from home. He lengthened his stride. He turned up his own step and opened the front door. He would pretend nothing had happened.
The lights were on. He heard no sound. She could not be out. Could she?
He swallowed hard. He wanted to shout. He could feel panic welling up inside him. This was ridiculous. He had been wrong to be pleased about Dominic, but it was not a sin so grievous as—
He heard laughter from the kitchen, women’s laughter, light and happy.
He strode down the corridor, his feet heavy on the linoleum, and threw the door open.
Charlotte was standing beside the flour bin near the dresser and Gracie was next to the sink with a tray of small cakes. There was milk all over the floor. He looked at the mess, then at Gracie, lastly at Charlotte.
“Don’t step on it!” she warned. “You’ll slip. Don’t worry, it isn’t all I have. It’s only half a pint. It looks terrible like that, but it isn’t really bad.”
Gracie put down the cakes and reached for a cloth. Charlotte took a mop and squeezed it out, then began to swab up, looking at Pitt as she did and sending the milk in even wider circles. “You must be tired. Have you had anything to eat?”
“No.” Was it going to be all right?
“Would you like scrambled eggs? I’ve got enough milk for that … I think. Perhaps it had better be an omelette. I can do that with water. And I have a confession to make.”
He sat down, keeping his feet out of the way of the mop.
“Have you?” He tried to sound light, unafraid.
She looked down at the mop, guiding it back to the right place. “Daniel put his foot through one of the sheets,” she said. “I looked at them all. They’re all on their way out. I bought four new pairs, and pillow slips to go with them. Two pairs for us, one each for Daniel and Jemima.” She looked up to see what he would say.
Relief overwhelmed him like a tidal wave. He found he was smiling, even though he had not meant to. “Excellent!” He did not even care how much they had cost. “A very good thing. Are they linen?”
She still looked a little cautious. “Yes … I’m afraid so. Irish linen. It was a good bargain.”
“Even better. Yes, I would like an omelette. And have we any pickle left?”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled slowly. “I never run out of pickle. I wouldn’t dare,” she added under her breath.
“Neither should you.” He tried to sound sincere, but he was too happy. He almost wanted to laugh, just because what he had was so precious. Happiness was not in taking what you pleased, as Morgan thought, but in knowing the infinite value of what you had, of being able to look at it with gratitude and joy. “Never run out of pickle,” he reaffirmed.
She looked at him under her eyelashes and smiled.
That Sunday, John Cornwallis was invited to dine yet again at the house of Bishop Underhill. It never occurred to him not to accept. He knew why the bishop had sent the invitation. It was entirely to do with the matter of Unity Bellwood’s death. He wanted to know if there was further progress—and to urge Cornwallis to avoid scandal at any cost.
Cornwallis had no desire to allow the church to come into disrepute, even among those who were ignorant or insincere enough to judge the message of the Gospel by the failure of one of its servants to live up to even the ordinary laws of the land, let alone the higher laws of God. But neither did he intend to allow an actual wrong to be committed in order to hide an apparent one. He had nothing else to say to Bishop Underhill. He would have sent a polite note of apology except he wanted to go to dinner, to see the bishop’s wife again. If he refused, she might think he imagined the bishop’s expediency was hers also and that she shared in his cowardice. He had never thought it for a moment. The shame in her eyes had haunted him, her helplessness to deny the bishop without disloyalty.
He dressed very carefully. He wished to appear at his best. He told himself it was because the bishop was in a sense the enemy. He was fighting for a different cause. When sailing into conflict one flew all the flags on the masthead, colors streaming in the wind. There must not be a speck of dust on the black broadcloth of his jacket, and neither on his white collar or shirtfront. Cuff links and studs must gleam. Boots must be without dullness or smear.
He presented himself at exactly the hour stated, neither five minutes before nor five minutes after. He was welcomed by the footman and shown into the withdrawing room, where Isadora was waiting for him. She was dressed in very dark blue, soft as the night at sea. He could remember just that sort of sky after twilight in the Caribbean. She looked pleased to see him. She was smiling.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Cornwallis, the Bishop has been detained, but he will not be long, perhaps half an hour at most.”
He was delighted. His spirits soared immediately. He had to stop himself from allowing it to show in his face. What should he say? What would be honest, and not too bold, yet polite? He must say something!
“I’m sure it won’t matter.” Was that a foolish thing to say? As far as he was concerned if the bishop never came, so much the better! “I—I have no real news to tell him. It is all … insubstantial.”
“I imagine it will be,” she agreed. A shadow crossed her face. “Do you think they will be able to prove it?”
“I don’t know.” He knew what she was worrying about. At least he thought he did. A darkness would hang over Parmenter forever, his guilt neither proved nor disproved. He would always be suspect. It was almost a worse sentence than guilt outright, because there was a resentment as well, the feeling he had cheated justice. “But if there is anyone who can solve it, it will be Pitt,” he added.
“You think very highly of him, don’t you?” she said with a smile touched by anxiety.
“Yes I do.” There was no equivocation in his mi
nd.
“I hope it is capable of proof. Some things aren’t.” She glanced towards the French doors and the garden, where the light was fading, casting deep shadows under the tangled branches of the trees, although they were still bare. “Would you like to walk?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. He loved gardens at twilight. “Yes, I would.”
She led the way, stopping to allow him to open the door for her, then stepping through into the soft night air, rapidly cooling after the fragile warmth of the day. But if she felt cold through the thin fabric of her dress, she ignored it.
“There is not much to see, I’m afraid,” she said as she walked over the grass. “Just a glimmer of crocuses under the elms.” She pointed towards the far end of the lawn, and he could make out the blur of white and purple and gold across the bare earth. “I think I’ve brought you under false pretenses. But you can smell the narcissi.”
He could. There was a delicate sweetness in the air, clean and sharp as only white flowers can be.
“I love the change between day and night,” he said, lifting his face to look up at the sky. “Everything between sunset and darkness. There is so much room for imagination. You see things in a different way from the glare of daylight. There’s a richer beauty, and an awareness of how fleeting it all is, how ephemeral. It makes everything infinitely more precious, and there is a sense of regret in it, an understanding of time, and loss, that heightens everything.” He was talking dreadful nonsense. In the morning he would be mortified with embarrassment when he remembered.
And yet it was what he meant, and he did not stop. “And at dawn, from the first white fin of light in the east, right through until the clean, cold white daylight, its pale mists clearing across the fields, the dew over everything, there is an unreasoning hope you cannot explain—or feel at any other time.” He ceased abruptly. She must be thinking him a complete fool. He should never have come. He should have stayed inside, talking polite rubbish until the bishop arrived and tried to coerce him into arresting Ramsay Parmenter and having him declared insane.
“Have you noticed how many flowers have their best perfume at dusk?” she asked, still walking a little ahead of him, as if she also were reluctant to go back to the warm room and the lights and the fire. “If I could have anything I wanted, I would live overlooking water, a lake or the sea, and watch the light on it every evening. The earth consumes the light. The water gives it back.” She turned to him. He could see the faint glimmer of her fair skin. “It must be marvelous to watch the dawn or the sunset at sea,” she said softly. “Are you afloat in an ocean of light? Please don’t tell me you aren’t! Don’t you feel as if you are half in the sky, a part of it all?”
He smiled widely. “I hadn’t put it in such excellent words, but yes, that is exactly it. I watch the seabirds, and feel as if I am doing almost the same thing, as if the sails are my wings.”
“Do you miss it terribly?” Her voice came out of the near darkness, close to him.
“Yes,” he said with a smile. “And then when I was at sea I missed the smell of the damp earth, the wind in the leaves and the colors of autumn. Perhaps you can have everything, but you certainly cannot have it all at once.”
She gave a little laugh. “That is what memories are for.”
They were walking close together. He was very aware of her beside him. He would have liked to touch her, to offer her his arm, but it would have been too obvious. It would break the delicacy of the moment. The cloud bank was deepening over the west. He could barely see her, and yet he had never felt more aware of anyone.
Suddenly the lights from the house shone out over the grass. Someone had opened the French windows. The bishop was silhouetted against the warm color of the room, staring out at them.
“Isadora! What on earth are you doing out there? It’s pitch-dark!”
“No, it isn’t,” she contradicted him. “It’s only late twilight.” Her eyes were used to it, and she had not been aware of the change.
“It’s pitch-dark!” he repeated crossly. “I don’t know what made you take our guest out at this hour. There’s nothing whatever to see. It was most thoughtless of you, my dear.”
The addition of the words my dear somehow added insult to the injury of rudeness. They were so obviously not meant, except to disguise the irritation behind them. Cornwallis controlled his temper because the man was a bishop and this was his house—or more accurately, his garden.
“It is my fault,” he said very clearly. “I was taking great pleasure in the smell of the evening flowers. I am still not used to the feeling of the earth under my feet.”
“Where are you accustomed to finding it?” the bishop said tartly.
Isadora stifled a giggle. Cornwallis heard it distinctly, but the bishop was too far away to be sure.
“You see!” he challenged, mistaking the noise for a sneeze. “You will catch cold. Most foolish, and if I may say so, self-indulgent. Others will have to care for you and perform your duties. Please come in at once.”
Cornwallis was livid. He was glad his face was still hidden until he crossed into the bar of light.
“I am accustomed to finding the land many miles away,” he said almost between his teeth. “I apologize for prevailing upon Mrs. Underhill’s good nature as hostess in asking her to allow me the pleasure of walking in her garden at twilight. I fear I have trespassed upon your hospitality too much and caused an ill feeling I did not intend. Perhaps I should take my leave before I do further damage.”
The bishop was obliged to swallow his anger. That was the last thing he wished. He had not yet even broached the subject which was the purpose of the evening, let alone concluded a satisfactory understanding.
“I would not hear of it,” he said hastily, forcing a sickly smile to his lips. “I am sure there is no damage done at all. I daresay I worry about my wife’s health too much. A single sneeze means nothing whatsoever. It was most remiss of me to mention it. I forget how much a man of the sea must miss such a thing as a garden. One takes it for granted when it is there all the time. I am delighted you enjoyed it. Please come in and warm yourself.”
He stood back while Isadora, then Cornwallis, stepped through the doorway inside, then he closed the door behind them. He even made the grudging sacrifice of offering Cornwallis the position closest to the fire. He did not think of offering it to Isadora. His concern for her health stretched only so far.
He did not raise the subject of Ramsay Parmenter until they were well into the second course of the meal, an excellent fish pie.
“How is your man proceeding with the tragedy in Brunswick Gardens? Has he had success in excluding anyone from suspicion yet?”
Cornwallis wished he could answer with some assurance.
“Unfortunately not. It is a subject in which it is extremely difficult to find proof.” He took another mouthful of the pie.
The bishop’s face darkened. “What is your considered judgment as to whether he will succeed before so much damage is done to the Reverend Parmenter’s reputation that he is effectively unable to continue?” he demanded.
“So far there is no suspicion outside the immediate family,” Cornwallis replied carefully.
“But you have said his miserable daughter is perfectly prepared to testify against him!” the bishop pointed out. “It cannot be long before she makes some catastrophic remark and the word spreads like fire. Then think of the damage that will be done by such rumors. How will we check it, when we have no proof?” The strength of his fear was sharp-edged in his voice. “We shall be seen to condone his act. We shall appear to be trying to conceal it, to protect him from the consequences of his crime. No, Captain Cornwallis, it is entirely unacceptable. I cannot afford the risk of such indecision.” He sat up very straight. “I am speaking for the church. This is not leadership, this is allowing events to dictate to us, not us to be master of events.”
Isadora cringed under his tone. She opened her mouth, but there was nothing she
could say which would not make it worse. She looked from Cornwallis to her husband, and back again.
Cornwallis did not want to quarrel with a bishop, any bishop, least of all with one who was Isadora’s husband. But if he were to behave with honor he had no choice.
“I will not act until I know the truth,” he said steadily. “If I charge Ramsay Parmenter, and I cannot prove it in court, then he is free, and suspicion rests either on Mallory Parmenter or Dominic Corde, regardless of whether they are guilty or not. And if I then find proof of Ramsay’s guilt, I can do nothing about it.”
“I do not want you to charge him, for God’s sake!” the bishop said furiously, leaning forward with elbows on the table. “Use your brains, man! That would be disastrous. Think what it would do to the reputation of the church. Your duty is to find moral proof of his guilt, not physical. Then we can have him committed to an asylum, where he can hurt no one and be cared for in privacy and decency. His family will not suffer, and Corde can continue with his no doubt promising career in the church unlimited by any implication of scandal. What happens to Mallory is not our concern. He has chosen the Church of Rome.”
Cornwallis was revolted. He could not keep it from his face.
“I am a policeman, not a physician to the insane,” he said icily. “I have no idea whether a man is mad or not. All I can deal in is whether he is proven to have committed a given act. And I do not know whether Ramsay Parmenter pushed Unity Bellwood to her death or whether it was someone else. Until I do, I am not prepared to make any statement on the subject. That will have to be acceptable to you, because there is no alternative.” He laid down his knife and fork as if he would eat no more.