Cardington Crescent

6

WHEN AT LAST Emily lay back against the pillows her face was drawn, her eyes puffy, with dark shadows below them, and her usually pretty hair straggled in untidy wisps. The sight of her brought home to Charlotte the reality of death and fear far more violently than all the words imaginable, or excessive weeping. People weep for many things.

She began with the painful, practical help she knew was the only way to move to any real healing. She rang the bell by the bed.

“I don’t want anything,” Emily said numbly.

“Yes, you do.” Charlotte was firm. “You want a cup of tea, and so do I.”

“I don’t. If I take anything I shall be sick.”

“No, you won’t. But if you go on crying you will. It’s enough for now. We have things to do.”

Suddenly Emily was furious; all her shock and fear exploded in resentment because Charlotte was still safe, wrapped up in her own marriage, and this was just one more adventure for her. She was sitting on the bed with a businesslike complacency in her face, and Emily hated her for it. George had been carried away, white and cold, only an hour ago, and Charlotte was busy! She should have been shattered and frozen inside, as Emily was.

“My husband was murdered this morning,” she said in a tight, hard voice. “If all you can do is exercise your curiosity and self-importance, then I’d feel a lot better if you’d go back home and get on with your housework, or whatever it is you do when you haven’t got anyone else’s life to meddle in.”

For a moment Charlotte felt as if she had been slapped. The blood burned in her face, and her eyes stung. The retort stopped on her lips only because she could find no words for it. Then she took a deep breath and remembered Emily’s pain. Emily was younger; all the protective feelings of childhood came back in a tumble of images, always Emily the smallest, the last to achieve any milestone to maturity. Emily had envied her, admired her, and tried desperately to keep up, just as she herself was always a step behind Sarah.

“Who murdered George?” she asked aloud.

“I don’t know!” Emily’s voice rose dangerously.

“Then don’t you think we had better find out—very quickly, before whoever it is makes it look even more as though you did?”

Emily gasped, and her face looked even grayer than before.

At that moment the door opened and Digby came in. As soon as she saw Charlotte her expression hardened.

But Charlotte had not forgotten all her early years in her parents’ home, when she was accustomed to having a lady’s maid, and the habit returned automatically.

“Will you be kind enough to bring us a tray of tea,” she said to Digby. “And perhaps something sweet to eat with it.”

“I don’t want anything,” Emily repeated.

“Well, I do.” Charlotte forced the outline of a smile to her lips and nodded a dismissal to Digby, who retired obediently, but obviously she deferred judgment upon Charlotte.

Charlotte sat down facing Emily. “Do you want me to tell you again how deeply I grieve for you, how sorry I am, how horrified?”

Emily looked at her grudgingly. “No, thank you, there would hardly be any point.”

“Then help me to learn at least enough of the truth to prevent another tragedy. Because if you think someone who would murder George would then be averse to seeing that you were blamed for it, you are dreaming.”

“I didn’t do it,” Emily whispered.

Charlotte controlled herself with a difficulty so sharp for a moment the breath caught in her chest with a stab and tears prickled in her eyes.

“I know,” she said with a quiver in her voice, and she coughed to try to cover it up. “Have you any idea who did? What about this Sybilla? Could they have quarreled? Or her husband—you didn’t tell me his name. Or did she have another lover?”

She saw concentration overtake anger in Emily’s face, then grief again, and unrestrained tears. Charlotte waited, forcing herself not to lean forward and put her arms round her. Emily did not need sympathy now, she needed practical help.

“Yes,” Emily said at last. “They quarreled last night, just before we went to bed.” She blew her nose fiercely, and again a second time, and stuffed the handkerchief under the pillow and reached for another. Charlotte passed her own.

The door opened and Digby came in with a tray bearing a flowered china teapot, a dish of warm, crumbly scones, and butter and strawberry jam. She set it down carefully.

“Shall I pour, ma’am?” she asked with guarded eyes.

Charlotte accepted. “Yes, please. And if you can find some handkerchiefs, bring them.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Digby’s face relaxed. Perhaps Charlotte was not as bad as she feared.

Charlotte passed Emily a steaming cup, and buttered a scone and spread jam on it. “Eat it,” she advised. “Slowly. And chew it well. We are both going to need all our strength.”

Emily took it obediently. “His name is William,” she continued, answering the question as soon as Digby was out the door. “And I suppose he could have killed George, but he didn’t seem to care about Sybilla. I don’t even know whether he really noticed how far it had gone. Maybe Sybilla always behaves like that.”

“Do you know?” Charlotte hated the question, but it would hover on the edge of their minds until it was answered.

Emily hesitated only a moment. “I can guess. But it was over! He came into my room before he went to bed, and we talked.” She took a shivery breath, but this time she did not lose control. “It was going to be all right, if—if he hadn’t been killed.”

“So it could have been Sybilla.” Charlotte made it a statement rather than a matter open to doubt. “Is she that kind of woman? Has she enough vanity, enough hate?”

Emily’s eyes widened. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t be silly! She was trying to take George away from you—you know everything about her that you possibly can! Now think, Emily.”

There were several minutes of silence while Emily sipped her tea and ate two scones, surprising herself.

“I don’t know,” she said again, at last. “I really don’t. I’m not sure whether she loved him, or just found him fun and enjoyed the attention. It might be that if it wasn’t George it would have been someone else.”

Charlotte did not find that in the least helpful, but she realized that it was all Emily could give. She left it for a moment.

“Who else is there?”

“Nobody,” Emily said quietly. “It doesn’t make any sense.” She looked up, eyes wide and hollow, too hurt to think.

Charlotte reached out and touched her gently. “All right. I’ll judge for myself.” She took another scone and ate it absently.

Emily sat up a little, her shoulders stiff, pulling the thin fabric of her wrap round her. It was almost as though she expected some kind of a blow and was tensed to ward it off.

“I really don’t know what George felt for Sybilla.” She stared down at the embroidered hem of the sheet between her fingers. “For that matter, I’m not as sure as I used to be precisely what he felt for me, even before we came here. Perhaps I didn’t know him so very well. It’s funny, when I look back on Cater Street and all the things that happened there towards the end—I thought I’d never make all those mistakes myself, like Sarah, and Mama. Taking things for granted, assuming you know someone, just because you see them every day coming and going in the house, even sleep in the same bed with them sometimes, touch them ...” She hesitated a moment, grasping her self-control hard. “Assume that you know them, that you understand. But perhaps that’s exactly what I did. I assumed a lot of things about George, and maybe I was wrong.” She waited without looking up.

Charlotte knew she was half hoping for a contradiction, and yet she would not have believed one had it been offered.

“We never do know anyone else completely,” she said instead. “And nor should we—it would be an intrusion. And I daresay, at times it would be painful and destructive. And perhaps boring. How long would you stay in love with someone you could look through like glass, and see everything? One has to have mystery somewhere ahead left to explore, or why go on?” She crept a hand forward and took Emily’s gently. “I’d hate Thomas to know everything I thought or did—some of the weak and selfish things. I’d rather fight them on my own, and then forget them. I couldn’t do that if he knew—I’d wonder at all the wrong times if he remembered. He’d never find it so easy to forgive me if he knew some of the thoughts in my mind. And there are some things about people it is better not to know, just because if you did, you couldn’t ever completely dismiss them.”

Emily looked up, her face angry. “You think I flirted with Jack Radley, that I led him to expect something!”

“Emily, I never even heard of him until just now.” Charlotte met her eyes frankly. “You are accusing yourself, either because Thomas has said something, or you think he will, or because there is a thread of truth in it.”

“You’re damnably pious about it!” Emily suddenly lost her temper again and snatched her hand away. “You sit there as if you’d never flirted in your life! What about General Ballantyne?³ You lied to him just to do your detecting—and he adored you! You used that! I never treated anyone like that!”

Charlotte burned at the memory, but there was no time for the self-indulgence of guilt or explanation now. Not that there was an explanation—the charge was true. Emily’s anger hurt, but Charlotte understood, even though her feelings made her want to lash back that it was unfair, and had nothing to do with the problem now. But more powerful than that superficial abrasion was the deep hurt for Emily, the knowledge of a loss more profound than she had ever felt herself. Sometimes when Pitt had followed thieves into the dark alleys of the rookeries, Charlotte had feared for his life till she was cold and sick. But it had never been a reality, something that did not finally end in the overwhelming warmth of his arms and the certainty that, until next time, it was all a mirage, a nightmare vanished with the day. There would be no sunlit awakening for Emily.

“Some people are incredibly vain,” she said aloud. “Could Mr. Radley have imagined you might offer him more than friendship?”

“Not unless he’s a complete fool,” Emily said less harshly. She seemed about to say something more, then lost the words.

“Then we are left with William and Sybilla, or someone else in the family who has a reason we haven’t even guessed at.”

Emily sighed. “It doesn’t make much sense, does it? There must be something very important—and very ugly—that I don’t know. Something I haven’t even imagined. It makes me wonder how much of my safe and pretty life was all a lie.”

Charlotte had met no one on her arrival except Great-aunt Vespasia, and her only briefly. She knew she was going to be given the dressing room where George had slept, partly because it was immediately next to Emily, but also because no one else intended to give up their own accommodations for her. George’s body was laid out, silent and white-wrapped, in one of the old nurserymaids’ rooms in the servants’ wing. Charlotte dreaded lying in the same bed that George had died in only a few hours ago, and yet there was no alternative. The only way in which she could bear it would be in refusing to allow the thought into her mind.

Her few dark clothes suitable for summer mourning had already been unpacked for her. She blushed as she remembered how worn they were, how plain the underwear, even mended in places, and her dresses adapted from last year to look a little less unfashionable. She had only two pair of boots, and neither of them was really new. At another time she would have been angry at the embarrassment of it, and stayed away rather than cause Emily to be ashamed for her. Now there was no time for such petty emotions. She must change from traveling clothes, wash her face and do her hair, and present herself for the evening meal, which was bound to be appallingly grim, perhaps even hostile. But someone in this house was guilty of murder.

On the way downstairs for dinner she had reached the lowest step, past the dark paneling and rows of muddy oil paintings of Marches of the past, when she came almost face to face with an elderly woman in fierce black, jet beads glinting in the gaslight on her neck and bosom. Her gray-white hair was screwed back in a fashion more than twenty years out of date. Her cold blue marble eyes fixed Charlotte with immovable distaste.

“I presume you are Emily’s sister?” She looked her up and down briefly. “Vespasia said she sent for you—although I do think she might have informed us first and invited an opinion before taking matters into her own hands! But perhaps it is just as well you are here. You may be of some use—I’m sure I don’t know what to do for Emily. We’ve never had anything like this in the family.” She regarded Charlotte’s gown and the toes of her boots, which showed beneath the hem. They were not of the quality she was accustomed to. Even the maids had one new pair every season, whether they needed them or not, for the sake of appearances. Charlotte’s had obviously seen several seasons already.

“What’s your name?” she demanded. “I daresay I’ve been told, but I forget.”

“Charlotte Pitt,” Charlotte answered her coldly, her eyebrows raised in question as to who the asker might be herself.

The old lady stared at her irritably. “I am Mrs. March. I presume you are”—she hesitated almost imperceptibly and glanced again at Charlotte’s boots—“coming in to dinner?”

Charlotte swallowed the retort that rose to her lips—this was not the time for self-indulgent rudeness—and forced herself to assume an expression far meeker than she felt. She accepted as though it had been an invitation. “Thank you.”

“Well, you are early!” the old lady snapped. “Don’t you have a timepiece?”

Charlotte felt her cheeks burn; she understood with a passion how so many girls marry anyone who will have them, simply to leave home and put away forever the specter of living out the rest of their lives at the beck and call of an overbearing mother. There must have been a million loveless marriages contracted for just such reasons. Please heaven they did not contract such a mother-in-law instead!

She swallowed hard. “I thought I might have the opportunity of meeting the family first,” she replied quietly. “They are all strangers to me.”

“Quite!” the old lady agreed meaningfully. “I am going to my boudoir. I daresay you will find someone in the withdrawing room.” And with that she walked off, leaving Charlotte to find her own way through the dining room, set for the meal but as yet unoccupied, and through the double doors into the cool, green withdrawing room beyond.

Already there, standing in the middle of the carpet, was a girl of about nineteen, very thin under her muslin dress, her vivid red hair piled untidily, her wide, delicate mouth grave. She smiled as soon as she saw Charlotte.

“You must be Emily’s sister,” she said immediately. “I’m so glad you’ve come.” She looked down, then up again, ruefully. “Because I don’t know what to do—even what to say—”

Neither do I, Charlotte thought painfully. Everything sounds banal and insincere. But that was no excuse; even clumsy help was better than ignoring grief, running away as if it were a disease and you were afraid of being contaminated.

“I’m Anastasia March,” the girl went on. “But please call me Tassie.”

“I’m Charlotte Pitt.”

“Yes, I know. Grandmama said you’d be coming.” She pulled a little face. Charlotte had already been given Grandmama’s opinion of that.

Further conversation was prevented by the doors opening again and William and Sybilla March coming in; she first, dressed in glittering black, lace around the smooth, white throat; he a step behind. Charlotte could see instantly how George had been fascinated with her. She had a vibrancy even in repose that Emily did not, an air of mystery and intensity that would intrigue many men. She did not need to do anything—it was there in her face, the dark, wide eyes, the curve of her mouth, the richness of her figure. Charlotte could well imagine how hard Emily had had to work, how unceasing her charm, how tight her self-control, to win George’s attention back again. No wonder Jack Radley had been drawn! But how careless had Emily been, with her mind solely on George? Could she have given away far more than she intended, and been too preoccupied to notice how seriously he had taken her advances?

And William March, the so slightly complacent husband—his face was anything but uncaring. His features were sensitive, ascetic; thin nose, chiseled mouth. Yet there was passion of some sort within him, even if it was more complex than simple adoration or a fire in the blood. He might despise both of those, and yet be just as much their victim.

Her contemplation was cut off by Eustace March himself sweeping in, immaculately dressed, his round eyes flicking from one to another, seeing who was absent, assuring himself that all was as he wished it. His gaze stopped on Charlotte. He seemed already to have made up his mind how he was going to treat her, and his smile was unctuous and confident.

“I am Eustace March. Most fortunate you were able to come, my dear Mrs. Pitt. Very fitting. Poor Emily needs someone who knows her. We shall do our best, of course, but we cannot be the same as her own family. Most suitable that you should be here.” His eyes flicked towards Sybilla, and he gave a slight, satisfied smile. “Most suitable,” he repeated.

The door opened again and the only unrelated guest came in, the one who troubled Charlotte the most. Jack Radley. As soon as she saw him standing elegantly just inside the arch of the lintel, she understood more of the problem than she had before, and felt the coldness grow inside her. It was not so much that he was handsome—although his eyes were amazing—as that he had a grace and a vitality that demanded a woman’s attention. No doubt he was totally aware of the fact; his charm was his primary asset, and he had sufficient intelligence to make the best possible use of it. Meeting his gaze across the short space of the green carpet, she could understand only too well how Emily had used him as a foil against which to win George’s attention again. A flirtation with the man might be enormous fun, and all too believable. Only it might prove more addictive than she had foreseen—and far harder to end than to begin. Perhaps after the heady excitement of a forbidden romance, the exhilaration of the game superbly played, George, familiar and predictable, would be a prize less worth the winning. Might Emily, perhaps without acknowledging it, have been willing to continue the affair? And had Jack Radley seen it as his chance at last for a wife prettier and far, far richer than Tassie March?

It was an ugly thought, but now that it was in her brain it was ineradicable without another solution to force it out, to disprove it beyond the smallest doubt.

She glanced at Eustace, standing with his feet a little apart, solid and satisfied, his hands clasped behind his back. Whatever nervousness he might feel was under control. He must have convinced himself he was in charge again. He was the patriarch leading his family through a crisis; everyone would look to him, and he would rise to the occasion. Women would lean on him, confide in him, rest on his strength; men would admire him, envy him. After all, death is a part of life. It must be dealt with with courage and decorum—and he had not been overfond of George.

She looked next at Tassie, as unlike her father as it was possible to be. She was painfully slender where he was thick, broad-boned; vivid and alive where he was innately immovable, settled and sure.

Did he really want to marry Tassie to Jack Radley in order to purchase himself the ultimate respectability of a title through the Radley family connections, as Emily had said in her letters? Looking at him now it seemed eminently likely. Although again, it could be no more than the desire of any good father to see his daughter escape the prison of home, to find another man to provide her with an establishment of her own when he no longer could, and with the social status of wife, and that goal and haven of all women, a family.

Was it what Tassie wanted?

Charlotte cast her mind back to the time when she had been taken with other young women of her age to parties, balls, and soirées in desperate hope of catching the right husband. If one were well-born enough to “come out,” it was a disaster to finish the Season unbetrothed, the mark of social failure. No one married unless the arrangement were suitable, the proposed partner acceptable to one’s family. Very seldom did one know the person, except in the most perfunctory way; it was impossible to spend time alone together or to speak of anything but trivialities. And once a betrothal was announced it was rarely broken, and only with difficulty and subsequent speculation of scandal.

But perhaps anything was better than life in perpetual bondage, first to old Mrs. March and then to Eustace. He looked robust enough to live another thirty years.

The introductions had been effected and she had barely noticed. Now Eustace was chunnering on about his emotions, rocking slightly back and forth and holding his strong, square, and immaculately manicured hands together.

“We offer you our condolences, my dear Mrs. Pitt. It grieves me that there is nothing we can do to be of comfort to you.” He was making a statement of fact, distancing himself and his family from the affair. He did not mean to become any further involved, and he was making sure Charlotte understood.

But Charlotte was here to investigate and she had no compunction at all. She might feel profound pity, perhaps even for Eustace, before, all this was over; but she could not afford such tenderness now, when Emily was on the edge of such danger. They hanged women as easily as men for committing murder, and that thought drove all others from her mind.

She smiled sweetly up at Eustace. “I am sure you underestimate yourself, Mr. March. From Emily’s letters I believe you are a man of the greatest ability, who would rise to assume natural leadership in a crisis. Just the sort of man any woman would turn to when the situation overwhelms her.” She saw the blood rise in his face till he was scarlet to the eyes. She was describing him precisely as he wished to be seen—at any time but this! “And of course your loyalty to your family is beyond anyone to question,” she finished.

Eustace drew a shuddering breath, and let it out with a splutter.

Tassie stared aghast, not seeing the irony, and Sybilla sneezed repeatedly into a lace handkerchief.

“Good evening, Charlotte,” Aunt Vespasia said from the doorway, her eyes for an instant catching some of their old fire. “I had no idea Emily had written so well of Eustace. How charming.”

Some flicker of movement made Charlotte turn, and she caught a glimpse of black hatred on William’s face that was so swiftly removed she was half convinced it was a trick of the light, a reflection of the gas lamp in his eyes. Tassie moved a step closer to him as if to touch her fingers to his arm, but changed her mind.

“Family loyalty is a wonderful thing,” Sybilla remarked with an expression that could have meant anything at all, except what it said. “I expect a tragedy like this will show us where our true friends really are.”

“I am sure,” Charlotte agreed, looking at no one, “we shall discover depths in each other we had not dreamed of.”

Eustace choked, Jack Radley’s eyes opened so wide he seemed transfixed, and old Mrs. March threw the door open so violently it jarred against the wall and bruised the paper.

Dinner was grim, conducted mostly in silence, since Mrs. March chose to freeze any conversation at birth by staring fixedly at whoever spoke. Afterwards she declared that in view of the day’s events it would be suitable if everyone retired early. She glowered at Eustace and then at Jack Radley so they could not possibly escape her meaning; then she rose and commanded the ladies to follow her. They trooped obediently to sit for an insufferable hour in the pink boudoir before excusing themselves and going upstairs.

Emily had gone back to her own room, because naturally Vespasia required hers for herself. Lying hot and tangled in George’s bed in the dressing room, Charlotte was acutely aware of her, wondering if she should get up and go to her, or if it was one of those times when Emily needed to be alone, to work through the stages of her grief as she must.

She woke for the final time a little late to find the air heavy and humid and the room full of white, flat light. There was a maid standing in the doorway with a tray in her hands. A hideous flood of memory swamped Charlotte, not only of where she was and that George was dead, but that he had had poisoned coffee on his morning tray. For a moment the thought of sitting here in this same bed and drinking tea was intolerable. She opened her mouth to say something angry, then saw that it was the short, sensible figure of Digby, and the protest died.

“Good morning, ma’am.” Digby set the tray down and drew the curtains. “I’ll draw you a bath. It’ll be good for you.” She did not allow any question into her tone. It was clearly an order, possibly originating with Great-aunt Vespasia.

Charlotte sat up, blinking. Her eyes were gritty, her head ached, and she longed for the luxury of hot, clean-tasting tea. “Have you seen Lady Ashworth this morning?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. The mistress gave her some laudanum last night and said I was to leave her till ten at the soonest and then take her breakfast in. No doubt you’ll be wanting to take yours downstairs with the family.” Again it was not a question. In fact, it was the last thing Charlotte felt like, but it was clearly a matter of duty. And she could certainly be of no service to Emily lying here in bed.

Breakfast was another almost silent meal taken in a room sharply chilly, since Eustace had preceded them and thrown all the windows open, and no one dared to close them while he was still there, plowing his way with unabated appetite through porridge, bacon, kedgeree, muffins, and toast and marmalade.

Afterwards Charlotte excused herself and went to the morning room, where she wrote letters for Emily, informing various more distant members of the family of George’s death. That at least would save Emily some pain.

By eleven she had completed all she could think of, and Emily was still not down, so she decided to begin her pursuit in earnest.

She had intended to speak to William, to see if she could form a clearer impression of him and confirm in her own mind what that extraordinary expression she had glimpsed the evening before might have been. She learned from the parlormaid that he was likely to be in his painting studio at the far end of the conservatory, and that the police were in the house again—not the inspector who had been the day before, but the constable—and the whole kitchen was set on its ears by his probing and prying into all sorts that was none of his affair. Cook was beside herself, and the scullery maid was in tears; the bootboy’s eyes were bulging out like organ stops, the housekeeper had never been so insulted in all her life, and the in-between maid was giving notice.

However, she did not get as far as the studio, because just inside the entrance of the conservatory she met with Sybilla, standing silent and motionless staring at a camellia bush. Charlotte gathered her wits and availed herself of this opportunity instead.

“One could almost imagine oneself out of England altogether,” she observed pleasantly.

Sybilla was jerked out of her reverie and struggled to find a civil reply to such a banal remark. “Indeed one could.”

There were lilies blooming a few feet away; their succulent flesh reminded Charlotte of bloodless faces. She did not know how long they would be alone there. She must use the time, and she fancied Sybilla was too intelligent for any oblique approach to succeed. Surprise just might.

“Was George in love with you?” she asked candidly.

Sybilla stood frozen for so long Charlotte could hear the condensation dripping from the top leaves near the roof onto the ones below. The fact that she did not instantly deny it was important in itself. Was she debating the truth with herself, or merely the safety of answering? Surely they must all know by now that it was murder, and have expected the question.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “I am tempted to say, Mrs. Pitt, that it is a private matter, and none of your concern. But I suppose that since Emily is your sister, you cannot help caring.” She swung round to face Charlotte, her eyes wide, her smile vulnerable and curiously bitter. “I cannot answer for him, and I am sure you don’t expect me to repeat everything he said to me. But Emily was jealous, that is undoubted. She also carried it superbly.”

Looking at her, Charlotte was aware of intense emotions inside her, of the capability for passion and for pain. She could not possibly dislike her as she had intended.

“I apologize for asking,” she said brittlely. “I know it sounds gauche.”

“Yes,” Sybilla agreed dryly, “but you don’t have to explain.” There was no anger visible in Sybilla’s face, only a tightness, a consciousness of both irony and tragedy.

Charlotte was furious with herself and entangled in confusion. This woman had taken Emily’s husband—whether intentionally or not, in front of the whole house—and perhaps directly caused his death. She wanted to hate her with an unfettered, clean violence. Yet she could so easily imagine herself with similar feelings, and she was unable to sustain rage against anyone the moment she comprehended the capacity for pain. It ruined her judgment and tied her tongue.

“Thank you.” The words came out clumsily; it was not at all what she had meant for this interview. But she must try to salvage something out of it. “Do you know Mr. Radley well?”

“Not very,” Sybilla replied with a faint smile. “Papa-in-law wishes him to marry poor Tassie, and he is here for everyone to come discreetly to some arrangement. Although there is not much discreet about Jack—nor, I gather, has there ever been.”

“Is Tassie in love with him?” She felt a stab of shame for Emily. If she were, and being engineered into a marriage while Jack Radley quite openly humiliated her by displaying his attraction to Emily, then how she must have suffered. Were there any possibility of mistake, Charlotte would have supposed the poison intended for Emily.

Sybilla was smiling slightly. She reached out and touched the camellia petals. “Now I suppose they will go brown,” she remarked. “They do if you touch them. No she wasn’t, in fact. I don’t think she wanted to marry him at all. She’s something of a romantic.”

In that one phrase she summed up a host of things: a world of both regret and contempt for girlish innocence, a wry affection for Tassie, and the knowledge that Charlotte must be of a lower social class than herself to ask such a question at all. People like the Marches married for family reasons—to accumulate more wealth, to consolidate trade empires or ally with competitors, above all to breed strong sons to continue the name—never for emotional fancies like falling in love. It passed too quickly and left too little behind. What was falling in love anyway? The curve of a cheek, the arch of a brow, a trick of grace or flattery, a moment of sharing.

But it was hard to commit oneself to such an intimate and permanent tie without something of the magic, even if it was very often an illusion. And sometimes it was real! Most of the time Charlotte took Thomas for granted, like a profound friendship, but there were many moments when her heart beat in her throat and she still knew him in a crowded street among hundreds by the way he stood, or recognized his step with a lift of excitement.

“And Mr. Radley, I take it, is a realist?” she said aloud.

“Oh, I think so,” Sybilla agreed, looking back at Charlotte and biting her lip very slightly. “I don’t think circumstances have allowed him a choice.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to ask if he might not have become obsessed with Emily all the same, then realized that the question was anything but helpful. Tassie March might inherit a pleasing sum from both her grandparents, but it would pale beside the Ashworth fortune that would now be Emily’s alone. Why look for a motive of love of any degree when that of money was so apt?

They were at the doorway of the conservatory, and there was nothing more to say. Charlotte excused herself and escaped inside. She had learned nothing that she had not already surmised, except that instinctively she felt an empathy for Sybilla March which threw all her budding theories into turmoil again.

Luncheon yielded nothing but platitudes. Afterwards, Charlotte spent an hour with Emily, ever on the brink of pressing her for answers and, seeing her white face, changing her mind. Instead she went to find William March, who was still painting in the conservatory. She knew perfectly well that she was interrupting him and he would hate it, but there was no time to nurse her own sensibilities.

She found him in the studio that had been cleared for him beyond the lilies and vines. He stood with the angular grace of someone who uses his body and is unaware of being observed. There was nothing posed about him: his elbows stuck out, his head was to one side, and his feet were apart. Yet his balance was perfect. The top window was open and there was a whispering of wind in the leaves like water through pebbles on a shore. He did not hear Charlotte’s approach, and she was almost beside him when she spoke. Ordinarily she would have felt a crassness that would chill her stomach to speak to him, but after talking with Sybilla she was even more conscious of the danger in which Emily stood. To any unbiased observer she must look guilty. There was only her word that George had quarreled with Sybilla, whereas everyone had seen George’s affair—and had seen Emily accept attention from Jack Radley. If there was a reason anyone else in the family was involved, she had not yet found it.

“Good afternoon, Mr. March,” she said with forced cheerfulness. She felt like a fool and a philistine.

He was startled and the brush jerked in his hand, but she had chosen a moment when it was still far from the canvas. He turned to look at her coldly. His eyes were surprisingly dark gray, and deep-set under the red brows.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt. Are you lost?” It was plain to the point of rudeness. He resented being disturbed and still more being placed where he was obliged to conduct a pointless conversation with a woman he did not know.

She lost any hope of fooling him. “No, I came here on purpose, because I wished to talk with you. I realize I am preventing your work.”

He was surprised; he had expected some silly excuse. He still held the brush in the air and his face was tight with concentration. “Indeed?”

She looked past him at the picture. It was far cleverer than she had foreseen; there was a shivering in the leaves—an impression more than an outline—and just beyond the brightness of sunlight there was ice, wind that cut the skin, a sense of isolation and pain. It was as much the tail end of winter, with sudden frost that kills, as it was a herald of spring, and she felt it in the mind as well as the eye.

“It’s very fine,” she said sincerely. She thought it was far too good for someone who merely wanted a representation of his possessions and would be blind to the artist’s voice illuminating it like flame. “You should exhibit it before you hand it over. It has the cruelties of nature, as well as the loveliness.”

He flinched as though she had hurt him. “That’s what Emily said.” His voice was quiet; it was more a reflection to himself than a remark to her. “Poor Emily.”

“Did you know George well?” She plunged straight in, watching his eyes and the curious, chiseled mouth. But she saw no alteration but sadness, no evasion.

“No,” he said quietly. “He was a cousin, so naturally I have met him from time to time, but I cannot say I knew him.” He smiled very slightly. “We had few interests in common, but that is not to say I disliked him. On the contrary, I found him very agreeable. He was almost always good-natured, and harmless.”

“Emily thought he was in love with Mrs. March.” She was franker than she might have been with someone else, but he seemed too intelligent to dupe and too perceptive to misunderstand her.

He stared at the painting. “In love?” He turned the phrase over in his mind. “I suppose that is as good a term as any—it covers almost whatever you like. It was an adventure, something daring and different. Sybilla is never a bore—she has too much unknown in her.” He began to wipe the paint off his brush, not looking at Charlotte. “But he would have forgotten her after he left here. Emily is a clever woman, she knew how to wait. George was childish, that’s all.”

Charlotte had known George for seven years, and what William March said was precisely true, and he had seen it as clearly as she.

“But someone killed him,” she persisted.

His hands stopped moving. “Yes, I know. But I don’t believe it was Emily, and it certainly wasn’t Sybilla.” He hesitated, still watching the spread-out hairs of the brush. “I would consider Jack Radley, if I were you. Emily is now a young and titled widow with a considerable fortune, and a most attractive woman. She has already shown him some favor, and he might be vain enough to fancy it could increase.”

“That would be vile!”

He looked up at her, his eyes bright. “Yes. But vileness exists. It seems we can think of nothing so appalling that someone somewhere hasn’t thought of it too—and done it.” His mouth twitched, and with difficulty he controlled it. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Pitt. I beg your pardon. I did not wish to offend you.”

“You haven’t, Mr. March. As I am sure you could not have forgotten, my husband is a policeman.”

He swung round, letting the brush drop, and stared at her as if part of him wanted to laugh at the joke on Society. “You must have great courage. Were your family horrified?”

She had been too much in love to take a great deal of notice of anyone else’s feelings, but that seemed a peculiarly insensitive thing to say now to this man, whose wife had responded so fully and so publicly to George. Instead, she told him the easiest lie.

“They were so pleased with Emily marrying Lord Ashworth they tolerated me really quite well.”

But mention of George and Emily only brought back the sharp contrast with Emily’s present loss. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, and turned back to the cruel, sensitive painting.

She was dismissed, and this time she accepted it, walking slowly back through the jungle of growth to the rest of the house.

In the afternoon they were visited by the pink-faced curate. He made an embarrassed and rather abrupt apology for the vicar who, apparently, was unable to come in person due to some emergency, the nature of which was unclear.

“Indeed!” Vespasia said with unconcealed skepticism. “How unfortunate.”

The curate was a large young man of obvious West Highland origin. With the bluntness of youth, and perhaps some judgment of his own, he made no effort to embellish the excuse. Charlotte warmed to him immediately and was not surprised to observe that Tassie also seemed to find him agreeable.

“And when do we expect this crisis to pass?” Mrs. March inquired coldly.

“When our reputation is restored and we are not the seat of scandal anymore,” Tassie said instantly, and blushed as soon as the words were out.

The curate took a deep breath, bit his lip, and colored as well.

“Anastasia!” Mrs. March’s voice cracked like a whip. “You will excuse yourself to your room if you cannot guard your tongue from uncharitableness, let alone impertinence. No doubt Mr. Beamish has his reasons for not calling upon us to give us his comfort in person.”

“I expect Mr. Hare will do rather better anyway,” Vespasia murmured to no one in particular. “I find the vicar peculiarly tedious.”

“That is beside the point!” Mrs. March snapped. “It is not the vicar’s function to be amusing. I always felt you did not understand religion, Vespasia. You never knew how to behave in church. You have had a tendency to laugh in the wrong places as long as I have known you.”

“That is because I have a sense of the absurd, and you have not,” Vespasia replied. She turned to Mungo Hare, balanced on the edge of one of the hard-backed, withdrawing room chairs and trying to compose his face to display the appropriate mixture of piety and solicitude. “Mr. Hare,” she continued, “please convey to Mr. Beamish that we understand his reasons quite perfectly, and that we are very satisfied that you should take his place.”

Tassie sneezed, or that is what it sounded like. Mrs. March made a clicking noise with her tongue, excessively irritated that Vespasia should have contrived to insult the vicar more effectively than she herself had. How dare the wretched, cowardly little man send a curate in his place to call upon the Marches? And Charlotte remembered with renewed vividness why she had liked Aunt Vespasia from the day they had met.

Mungo Hare duly unburdened himself of the condolences and the spiritual encouragement he had been charged with; then Tassie accompanied him upstairs to repeat it all to Emily, who had chosen to spend the afternoon alone.

Charlotte meant to go up later and see if she could tap Emily’s memory for some observation, however minor, which would betray a weakness, a lie, anything which could be pursued. But as she was crossing the hall Eustace emerged from the morning room, straightening his jacket and coughing loudly, thus making it impossible for her to pretend she had not seen him.

“Ah, Mrs. Pitt,” he said with affected surprise, his round little eyes very wide. “I should like to talk with you. Perhaps the boudoir? Mrs. March has gone to change for dinner, and I know it is presently unoccupied.” He was behind her, hands wide, almost as if he would physically shepherd her in the direction he wished her to go. Short of being unexplainably rude, she could not refuse.

Charlotte found the room one of the ugliest she had ever seen. It exemplified the worst taste of the last fifty years, and she felt suffocated by everything it symbolized as much as by the sheer weight of the furniture, the hot color, and the wealth of ornaments and drapings. It seemed to be expressive of a prudery that was vulgar in its very consciousness of the things it sought to cover—an opulence that was lacking in any real richness. It was difficult to keep the distaste from showing in her face.

For once Eustace did not fling open the windows in his customary manner, and it was the only time when she would willingly have done it for him. He seemed too preoccupied with the burden of framing his thoughts.

“Mrs. Pitt. I hope you find yourself as comfortable as may be, in these tragic circumstances?”

“Quite, thank you, Mr. March.” She was confused. Surely he had not brought her to this room to ask her in private such a trivial question?

“Good, good.” He rubbed his hands together and remained looking at her. “Of course, you do not know us very well. Nor perhaps anyone like us. No, no you wouldn’t. We must seem alien to you. I should explain, so that we do not add confusion as well to your natural grief for your sister. If I can help you at all, in the least way, my dear ... ?”

Charlotte opened her mouth to say that she was no more confused than anyone else would be, but he hurried on, drowning her protest.

“You must excuse Lady Cumming-Gould her eccentricities. She was a great beauty once, you know, and so she was allowed to get away with being outrageous, and I’m afraid she has never grown beyond it. Indeed, I think with age she has become more so—I know my dear mother finds her quite trying at times.” He rubbed his hands and smiled experimentally, searching Charlotte’s face to see how she responded to this information. “But we must all exercise forbearance!” he went on quickly, sensing disapproval. “That is part of being a family—so important! Cornerstone of the country. Loyalty, continuity, one generation to the next—that’s what civilization is all about. Marks us from the savages, eh?”

Charlotte opened her mouth to argue that in her opinion savages had an excellent dynastic sense, and were intensely conservative, which was precisely why they remained savages instead of inventing and exploring things new. But again Eustace carried on regardless before she could begin.

“And of course from your point of view poor Sybilla must seem most cruel and ill-behaved, because you will naturally take Emily’s part. But you know there was far more to it than that. Oh dear, yes. I am afraid it was George who pursued, you know—quite definitely George. And dear Sybilla is so used to admiration she failed to discourage him appropriately. It was ill-judged of her, of course. I feel obliged to tell her so, directly. And George should have been far more discreet—”

“He shouldn’t have done it at all!” Charlotte interrupted hotly.

“Ah, my dear!” Eustace’s face was lit with a smile of patience and condescension. He wagged his head a little. “Let us not be unrealistic. One expects girls of Tassie’s age to have romantic illusions, and heaven forfend I should wound her susceptibilities at so tender a stage in her life, when she is just on the brink of betrothal. But a married woman of Emily’s years must come to terms with the nature of men. A truly feminine woman has forgiveness in her nature for our foibles and weaknesses, as indeed we men have for the frailties of women.” He smiled at her, and for a moment his hand hovered warmly over hers and she was intensely aware of him.

Charlotte was furious. There was something about him that brought back in a rush every patronizing word she had ever heard. She ached to wipe the complacence off his moon face.

“You mean that if Emily had lain with Mr. Radley, for example, George would have forgiven her?” she asked sarcastically, pulling her hand away.

She had succeeded. Eustace was genuinely shocked. She had preempted a subject he would not have put words to himself. The blood drained from his skin, then rushed back in a tide of color. “Really!” he spluttered. “I appreciate that you have had a grave shock, and perhaps you are afraid for Emily, understandably. But my dear Mrs. Pitt, there is no call for vulgarity! I shall do you the favor of putting from my mind that I ever heard you so forget yourself as to make such a vile suggestion. We shall agree never to refer to it again. You strike at the very root of all that is fine and decent in life. If women were to behave in that way, why, good God!—a man wouldn’t know if his son were his own! The home would be desecrated, the very fabric of Society would fall apart. The idea does not bear thinking of!”

Charlotte found herself blushing, although as much from anger as embarrassment. Perhaps she was being ridiculous, and the movement of his hand really had been no more than sympathy.

“I did not suggest it, Mr. March!” she protested, raising her chin and staring at him. “I merely meant that perhaps Emily expected as high a standard from George as she was prepared to adhere to herself.”

“I see you are very inexperienced, Mrs. Pitt, and somewhat romantic.” Eustace shook his head knowingly, but his expression eased out into a smile again. “Women are quite different from men, my dear, quite different! We have our corresponding virtues of intellect, manliness and courage.” Unconsciously he flexed the muscles of his arm. “A man’s brain is a far more powerful thing than a woman’s.” His eyes roamed gently and with pleasure over her neck and bosom. “Think what we have achieved for humanity, in every way. But if a woman does not have modesty, patience and chastity, a sweet disposition, what is she? Indeed, what is the whole world without the influence of our wives and mothers? A sea of barbarism, Mrs. Pitt—that is what it is.” He stared at her, and she met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Was that what you wished to say to me, Mr. March?” she asked.

“Ah, no, er ...” He seemed thrown off balance and blinked rapidly; he had lost the thread of his thought entirely, and she gave him no assistance.

“I merely wished to make sure that you were comfortable,” he said at last. “We must present a united face to the world. You are one of us, my dear, through poor Emily. We must do what is best for the family. It is not a time for selfishness. I am sure you understand that.”

“Oh, absolutely, Mr. March,” she agreed, staring solemnly at him. “I shall not forget my family loyalties, you may be assured.”

He smiled with a gust of relief, apparently forgetting that Thomas Pitt was her most immediate relative. “Excellent. Of course you will not. Now I must leave you time to change for dinner, and perhaps to visit poor Emily. I am sure you will be an enormous help to her. Ha!”

After dinner the ladies withdrew from the dining room, to be followed quite soon by the gentlemen. Conversation was stilted, because Emily had joined them for the first time since George’s death and no one knew what to say. To speak of the murder seemed needlessly cruel, and yet to converse as if it had not happened deformed all other subjects into such artificiality as to be grotesque. Consequently Charlotte rose at a little after nine and excused herself, saying she wished to retire early and was sure they would understand. Emily went with her, much to everyone’s relief. Charlotte imagined she could hear the sigh of exhaled breath as she closed the door behind them, and people sank a little more easily into their chairs.

She woke in the night, thinking she had heard Emily moving about next door, and she was anxious in case her sister was too distressed to sleep. Perhaps she should go to her.

She sat up and was about to reach for a shawl when she realized the noise was from a different direction, more towards the stairs. Why should Emily go downstairs at this time of night?

She slipped out of bed and, without fumbling for slippers, went to the door, opened it, and crept out and along to the main landing. She had put her head round the corner before she saw what it was in the gaslight at the head of the stairs; she froze as if the breath had been snatched from her and her skin doused in cold water.

Tassie March was coming up the stairs, her face calm and weary, but with a serenity unlike anything Charlotte had seen in her before. The restlessness was gone, all the tension released. Her hands were held out in front of her, sleeves crumpled, smears of blood on the cuffs, and a dark stain near the hem of her skirt.

She reached the top of the stairs just as Charlotte realized her own position and shrank back into the shadows. Tassie passed on tiptoe less than a yard away from her, still with that unhurried smile, leaving a heavy, sickly, and quite unmistakable odor behind her. No one who had smelled fresh blood could ever forget it.

Charlotte went back to her room, shivering uncontrollably, and was sick.