Cardington Crescent

2

EMILY WAS INDEED profoundly unhappy, in spite of the fact that she looked magnificent in a shimmering aquamarine gown of daring and elegant cut and was sitting in the Marches’ private box at the Savoy. On stage, in all its delicious, lyrical charm, was Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan’s opera Iolanthe, of which she was particularly fond. The very idea of a youth half human and half fairy, divided at the waist, normally appealed to her sense of the absurd. Tonight it passed her by.

The cause of her distress was that for several days now her husband, George, had taken no pains at all to hide the fact that he very evidently preferred Sybilla March’s company to Emily’s. He was perfectly civil, in an automatic kind of way, which was worse than rudeness. Rudeness would at least have meant he was sharply aware of her, not dimly, as of something blurred at the edge of his vision. It was Sybilla’s presence that brought the light to his face, it was she his eyes followed, she whose words held his attention, whose wit made him laugh.

Now he was sitting behind her, and to Emily she looked as gaudy as some overblown flower, in her flame-colored gown, with her white skin and peat-water-dark eyes and all that opulent mass of hair. In spite of the hurt and the foolishness of it, Emily glanced sideways at him often enough to know that George barely looked at the stage. The hero’s plight did not move him in the slightest, nor the heroine’s winsome flirtations, nor the fairy Queen nor Iolanthe herself. He did smile and move his fingers gently in time to “The Peers’ Song,” which surely would move anyone at all, and his attention was caught for a moment’s sheer pleasure in the dancing trio, with the Lord High Chancellor kicking his legs in the air with abandoned glee.

Emily could feel the misery and panic growing inside her. Everything around was color, gaiety, and sound; every face she could see was smiling—George at Sybilla, Uncle Eustace March at himself, Sybilla’s husband, William, at the fantasy on stage. His youngest sister, Tassie, only nineteen, thin as her mother had been and with a shock of hair the color of sunlight on apricots, was definitely smiling at the principal tenor. Old Mrs. March, her grandmother, was twitching the corner of her tight lips upward in spite of herself; she did not care to be amused. Great-aunt Vespasia, Tassie’s maternal grandmother, on the other hand, was delighted. She had a marked sense of the ridiculous and had long ago ceased to care a jot what anyone else thought of her.

That left only Jack Radley, the single nonfamily guest of the evening, currently also staying at Cardington Crescent. He was a ravishingly handsome young man with excellent connections, but unfortunately, no money worth mentioning, and a highly dubious reputation with women. He was another outsider, and for that alone Emily could have liked him, regardless of his grace or his humor. It was fairly obvious that he had been invited with a view to arranging a marriage for Tassie, the only one of the ten March daughters still unmarried. The purpose of this liaison was not yet plain, since Tassie did not appear to be fond of him and had considerably more substantial expectations than he; although his family was related to those who held power he himself had no prospects. William had said unkindly that Eustace hungered for a knighthood—and in time, perhaps, a peerage—as the ultimate accolade to his family’s rise from trade to respectability. But that was surely an observation more malicious than truthful. There was a tension between father and son, a sharpness that intruded like a sudden splinter of glass every now and then, small but surprisingly painful.

At present William was behind Emily’s chair, and he was the only one she could not see.

During the interval it was he who brought her wine and a chocolate bonbon, not George; George was standing in the corner laughing at something Sybilla had said. Emily forced herself to make some sort of conversation, knowing it was a failure even as the words fell into hot silence, and the minute after she wished she had not said them. She was relieved when the curtain went up again.

“I cannot think where Mr. Gilbert gets such ridiculous plots!” Old Mrs. March drummed her fingers irritably when the final applause had died. “There is absolutely no sense in it at all!”

“There is not meant to be, Grandmama,” Sybilla said with a dreamy smile.

Mrs. March stared at her over her pince-nez, the black velvet ribbon dangling down her cheek. “Someone who is foolish because nature has so designed them, I pity; someone who is foolish by intention it is beyond me to understand,” she said coldly.

“That I can well believe,” Jack Radley murmured behind Emily’s ear. “And I’d swear Mr. Gilbert would find her equally incomprehensible—only he wouldn’t care.”

“My dear Lavinia, he is no more foolish than some of the romances by Madam Ouida, which I see you reading under brown paper covers.”

Mrs. March’s face froze, but there were pink spots in her cheeks where rouge would have been on a younger woman. She deplored the vulgarity of painting one’s face; women who did that were “of a certain sort.”

“You are quite mistaken, Vespasia,” she snapped. “It is a pity your vanity prevents you obtaining a pair of spectacles. One of these days you will fall downstairs or otherwise make an unfortunate exhibition of yourself. William! You had better give your grandmama your arm. I don’t wish to be the center of attention as we leave.” She rose to her feet and turned to the door. “Especially of that kind!”

“You won’t be,” Vespasia retorted. “Not as long as Sybilla insists upon wearing scarlet.”

“Very suitable for her,” Emily said, before she thought. She had intended it to be inaudible, but just at the precise moment everyone around them stopped speaking and her voice came clearly into the pause.

There was a touch of color in George’s face, and she looked away instantly, wishing she had bitten her tongue till it bled rather than betray herself so nakedly.

“I’m so glad you like it,” Sybilla answered quite calmly, rising also. There seemed no end to her aplomb. “We all have colors which flatter us, and those which don’t. I doubt I should look as well as you do in that shade of blue.”

That made it worse. Instead of spitting back she had been charming. Even now, George was smiling at her. Almost as if some invisible current had designed it, they were swept out of the box into the eddy of people pressing to reach the foyer, George next to Sybilla, offering his arm as if anything less would have been uncivil.

Emily found herself, hot-faced and stumbling, being pushed and jostled forward with Jack Radley’s arm about her and Great-aunt Vespasia’s beautiful silver head in front.

Once they reached the foyer it was inescapable that they should meet with people they knew, and be obliged to exchange opinions and inquiries as to health, and all the other chitchat of such an occasion. It swam over her head in a senseless bedlam. She nodded and smiled and agreed with everything that penetrated into her mind. Someone asked after her son, Edward, and she replied that he was at home and very well. Then George nudged her sharply, and she remembered to inquire after the family of the speaker. It all babbled on around her:

“Delightful performance!”

“Have you seen Pinafore?”

“How does that piece go again?”

“Shall you be at Henley? I do love regattas. Such a delightful thing for a hot day, don’t you agree?”

“I prefer Goodwood. There is something about the races—all the silks, don’t you know!”

“But my dear, what about Ascot?”

“I rather care for Wimbledon, myself.”

“I haven’t a thing to wear! I must see my dressmaker immediately—I really need an entire new wardrobe.”

“Wasn’t the Royal Academy too frightful this year!”

“My dear, I do agree! Perfectly tedious!”

Clumsily, she survived nearly half an hour of such greetings and comments before at last finding herself alone in her carriage with George beside her, stiff and more distant than a stranger.

“What on earth is the matter with you, Emily?” George said after they had sat in silence for ten minutes, while carriages ahead of them picked up their owners. Finally the way ahead was clear down the Strand.

Should she lie, evade the moment of commitment to the quarrel which she knew he would hate? George was tolerant, generous, of an easy nature, but he wanted emotion only at times of his own choosing, and most certainly not now, when he was full of the echoes of such civilized enjoyment.

Half of her wanted to face him, let all her scalding hurt burst out, demand he explain himself and his wounding and outrageous behavior. But just as she opened her mouth to reply, cowardice overcame her. Once she had spoken it would be too late to draw back; she would have cut off her only retreat. It was so unlike her—she was usually mistress of herself so coolly, with such measured reaction. It was part of what had first drawn him to her. Now she betrayed all that and took the easy lie, despising herself, and hating him for reducing her to it.

“I don’t feel very well,” she said stiffly. “I think perhaps the theater was a little hot.”

“I didn’t notice it.” He was still annoyed. “Nor did anyone else.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out how profoundly he had been otherwise engaged, but again she avoided the crisis.

“Then maybe I am feverish.”

“Spend tomorrow in bed.” There was no sympathy in his voice.

He just wants me to stay out of the way, she thought, before I become even more of a nuisance and an embarrassment to him. Tears prickled in her eyes, and she swallowed hard, painfully grateful to be in the close, sharp darkness of the carriage. She said nothing, in case her voice betrayed her, and George did not pursue the subject. They rode through the summer night, their way lit by the hundred yellow moons of the gas lamps, hearing nothing but the steady clop-clop of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of the wheels.

When they reached Cardington Crescent the footman opened the doors, and Emily climbed down and went up the steps under the portico and in through the front door without even glancing to see if George was behind her. It was customary to attend a dinner party before the opera and a supper party afterwards, but old Mrs. March did not feel her health equal to both—although in fact there was nothing whatsoever wrong with her except age—so they had forgone the supper. Now a late meal was served in the withdrawing room, but Emily could not face the laughter, the bright lights of the chandeliers, and the probing eyes.

“If you will excuse me,” Emily said to no one in particular, “it has been a delightful evening, but I am rather tired and I would prefer to retire. I wish you all a good night.” Not waiting for a reply, she continued straight on to the foot of the stairs before anyone’s voice held her back. It was not George, as she ached for it to be, but Jack Radley, only a pace behind her.

“Are you all right, Lady Ashworth? You look a little pale. Shall we have something sent up to you?” Already he was at her elbow.

“No, thank you,” she said quickly. “I am sure I shall be quite well when I have rested.” She must not be seen to be rude—it was so childish. She forced herself to turn and look at him. He was smiling. He really did have the most remarkable eyes; he contrived to look intimate even when she barely knew him, and yet it was not quite enough to be intrusive. She could see quite well how he had gained his reputation with women. It would serve George right if she fell as much in love with Radley as George had with Sybilla!

“Are you sure?” he repeated.

“Quite,” she answered expressionlessly. “Thank you.” And she went up the stairs as rapidly as she could without appearing to run. She was only on the landing when she heard the conversation resume, the laughter peal again, the gay lilt of people who are still in the spell of totally carefree pleasure.

She woke to find herself alone and the sunlight streaming in through a crack in the imperfectly drawn curtains. George was not there, nor had he been. His side of the enormous bed was immaculate, the linen crisp. She had intended to have her breakfast sent up, but now her own company was worse than anyone else’s, and she rang sharply for her maid, refusing morning tea and sending her off to draw a bath and set out Emily’s clothes for the morning.

She put a wrap round her shoulders and knocked sharply on the dressing room door. After several moments it was opened by George, looking sleepy and rumpled, his thick hair falling loosely, his eyes wide and dark.

“Oh,” he said, blinking at her. “Since you weren’t well I thought I’d not disturb you, so I had them make up the bed in here.” He did not ask if she was better. He merely looked at her, at her milky skin with its faint blush and her coil of pale honey hair, came to his own conclusion, and retreated back to prepare himself for the day.

Breakfast was grim. Eustace, as always, had thrown all the dining room windows open. He was a great believer in “muscular Christianity” and all the aggressive good health that went with it. He ate pigeons in jelly with ostentatious relish, and piles of hot buttered toast and marmalade, and barricaded himself behind the Times, ironed and given him by the footman, which he did not offer to share with anyone. Not, of course, that any man offered his newspaper to women, but Eustace also ignored William, George, and Jack Radley.

Vespasia, to Eustace’s eternal disapproval, had her own newspaper.

“There has been a murder in Bloomsbury,” she observed over the raspberries.

“What has that to do with us?” Eustace did not look up; the remark was intended as a criticism. Women should not have newspapers, let alone discuss them at breakfast.

“About as much as anything else that is in here,” Vespasia replied. “It is to do with people, and tragedy.”

“Nonsense!” old Mrs. March snapped. “Probably some person of the criminal classes who thoroughly deserved it. Eustace, would you be good enough to pass me the Court Circular? I wish to know what is happening that is of some importance.” She shot a look of distaste at Vespasia. “I trust no one has forgotten we have a luncheon party at the Withingtons’, and that we are playing croquet at Lady Lucy Armstrong’s in the afternoon?” she went on, glancing at Sybilla with a frown and a faint curl of her lip. “Lady Lucy will be full of the Eton and Harrow cricket match, of course, and we shall be obliged to listen to her boasting endlessly about her sons. And we shall have nothing to say at all.”

Sybilla colored, a stiff, painful red. Her eyes were bright. She stared straight back at her grandmother-in-law with an expression which might have been any of a dozen things.

“We shall have to see whether it is a boy or a girl before we consider a school,” she said very clearly.

William stopped, his fork halfway to his mouth, incredulous. George drew in his breath in a little hiss of surprise. Eustace lowered his paper for the first time since he had sat down, and stared at her with amazement, then slow dawning jubilation.

“Sybilla! My dear girl! Do you mean that you are ... er ... ?”

“Yes!” she said boldly. “I would not have told you so soon, but I am tired of Grandmother-in-law making such remarks.”

“You cannot blame me!” Mrs. March defended herself sharply. “You’ve been twelve years about it. It is not surprising I despaired of the March name continuing. Heaven knows, poor William has had his patience strained to breaking point waiting for you to give him an heir.”

William’s head came round to glare at his grandmother, his cheeks burning, his eyes hot blue.

“That is absolutely none of your affair!” he said abruptly. “And I find your remarks inexpressibly vulgar.” He pushed his chair back, rose, and walked from the room.

“Well, well.” Eustace folded his newspaper and poured himself another cup of coffee. “Congratulations, my dear.”

“Better late than never,” Mrs. March conceded. “Although I doubt you will have many more, now.”

Sybilla still looked flushed, and now thoroughly uncomfortable. For the only time since her arrival, Emily felt sorry for her.

But the emotion was short-lived. The next few days passed in the customary fashion of Society during the Season. In the mornings they rode in the park, at which Emily had taught herself to be both graceful and skilled. But she had not the outrageous flair of Sybilla, and since George was a natural horseman it seemed almost inevitable that they should more often than not end up side by side, at some distance from the others.

William never came, preferring to work at his painting, which was his profession as well as his vocation. He was gifted to the degree that his works were admired by academicians and collected by connoisseurs. Only Eustace affected to find it displeasing that his only son preferred to retire alone to the studio arranged for him in the conservatory and make use of the morning light, rather than parade on horseback for the fashionable world to admire.

When they did not ride, they drove in the carriage, went shopping, paid calls upon their more intimate friends, or visited art galleries and exhibitions.

Luncheon was usually at about two o’clock, often at someone else’s house in a small party. In the afternoon they attended concerts or drove to Richmond or Hurlingham, or else made the necessary, more formal calls upon those ladies they knew only slightly, perching awkwardly around withdrawing rooms, backs stiff, and making idiotic chatter about people, gowns, and the weather. The men excused themselves from this last activity and retired to one or another of their clubs.

At four there was afternoon tea, sometimes at home, sometimes out at a garden party. Once there was a game of croquet, at which George partnered Sybilla and lost hopelessly amid peals of laughter and a sense of delight that infinitely outweighed Emily’s, who won. The taste of victory was ashes in her mouth. Not even Eustace, who partnered her, seemed to notice her. All eyes were on Sybilla, dressed in cherry pink, her cheeks flushed, her eyes radiant, and laughing so easily at her own ineptitude everyone wished to laugh with her.

Again Emily drove home in bitter silence before going leaden-footed up the stairs to change for dinner and the theater.

By Sunday she could bear it no longer. They had all been to church in the morning; Eustace insisted upon it. He was the patriarch of a godly family, and must be seen to be so. Dutifully, because they were guests in his house, they went—even Jack Radley, to whom it was far from a natural inclination. He would much rather have spent his summer Sundays in a good gallop in the park, with the sun sparkling through the trees and wind in his face, scattering birds, dogs, and onlookers alike—as indeed so would George, normally. But today George seemed positively happy to sit on the hard pew next to Emily, his eyes always wandering to Sybilla.

Luncheon was spent discussing the sermon, which had been earnest and tedious, dissecting it for “deeper meaning.” By the time they came to the fruit Eustace had pronounced that its real subject was the virtue of fortitude, and of bearing all affliction with a stiff upper lip. Only William was either sufficiently interested or sufficiently angry to bother to contradict him and assert that, on the contrary, it was about compassion.

“Nonsense!” Eustace said briskly. “You were always too soft, William. Always for taking the easy way out! Too many sisters, that’s your trouble. Should have been a girl yourself. Courage!” He banged the table with his fist. “That’s what it takes to be a man—and a Christian.”

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. The afternoon was spent reading and writing letters.

The evening was even worse. They sat around striving to make conversation suitable to the Sabbath, until Sybilla was invited to play the piano, which she did rather well and with obvious enjoyment. Everyone except Emily was drawn in, singing ballads, and occasionally, more serious solos. Sybilla had a very rich voice, a little husky with a slight catch in it.

Upstairs at last, her throat sore with the effort of not crying, Emily dismissed her maid and began to undress herself. George came in and closed the door with an unnecessarily loud noise.

“Couldn’t you have made more of an effort, Emily?” he said coldly. “Your sullenness was verging on bad manners.”

It was too much. The injustice of it was intolerable.

“Bad manners!” she gasped. “How dare you stand there and accuse me of bad manners! You have spent the entire fortnight seducing your host’s daughter-in-law in front of everyone, even the servants. And because I don’t care to join in with you, you accuse me of being ill-mannered!”

The color flamed up in his face, but he stood perfectly still. “You are hysterical,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you would be better alone until you can collect yourself. I shall sleep in the dressing room; the bed is still made up. I can perfectly easily tell everyone you are not feeling well and I don’t wish to disturb you.” His nostrils flared very slightly and a flicker of irritation crossed his face. “They won’t find that hard to believe. Good night.” And a moment later he was gone.

Emily stood numbed by the monstrosity of it. It was so utterly unfair, it took several moments to assimilate it. Then she threw herself onto the bed, punched the pillow with all her strength, and burst into tears. She wept till her eyes were burning and her lungs ached, and still she felt no better—only too tired to hurt so fiercely anymore—until tomorrow.