Callander Square tp-2

by Anne Perry

  For that week Charlotte did not go to Callander Square but devoted herself to her own home. Last year she had been too new to marriage to feel the warm, easy comfort of complete friendship, of belonging without anxiety or the urgency to please. Now she hung the parlor with lanterns and colored chains, purchased a small tree and decorated it, then busied herself making toffee and fudge, marzipan and mints to give to carol singers, and wrapping small gifts for her family.

  On January second the matter of Callander Square obtruded into her life again, and when Pitt departed in the morning to the police station, she finished a rather indifferent effort at housework, and took herself back to the Balantynes’ residence to address her attention to learning more about the rest of the square, beginning with the Southerons. After all, if Reggie Southeron really did pester his parlormaids, perhaps not all of them had been as unwilling as Mary Ann professed to be. Indeed, it was by no means certain that Mary Ann herself was paying more than lip service to her indignation, a protest as a matter of form, for her dignity’s sake. It would be a good idea to ascertain how long Mary Ann had been in Callander Square, and something about her predecessor.

  To this end Charlotte pursued her very natural liking for Jemima Waggoner, and accepted an invitation for luncheon the day after. Accordingly at noon she excused herself from the general in the library, and scurried through the rain to the area entranceway of the Southerons’. She was let in by the scullery maid with giggles, and guided upstairs to the schoolroom where today Jemima was eating alone, since Faith, Patience, and Chastity were dining at the Campbells’, in honor of Victoria Campbell’s birthday.

  Jemima jumped up immediately, her face lighting with a broad smile.

  “Oh, Charlotte, do come in. I’m so pleased you were able to accept. General Balantyne did not mind?”

  “No, of course not, as long as I am back by about two. After all, he will have to have luncheon himself, and to tell the truth, we are nearly sorted through all the papers, and I think he is not entirely sure what to do next.”

  “He is rather an intimidating person, isn’t he?” It was more an expression of opinion than a question. While she was speaking, Jemima laid a small table with cloth and cutlery, and almost the moment she had finished, one of the maids brought in the tray cook had prepared. It was a surprisingly elaborate meal for luncheon, and Charlotte thought, seeing it, that it probably reflected Reggie Southeron’s love of food and comforts.

  Charlotte admired the menu, and they fell to discussing food and the general household of the Southerons. Then when the second course was completed and the pudding brought, Jemima returned to the subject of the general.

  “Is it confidential?” she asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Charlotte replied, “In fact I believe the more people who know, and are interested, the better he would be pleased. He is very proud of his family, you know. And I admit, so should I be, if my family had distinguished itself so. There has been a Balantyne in almost every great battle since the time of the Duke of Marlborough.”

  Jemima similed, looking into the distance, her eyes soft.

  “It is a great heritage. It must be quite difficult for a man, born into such a family; so much to live up to. I wonder if young Mr. Balantyne will fight in such battles, and become a general also?”

  “Well, there are hardly any wars now,” Charlotte replied, but her thoughts were not on military involvements, but involvements of the heart. The look on Jemima’s face concerned her. It was not like her own, an impersonal interest, an excitement in the power, the courage, and the pain of all the human beings who had lived and died in wars; she rather feared it had more to do with Brandy Balantyne, to do with a smile, a slender back, and dark head.

  Jemima had not yet chosen her words for reply, and seemed somewhat confused.

  “I rather hope not,” she said, looking at the spoon in her hand. “It is very dreadful to think of the young men who go abroad to fight in battles that have so little to do with us, and then are maimed, or die.”

  “I wonder how little they really are to do with us,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “We live in the manner we do, with wealth and safety, with sea trade all over the world, with markets for our goods, and exotic things to buy at home, just because we have an empire that covers nearly every corner of the globe. And many see it as our duty,” she went on, looking now at Jemima’s face, “to spread civilization, Christianity, and good government to the races who do not know of such things.”

  “I suppose so,” Jemima agreed reluctantly. “But it seems a terrible price to pay for it. So many who do not come back. Think of all the wives, and families.”

  “There is not much that can be purchased without a heavy price,” Charlotte said, thinking back on the few things she knew of real value-of compassion, gratitude, understanding. “What we do not pay for in some way, unfortunately we tend not to regard in its true worth.” She smiled to soften the words a little.

  Jemima frowned.

  “Do you not think sometimes we value a thing merely because we have paid for it?” she asked. “And perhaps paid too much? And so we cling to it, and go on paying?”

  Charlotte thought about it for a moment. She had become bound to a thing, committed to it for no better reason than all that she had already sacrificed for it. Perhaps some of her early infatuation for Dominic held some element of such a habit of emotion. But was Jemima thinking about the price of possessions, of war-or about the fear that Brandy Balantyne might fight somewhere, and be killed? She recalled other small fragments of conversation they had had, gentle, frequent mention of the Balantynes.

  “Yes,” she agreed, bringing herself back to the moment. “Oh yes. Men tend to do that with wars and politics, and perhaps women do so with marriages.”

  Jemima relaxed with a little rueful sigh.

  “Well, for women, where else is there to go? One cannot give up a marriage, however empty it may be; there is nothing to do but work at it. One has no means to leave. Even if one possessed money beforehand, when one marries it becomes the property of one’s husband. If one leaves, one goes without anything. And no one in society will help, because divorce is not acceptable. My elder sister-still, that is an unhappy subject, and I am sure you don’t wish to hear of it. Tell me more about the work you are doing. You told me that General Balantyne actually saw the charge of the Light Brigade, himself! I pray there may never be such a dreadful, useless waste of lives again. How can the women ever forgive for all those deaths, the losses, and all so unnecessary: a little common sense could have-”

  “Common sense is excessively rare,” Charlotte interrupted. “I have often seen afterward things which I would permit no one to tell me at the time.” She wondered if she should say something about Brandy Balantyne. It was his relationship with Euphemia Carlton that concerned her, of course. If he could have been her lover, he must be a most unprincipled man, and could bring Jemima nothing but pain. One needed only to have been in love once, to have ached in secret and unfulfilled, to see it clearly in others.

  She felt the wound now for Jemima.

  No, it was better to say nothing. She would have curled with mortification to have had anyone else know how she had felt, in the past. Now of course she loved Pitt, and it hardly mattered. But for Jemima it was the present, and there was no Pitt.

  So she talked instead of other things, of teaching history to children, and heard tales of the schoolroom, some that made her laugh. Presently she took her leave and returned to the library, resolved to deal somehow with the matter herself.

  She worried about it all evening, till Pitt asked her what absorbed her so, and of course she was unable to answer, since she felt it was an entirely feminine confidence, and he would not understand. She replied that it was a friend whose romance exercised her, and he seemed satisfied not to press further. And indeed, it was true enough.

  Much of the night she lay awake, wrestling with her conscience as to whether she should interfere in the
matter, or leave it for fear of causing embarrassment. She finally arose still unsatisfied that she was correct, but having reached a decision to approach Brandy Balantyne in a manner which would have annoyed Pitt, had he known, and have horrified her parents. Only Emily might approve, and even she might well consider it socially unwise.

  Her opportunity came in the afternoon. Brandy came in from a bitterly cold and wet day to warm himself by the library fire, knowing it to be the best in the house. The general was out on an errand.

  Brandy came in cheerfully, rubbing his hands and shivering. He really was a most charming person; she would prefer to have liked him. She had to keep reminding herself that he was careless of feelings, indifferent to hurt, or she would have warmed to him in spite of herself.

  “Hello, still working?” he smiled without a trace of condescension. “Do you like that stuff, honestly?”

  “Yes, it’s extremely interesting.” For a moment she was beguiled, and was on the verge of replying with enthusiasm about the glimpses of people coming through the letters, the tendernesses, the vulnerability, the sudden harsh fears and griefs; when she remembered that she had made up her mind to speak to him about Jemima.

  “Mr. Balantyne,” she said firmly.

  He looked a little surprised.

  “Yes?”

  She stood up.

  “I have a matter of some privacy to discuss with you. Do you mind if I close the door?”

  “With me?” He did not yet seem embarrassed, as she had feared he might, and then easily refuse to listen.

  She pushed the door and heard it catch. She turned to face him. She must hurry, the general might return at any time. It must not be left half done.

  “I have formed a considerable regard for Miss Waggoner,” she began, trying to conceal her nervousness, hearing her voice go dry. “Because of my friendship for her, I do not wish to see her hurt-”

  “Of course not,” he agreed. “What makes you think she is in danger of being hurt? She always looks uncommonly well to me.”

  “Always?” Charlotte said quickly.

  “Well, as often as I see her.” He frowned. “What is it you fear, Miss Ellison?”

  There was no point in prevaricating, and she was not good at it. She wished Emily were here to put it more delicately, to be subtle. She took a deep breath.

  “You do, Mr. Balantyne.”

  His face fell in astonishment. It would be easy to believe he had no idea what she meant.

  “I do?” he said incredulously.

  She breathed in and out slowly to collect herself.

  “I am aware of your relationship with Lady Carlton. If I can prevent it, I shall not let you do the same with Miss Waggoner. And do not say you do not look on servants in such a way. A man who would have an affair with his neighbor’s wife does not scruple about governesses.” She could not look at him, and felt strangely empty for having said all that was inside her.

  “For God’s sake don’t-I mean-please-” There was such an urgency in his voice that she found herself lifting her eyes to meet his. His concern looked almost genuine. “Look,” he held up his hands helplessly, and let them fall again as explanation eluded him, “you don’t understand!”

  She struggled to remain cold; she wished so much to relent, and like him.

  “Is there something more to understand than that you found her attractive, and took advantage of her situation?” she said coolly.

  “Yes, there’s everything to understand!”

  “It is none of my business, but I cannot understand it if I do not know.”

  “And if you don’t know, I suppose you will believe the worst, and spread it about.” There was a mounting hopelessness in his voice now, and in his face.

  “Of course I shall not spread it about,” she said crossly. It was a horrible suggestion. “But I wish to make sure you do not hurt Jemima.”

  “Why should I? Why Jemima?” he fenced.

  “Don’t be naive! Because she finds you attractive, and does not know that you are-” she could think of no word she wished to employ.

  “Very well,” he turned away. “Though I doubt you will believe me.”

  She waited, looking at his dark head against the winter light of the window.

  “Robert Carlton is a nice old boy, but pretty remote, detached-”

  “That is no excuse-”

  “Don’t interrupt,” he said sharply. “Above all things Euphemia wants a child. She is thirty-six. She has not forever. And if Robert persists in treating her with courtesy and excessive consideration, either because he is abashed by emotion, or because he believes, mistakenly, that it is what she wishes, then she will never have one. She fears that he is uninterested in physical affection, and would find her repellent if he knew she was, so she dares not tell him.

  “We have always been friends. I like her; she’s a generous woman, with wit and kindness. I saw she was getting more and more distressed about something. She finally confided it to me. Ours was an arrangement of convenience, only until she conceived a child. Now you can believe that or not, as you choose. But it’s the truth. And whatever you think of me, for Euphemia’s sake-or for Robert Carlton’s-don’t spread it around.” For the first time he turned and looked back at her, his face perfectly serious. “Please?”

  It was ridiculous, and yet she did believe him. Without considering, she acknowledged it.

  “I believe you. But-do not speak or act without thought toward Miss Waggoner. It can hurt very much to fall in love where you know it cannot be returned.”

  He looked at her closely, his hazel eyes clouded with a sudden sensitivity to her.

  “Oh, not now,” she said quickly. “But in the past I have done. He was my sister’s husband. I grew out of it, I saw him differently. But it hurt at the time.”

  He relaxed.

  “Please don’t speak of Euphemia,” he asked again.

  She thought of Pitt, the babies in the gardens.

  “I promise I shall not speak except in her interest,” she said solemnly.

  He was not satisfied, sensing evasion in her words.

  “What do you mean?”

  There was nothing for it but to be honest.

  “I was thinking of the police. They know that Euphemia is with child, and that it is yours. They may hold her under some suspicion for the children in the gardens also, you know.”

  His face went so blank with horror it was impossible to imagine that he had thought of such an eventuality before.

  “To tell them the truth,” Charlotte said softly, “might be greatly to Euphemia’s advantage, do you not think?”

  “They wouldn’t believe it,” his mouth was stiff, still shocked.

  “They might.”

  “How-how did they know of-of the child-about me-any of it?”

  “They are quite clever, you know, and they would be looking for such things.”

  “I suppose so. Mother said she thought that fellow Pitt was clever, and she’s usually right. And there are not many people whose intelligence she regards well.”

  Charlotte did not wish to tell him of her own relationship to Pitt, and she wondered if the warmth of pride that bubbled inside her now was as obvious to him as it felt to her.

  “That is all I meant,” she said carefully. “Now I think it might be advisable for us to finish this discussion before the general returns, do you not?”

  “Oh-yes, yes it would. You won’t-?”

  “No, of course I won’t! I was concerned only for Jemima.”

  His mouth curved upward in a slight smile.

  “You know, I like Jemima. She’s a little like you, in some ways. And in other ways, you are a little like Mother-”

  Charlotte froze at the thought, although doubtless he intended it as a compliment.

  His smile broadened into a grin.

  “Don’t look so shocked. Mother has more courage than anyone else I know; she’d knock the stuffing out of all the old generals at Father’s clubs!
And she was quite a beauty too. Only trouble was she could never flirt; didn’t know how; had no art of deception.”

  Charlotte blushed. She had rather charged in, and certainly she had displayed no finesse. Perhaps she was more like Lady Augusta than she would have cared to admit. She looked up at Brandy to say something to excuse herself, make herself appear softer, when the general came in. His face widened in surprise when he saw Brandy.

  “Best fire in the house,” Brandy said quickly. “You always bragged it was.”

  “That does not mean I intended you to stand by it all afternoon, distracting Miss Ellison from her work.”

  “Pity. Can’t think of a pleasanter thing to do on a filthy winter afternoon. Do you see the gutters, simply running over with water?”

  “Then go and change your boots. I must get on with my work. You would be better if you found yourself something to do.”

  “Can’t write my memoirs yet, I haven’t got anything to remember.”

  Balantyne looked at him with slight suspicion, as if he thought he might be being faintly twitted, but Brandy’s face was bland with innocence. He went to the door.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Ellison, thank you for permitting me to stand by your fire,” and he went out.

  “Was he disturbing you?” Balantyne asked a little sharply.

  “Not at all,” Charlotte replied. “He wasn’t here long. I believe I have sorted those Marlborough letters, would you care to look at them?”

  Emily had been several times to Callander Square since her last visit to Charlotte over the matter, and had managed to form quite a friendship with Christina. Therefore she was not surprised when Christina confided in her at the end of the first week in January that she was shortly to be married to Alan Ross.

  The confidence itself did not surprise Emily; she had spent their entire acquaintance diligently seeking precisely this. But under any other circumstances, the choice of bridegroom would have surprised her considerably. Alan Ross and Christina Balantyne seemed to her judgment an unnatural partnering. From what she had seen of Ross, he was a serious and rather tense man, possibly even a man of deep feeling: whereas Christina was gay, when she chose, deliriously sophisticated, and essentially shallow. Still, he was of good family, and adequate means, and most important, apparently willing to marry at short notice.