Paragon Walk

by Anne Perry

  Then she saw Paul Alaric, standing next to Selena, his head bent a little to listen to her, elegant and faintly humorous.

  Charlotte raised her chin a little higher and approached them with a dazzling smile.

  “Mrs. Montague,” she said brightly, “I’m so glad to see you looking so well.” She did not want to be obvious, above all not in front of Alaric. Waspishness might amuse him, but he would not admire it.

  Selena looked slightly surprised. Apparently it was not what she had expected.

  “I am in excellent health, thank you,” she said, with eyebrows raised.

  They swapped polite nothings, but, as Charlotte looked more closely at Selena, she realized that her initial words had been perfectly true. Selena did appear in excellent health. She looked nothing like a woman who had recently suffered the violence and obscenity of rape. Her eyes were brilliant, and there was a flush on her cheeks that was so high and yet so delicate Charlotte was convinced it owed nothing to art. She moved a little quickly, small gestures of her hands, eyes glancing round the room. If this was a display of courage, a defiance of the tacit consensus that a women ravished was somehow justly despoiled and must remember it all her life, then, for all her dislike, Charlotte could only admire it.

  She did not allude to the incident again, and the conversation passed to other things, small items in the news, trivia of fashion. Presently she drifted away, leaving Selena still with Alaric.

  “She looks remarkably well, don’t you think?” Grace Dilbridge observed with a small shake of her head. “I don’t know how the poor creature bears it!”

  “It must take a great deal of courage,” Charlotte replied. It did not come easily to her to praise Selena, but honesty obliged it. “One cannot help admiring her.”

  “Admire!” Miss Lucinda spun round, her face flushed with anger. “You must admire whom you choose, Mrs. Pitt, but I call it brazen! She is disgracing the whole of womanhood! I really think next Season I must go somewhere else. It will be extremely hard for me, but the Walk has become defiled beyond endurance.”

  Charlotte was too surprised to answer immediately, and Grace Dilbridge did not seem to know what to say either.

  “Brazen,” Miss Lucinda repeated, staring at Selena, now walking on Alaric’s arm across the floor toward the open French doors. Alaric was smiling, but there was something in the angle of his head that betrayed courtesy rather than interest. He seemed even faintly amused.

  Miss Lucinda snorted.

  Charlotte found her tongue at last.

  “I think that is a most unkind thing to say, Miss Horbury, and quite unjust! Mrs. Montague was the victim, not the perpetrator, of the crime.”

  “What utter nonsense!” It was Afton Nash, pale-faced, eyes glittering. “I find it hard to imagine you can really be so naive, Mrs. Pitt. Feminine charms may be considerable—to some.” He raked her up and down with a contempt that seemed to strip her of her gorgeous satins and leave her naked to the prying and derision of everyone. “But if you imagine they are such as to drive men to force themselves upon the unwilling, you overrate your own sex.” He smiled icily. “There are enough willing, positively eager, for titillation, who even find a perverse pleasure in violence and submission to it. No man need risk his reputation by assaulting the unwilling, whatever any given woman may choose to say afterward.”

  “That’s a disgusting thing to say!” Algernon Burnon had been close enough to overhear. Now he stepped forward, ashen faced, his slight body shaking. “I demand that you withdraw it, and apologize!”

  “Or you will—what?” Afton’s smile did not alter. “Request me to choose between pistols and swords? Don’t be ridiculous, man! Nurse your offense, by all means, if you must. Believe whatever you want to about women; but don’t try to make me believe it too!”

  “A decent man,” Algernon said stiffly, “would not speak ill of the dead, nor insult another man’s grief. And whatever anyone’s most private weaknesses or shame, he would not make public mock of it!”

  To Charlotte’s amazement Afton did not reply. His face drained of all blood, and he stared at Algernon as if no one else existed in the room. Seconds ticked by, and even Algernon seemed frightened by the intensity of Afton’s frozen hatred. Then Afton turned on his heel and strode away.

  Charlotte breathed out slowly; she did not even know why she was frightened. She did not understand what had happened. Neither, apparently, did Algernon himself. He blinked and turned to Charlotte.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Pitt. I’m sure we must have embarrassed you. It is not a subject we should have discussed in front of ladies. But,” he took in a deep breath and let it out. “I am grateful to you for defending Selena—for Fanny’s sake—you—”

  Charlotte smiled.

  “I understand. And no person who is worth counting a friend would think otherwise.”

  His face relaxed a little.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  A moment later she found Emily at her elbow.

  “What happened?” Emily demanded anxiously. “It looked dreadful!”

  “It was unpleasant,” Charlotte agreed. “But I don’t really know exactly what it meant.”

  “Well, what did you do?” Emily snapped.

  “I praised Selena for her courage,” Charlotte replied, looking at Emily very directly. She had no intention of going back on it, and Emily might as well know.

  Emily’s brows wrinkled, her mood changed in the instant from anger to puzzlement.

  “Yes, isn’t it extraordinary. She seems almost—elated! It is as if she had won some secret victory that none of the rest of us know about. She is even nice to Jessamyn. And Jessamyn is nice to her, too. It’s ridiculous!”

  “Well, I don’t like Selena either,” Charlotte admitted. “But I am obliged to admire her courage. She is defying all the bigoted little people who say she is somehow to blame for what happened to her. Whoever had the fire to do that would have my regard.”

  Emily stood staring across the enormous room to where Selena was talking to Albertine Dilbridge and Mr. Isaacs. A few feet away from them, Jessamyn stood with a champagne glass in her hand, watching Hallam Cayley take what must have been his third or fourth rum punch since his arrival. Her expression was unreadable. It could have been pity or contempt, or it might have had nothing to do with Hallam at all. But when her eyes moved to Selena, there was nothing in them but pure, delicious laughter.

  Emily shook her head.

  “I wish I understood,” she said slowly. “Perhaps I’m mean-spirited, but I really don’t think it’s just courage. I’ve never seen Selena in that way. Maybe it’s my fault, but I don’t know. That’s not defiance; she’s pleased with herself. I swear it. You know she’s set her cap at Monsieur Alaric?”

  Charlotte gave her a withering look.

  “Of course I know it! Do you think I’m blind and deaf, too?”

  Emily ignored the barb.

  “Promise you won’t tell Thomas, or I shan’t tell you!”

  Charlotte promised immediately. She could not possibly forego the secret, whatever conflicts followed afterward.

  Emily pulled a face.

  “On the night it happened I was the first person there, as you know—”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “Well, I asked her straightaway who it was. Do you know what she told me?”

  “Of course, I don’t!”

  “She made me swear not to accuse him, but she said it was Paul Alaric!” She stood back and waited for Charlotte’s amazement.

  Charlotte’s first feeling was one of disgust, not for Selena, but for Alaric. Then she rejected the whole idea, thrusting it away.

  “That’s ridiculous! Why on earth should he attack her? She is chasing him so hard, all he would need to do is stop running away, and he would have her for the asking!” She knew she was being cruel, and she intended it.

  “Exactly,” Emily agreed. “Which only makes the mystery greater! And why does Jessamyn not car
e? If Monsieur Alaric is really so passionate about Selena that he ravished her in the Walk, surely Jessamyn would be beside herself with rage—wouldn’t she? But she isn’t; she is laughing, I can see it in her eyes every time she looks at Selena.”

  “So she doesn’t know,” Charlotte reasoned. Then she thought more deeply. “But rape is not a matter of love, Emily. It is violence, possession. A strong man, a man who is capable of caring, does not force a woman. He takes love as it is offered, knowing that that which is demanded has no meaning. The essence of strength is not in overpowering others, but in mastering oneself. Love is giving, as well as receiving, and when one has once known love, one sees conquest as the act of a weak and selfish person, the momentary satisfaction of an appetite. And then it is no longer attractive, merely rather sad.”

  Emily frowned, and her eyes were clouded.

  “You are talking about love, Charlotte. I was only thinking of physical things. They can be quite different, without any love at all. Perhaps there is even a little hate in them. Maybe Selena did secretly rather enjoy it. To have lain with Monsieur Alaric willingly would be a sin. And even if Society did not particularly care, her friends and family would. But to be the victim excuses her, at least in her own mind. But if it was not so dreadful, and she was excited by it when she knew she should have been revolted, then she has had it both ways! She is innocent of the guilt, and yet she has had the pleasure!”

  Charlotte thought about it for a few moments, then discarded it, perhaps not with reason but because she did not wish it to be true.

  “I don’t think it can be a pleasure. And why is Jessamyn so amused then?”

  “I don’t know,” Emily gave up. “But it is not as simple as it seems.” She moved away, going over toward George, who was trying unsuccessfully to reassure Phoebe, muttering something soothing to her and obviously highly embarrassed. Phoebe had taken to speaking much about religion and was never without a crucifix. He had no idea what to say to her and was overwhelmed with relief when Emily took over, determined to turn the conversation away from salvation to something more trivial, such as how to train a good parlormaid. Charlotte watched in admiration at the skill with which it was done. Emily had learned a lot since Cater Street.

  “The play amuses you?” It was a soft voice, very beautiful, just behind her.

  Charlotte spun round a little too quickly for grace. Paul Alaric raised his eyebrows very slightly.

  “It hovers between tragedy and farce, doesn’t it?” he said with a slow smile. “I fear Mr. Cayley is destined for tragedy. There is a pervading darkness in him that will engulf him altogether before long. And poor Phoebe—she is so terrified, and she has no need.”

  Charlotte was confused. She was unprepared to discuss reality with him. In fact she was not sure even now whether he was speaking seriously, or merely playing verbal games. She searched for an answer that would not commit her.

  He waited, his eyes soft, Latin dark, but without the overt sensuality she always associated in her mind with Italy. They seemed to look inside her without effort, to read her.

  “How do you know she has no need?” she asked.

  His smile broadened.

  “My dear Charlotte, I know what she is afraid of—and it does not exist—at least not here in Paragon Walk.”

  “Then, why don’t you tell her so?” She was angry, feeling for Phoebe’s panic.

  He looked at her with patience.

  “Because she would not believe me. Like Miss Lucinda Horbury, she has convinced herself.”

  “Oh, you mean Miss Lucinda’s apparition?” Suddenly, she was weak with relief.

  He laughed outright.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt she saw something. After all, if she will go poking her virtuous nose into other people’s affairs, it is too much temptation for someone to resist putting something there for her to sniff at. I imagine it was very real, her green monster—at least for the occasion.”

  She wanted to disapprove, but even more than that she wanted to believe him.

  “That’s quite irresponsible,” she said, in what she imagined to be a stiff voice. “The poor woman might have had a seizure with fright.”

  He was not fooled for an instant.

  “I doubt it. I think she is a remarkably durable old lady. Her indignation will keep her alive, even if only to find out what is going on.”

  “Do you know who it was?” she asked.

  His eyes widened.

  “I don’t even know that it happened at all. I have only deduced it.”

  She did not know what else to say. She was very aware of him standing close to her. He did not need to touch her or to speak for her to be conscious of him above and beyond everyone else in the room. Had he attacked Fanny, and then Selena? Or had it been someone else, and Selena had merely wished herself into believing it was he? She could understand that. It removed the assault from the realm of the sordid and humiliating to something dangerous but not without thrill.

  To pretend, even to herself, that his company was not without deep and rather disturbing undertones of excitement, a kind of dominance, would be dishonest. Was it unconscious perception of violence in him that fascinated her? Was it true that women in some primitive depth they must deny, actually longed for rape? Did they all, even herself, secretly hunger for him?

  “Woman wailing for her demon lover”—a line of verse, ugly and appropriate, intruded into her mind. She shook it away, forcing herself to smile, although it felt artificial and grotesque.

  “I can’t imagine anyone dressing up in such a ludicrous fashion,” she said, trying to be light. “I think it was more likely to have been a stray animal, or even the branches of some shrub or other in the gaslight.”

  “Perhaps,” he said gently. “I won’t argue with you.”

  Indeed, they were prevented from continuing with the subject any further by the arrival of the Misses Horbury themselves and Lady Tamworth.

  “Good evening, Miss Horbury,” Charlotte said politely. “Lady Tamworth.”

  “How resolute of you to come,” Alaric added, and Charlotte could have kicked him.

  Miss Lucinda’s face flushed for a moment. She disapproved of him, and therefore disliked him, but she could not refuse praise.

  “I knew it to be my duty,” she replied soberly. “And I shall not return home alone.” She looked at him pointedly, her pale blue eyes wide. “I would not be foolish enough to go unaccompanied in Paragon Walk!”

  Charlotte saw Alaric’s fine brows rise very slightly and knew precisely what he was thinking. She felt a desperate desire to giggle. The idea of any man, least of all Paul Alaric, willfully accosting Miss Lucinda was preposterous.

  “Very wise,” Alaric agreed, meeting her challenging look squarely. “I doubt anything at all would have the temerity to attack three of you.”

  The faintest suspicion crossed her face that he was somehow amused by her, but, since she saw nothing funny herself, she dismissed it as a foreign joke and not worthy of attention.

  “Certainly not,” Lady Tamworth agreed enthusiastically. “There is no limit to what can be accomplished if we band together. And there is so much to be done, if we are to preserve our Society.” She glanced balefully across at Simeon Isaacs, head bent to Albertine Dilbridge, his face alight. “And we must act quickly, if we are to succeed! At least that abominable Mr. Darwin is dead and can do no more harm.”

  “Once an idea is published, Lady Tamworth, its originator does not need to survive,” Alaric pointed out. “Anymore than the seed need the sower in order to flourish.”

  She looked at him with distaste.

  “Of course you are not English, Monsieur Alaric. You could not be expected to understand the English people. We will not take seriously such blasphemies.”

  Alaric affected innocence.

  “Was not Mr. Darwin an Englishman, then?”

  Lady Tamworth shrugged her shoulder sharply.

  “I know nothing about him, nor do I wish to. Su
ch men are not a fit subject for the interest of decent people.”

  Alaric followed the line of her eye.

  “I’m sure Mr. Isaacs would agree with you,” he said with a faint smile, and Charlotte was forced to stifle a giggle by pretending to sneeze. “Being a Jew,” Alaric continued, avoiding her eye, “he would not countenance Mr. Darwin’s revolutionary theories.”

  Hallem Cayley drifted up, his face heavy, another glass in his hand.

  “No,” he looked at Alaric with dislike. “The poor sod believes man is made in the image of God. I think the ape far more likely, myself.”

  “You are surely not saying now that Mr. Isaacs is a Christian?” Lady Tamworth bridled.

  “A Jew,” Hallam answered carefully and distinctly, then took another drink. “The Creation belongs to the Old Testament. Or haven’t you read it?”

  “I am of the Church of England,” she said stiffly. “I don’t read foreign teachings. That is primarily what is wrong with society these days: a great deal of new foreign blood. These are names now that I never heard of when I was a girl! No breeding. Heaven only knows where they come from!”

  “Hardly new, ma’am.” Alaric was standing so close to Charlotte, she fancied she could feel the warmth of him through the thick satin of her gown. “Mr. Isaacs can trace his ancestry back to Abraham, and he back to Noah, and so back to Adam.”

  “And so back to God!” Hallam drained his glass and dropped it on the floor. “Impeccable!” He glared triumphantly at Lady Tamworth. “Makes the rest of us look like yesterday’s bastards, doesn’t it?” He grinned broadly and turned away.

  Lady Tamworth shook with rage. Her teeth clicked quite audibly. Charlotte felt a pity for her, because her world was changing, and she did not understand it; it had no place for her. She was like one of Mr. Darwin’s dinosaurs, dangerous and ridiculous, beyond its time.

  “I think he has had too much to drink,” she said to her. “You must excuse him. I don’t suppose he meant to be so offensive.”

  But Lady Tamworth was not mollified. She could not forgive.