Highgate Rise

5

CHARLOTTE DREADED Grandmama’S attending the funeral of Clemency Shaw, but long as she considered the matter, she devised no way of preventing her. When she called upon them next she did suggest tentatively that perhaps in the tragic circumstances it would be better if the affair were as private as possible. The old lady gave that the contemptuous dismissal it deserved.

“Don’t be absurd, child.” She looked at Charlotte down her nose. This was an achievement in itself since she was considerably shorter than Charlotte, even when they were both seated, as they now were in the withdrawing room by the fire. “Sometimes I despair of your intelligence,” she added for good measure. “You display absolutely not a jot at times. Everyone will be there. Do you really imagine people will pass up such an opportunity to gossip at domestic disaster and make distasteful speculations? It is just the time when your friends should show a bold face and make it apparent to everyone that they are with you and support you in your distress—and believe you perfectly innocent of—of anything at all.”

It was such a ridiculous argument Charlotte did not bother to make a reply. It would change nothing except Grandmama’s temper, and that for the worse.

Emily did not go, to her chagrin. But dearly as she would like to have, she acknowledged that her motive was purely curiosity, and she herself felt it would be indecent. The more she thought of Clemency Shaw, the more she became determined to do all she could that her work might continue, as the best tribute she could pay her, and she would not spoil it by an act of self-indulgence.

However she did offer to lend Charlotte a black dress. It was certainly a season old, but nonetheless extraordinarily handsome, cut in black velvet and stitched with an embroidery of leaves and ferns on the lapels of the jacket and around the hem of the skirt. Tacked in at the back was the name of the maker, Maison Worth, the most fashionable house in Europe.

Bless Emily!

And also offered was the use of her carriage so Charlotte would not be obliged either to hire one or to ride on the omnibus to Cater Street and go with Caroline and the old lady.

She had shared with Pitt both the few scraps of definite information and the large and very general impressions she had gained.

He was sitting in the armchair beside the parlor fire, his feet stretched out on the fender, watching through half-closed eyes the flames jumping in the grate.

“I shall go to the funeral,” she added in a tone that was only half a statement and left room for him to contradict if he wished—not because she thought he would, but as a matter of policy.

He looked up, and as far as she could judge in the firelight his eyes were bright, his expression one of tolerance, even a curious kind of conspiracy.

“I shall be in some respects in a better position than you to observe,” she went on.” After all, to most of them I shall be another mourner and they will assume I am there to grieve—which the more I know of Clemency Shaw, the more truly I am. Whereas those who know you will think of the police, and remember that it was murder, and that there is so much more yet ahead of them that will be exceedingly unpleasant, if not actually tragic.”

“You don’t need to convince me,” he said with a smile, and she realized he was very gently laughing at her.

She relaxed and leaned back in her chair, reaching out her foot to touch his, toe to toe.

“Thank you.”

“Be careful,” he warned. “Remember, it is not just grief—it is murder.”

“I will,” she promised. “I’m going in Emily’s carriage.”

He grinned. “Of course.”

Charlotte was not by any means the first to arrive. As she alighted with Emily’s footman handing her down, she saw Josiah and Prudence Hatch ahead of her passing through the gate and up the path towards the vestry entrance. They were both dressed in black as one would expect, Josiah with his hat in his hand and the cold wind ruffling his hair. They walked side by side, staring straight in front of them, stiff backed. Even from behind, Charlotte could tell that they had quarreled over something and were each isolated in a cocoon of anger.

Ahead of them and passing through the doors as Charlotte crossed the pavement was Alfred Lutterworth, alone. Either Flora was not coming or she had accompanied someone else. It struck Charlotte as unusual. She would have to inquire, as discreetly as possible, after the cause.

She was welcomed at the door by a curate, probably in his late twenties, thin, rather homely of feature, but with such animation and concern in his expression that she warmed to him immediately.

“Good morning, ma’am.” He spoke quietly but without the reverential singsong which she always felt to be more a matter of show than of sincerity. “Where would you care to sit? Are you alone, or expecting someone?”

A thought ran through Charlotte’s mind to say she was alone, but she resisted the temptation. “I am expecting my mother and grandmother—”

He moved to go with her. “Then perhaps you would like the pew here to the right? Did you know Mrs. Shaw well?” The innocence of his manner and the traces of grief in his face robbed his question of any offense.

“No,” she replied with complete honesty. “I knew her only by repute, but all I hear of her only quickens my admiration.” She saw the puzzlement in his eyes and hastened to clarify to a degree which surprised her. “My husband is in charge of the investigation into the fire. I took an interest in it, and learned from a friend who is a member of Parliament about the work Mrs. Shaw did to fight against the exploitation of the poor. She was very modest about it, but she had both courage and compassion of a remarkable degree. I wish to be here to pay my respects—” She stopped abruptly, seeing the distress in his face. Indeed he seemed to be far more moved by grief than were either of Clemency’s aunts, or her sister, when Charlotte had visited them two days before.

He mastered his feelings with difficulty, and did not apologize. She liked him the better for it. Why should one apologize for grief at a funeral? In silence he showed her to the pew, met her eyes once in a look for which words would have been unnecessary, then returned to the doorway, holding his head high.

He was just in time to greet Somerset Carlisle, looking thin and a trifle tired, and Great-Aunt Vespasia, wearing magnificent black with osprey feathers in her hat, sideswept at a marvelous angle, and a black gown of silk and barathea cut to exaggerate both her height and the elegance of her bearing. It was asymmetrical, as was the very ultimate in fashion. She carried an ebony stick with a silver handle, but refused to lean on it. She spoke very briefly to the curate, explained who she was, but not why she had chosen to come, and then walked past him with great dignity, took out her lorgnette and surveyed the body of the church. She saw Charlotte after only a moment, and lost further interest in anyone else. She took Somerset Carlisle’s arm and instructed him to lead her to Charlotte’s pew, thus making it impossible for Caroline or Grandmama to join her when they arrived a few moments later.

Charlotte did not attempt to explain. She simply smiled with great sweetness, then bent her head in an attitude of prayer—to conceal her smile.

After several minutes she raised her eyes again, and saw well in front of her the white head of Amos Lindsay, and beside him Stephen Shaw. She could only imagine the turmoil of emotions that must be in him as he saw the agitated figure of Hector Clitheridge flapping about like a wounded crow. His wife was in handsome and serviceable black in the front row, trying to reassure him, alternately smiling and looking appropriately somber. The organ was playing slowly, either because the organist considered it the correct tempo for a funeral or because she could not find the notes. The result was a sense of uncertainty and a loss of rhythm.

The pews were filling up. Quinton Pascoe passed up the aisle, finding himself a seat as far as possible from John Dalgetty and his wife. Nowhere among the forest of black hats of every shape and decoration could Charlotte see any that looked as if they might belong to Celeste or Angeline Worlingham.

The organ changed pitch abruptly and the service began. Clitheridge was intensely nervous; his voice cracked into falsetto and back again. Twice he lost his place in what must surely be long-familiar passages and rumbled to regain himself, only making his mistake the more obvious. Charlotte ached for him, and heard Aunt Vespasia beside her sigh with exasperation. Somerset Carlisle buried his face in his hands, but whether he was thinking of Clemency, or the vicar, she did not know.

Charlotte found her own attention wandering. It was probably the safest thing to do; Clitheridge was unbearable, and the young curate was so full of genuine distress she found it too harrowing to look at him. Instead her eyes roamed upward over and across traceries of stone, plaques of long-dead worthies, and eventually, with a jolt of returning memory, to the Worlingham window with its almost completed picture of the late bishop in the thin disguise of Jeremiah, surrounded by other patriarchs and topped by an angel. She recognized the bishop quite easily. The face was indistinct—the medium enforced it—but the thick curls of white hair, so like an aureole in the glass with the light shining through, was exactly like the portrait in the family hallway and it was unmistakable. It was a remarkably handsome memorial and must have cost a sizable sum. No wonder Josiah Hatch was proud of it.

At last the formal part of the service was over and with immense relief the final amen was said, and the congregation rose to follow the coffin out into the graveyard, where they all stood huddled in a bitter west wind while the body was interred.

Charlotte shivered and moved a little closer to Aunt Vespasia, and behind her half a step, to shield her from the gusts, which if the sky had been less clear, would surely have carried snow. She stared across the open grave with Clitheridge standing at the edge, his cassock whipping around his ankles and his face strained with embarrassment and apprehension. A couple of yards away Alfred Lutterworth was planted squarely, ignoring the cold, his face somber in reflection, his thoughts unreadable. Next to him, but several feet away, Stephen Shaw was folded in a mixture of private anger and grief, the emotion so deep in his face only the crudest of strangers would have intruded. Amos Lindsay stood silently at his elbow.

Josiah Hatch was taking control of the pallbearers. He was a sidesman and used to some responsibility. His expression was grim, but he did his duty meticulously and not a word or a movement was omitted or performed without ceremony. It was done to an exactness that honored the dead and preserved the importance above all of the litany and tradition of the church.

Clitheridge was obviously relieved to allow someone else to take over, however pedantic. Only the curate seemed less than pleased. His bony features and wide mouth reflected some impatience that appeared to increase his grief.

Charlotte had been quite correct, there were about fifty people present, most of them men, and quite definitely neither Angeline nor Celeste Worlingham were among them; nor was Flora Lutterworth.

“Why are the Worlinghams not here?” she whispered to Aunt Vespasia as they turned at last, cold to the bone, and made their way back to the carriages for the short ride to the funeral supper. She had not been specifically invited, but she fully intended to go. They passed Pitt standing near the gate, so discreet as to be almost invisible. He might have been one of the pallbearers or an undertaker’s assistant, except that his gloves were odd, there was a bulge in one pocket of his coat, and his boots were brown. She smiled at him quickly as they passed, and saw an answering warmth in his face, then continued on her way to the carriage.

“I daresay the bishop did not consider it suitable,” Aunt Vespasia replied. “Many people don’t. Quite idiotic, of course. Women are every bit as strong as men in coping with tragedy and the more distressing weaknesses of the flesh. In fact in many cases stronger—they have to be, or none of us would have more than one child, and certainly never care for the sick!”

“But the bishop is dead,” Charlotte pointed out. “And has been for ten years.”

“My dear, the bishop will never be dead as far as his daughters are concerned. They lived under his roof for over forty years of their lives, and obeyed every rule of conduct he set out for them. And I gather he had very precise opinions about everything. They are not likely to break the habit now, least of all in a time of bereavement when one most wishes to cling to the familiar.”

“Oh—” Charlotte had not thought of that, but now some recollection returned to her of other families where it had been considered too much strain on delicate sensibilities. Fits of the vapors detracted rather seriously from the proper solemnity due to the dead. “Is that why Flora Lutterworth isn’t here either?” That seemed dubious to her, but not impossible. Alfred Lutterworth apparently had great ambitions towards gentility, and all that might seem well-bred.

“I imagine so,” Vespasia replied with the ghost of a smile. They were at the carriages. Caroline and Grandmama were somewhere behind them. Charlotte glanced over her shoulder and saw Caroline talking to Josiah Hatch with intense concentration, and Grandmama was staring at Charlotte with a look like thunder.

“Are you waiting?” Vespasia asked, her silver eyebrows raised.

“Certainly not!” Charlotte waved her arm imperiously and Emily’s coachman moved his horses forward. “They have their own equipage.” It gave her a childish satisfaction to say it aloud. “I shall follow you. I assume the Misses Worlingham will be up to the occasion of the funeral supper?”

“Of course.” Now Vespasia’s smile was undisguised. “That is the social event—this was merely the necessary preamble.” And she accepted her footman’s hand and mounted the step into her carriage, after handing to the crossing sweeper, a child of no more than ten or eleven years, a halfpenny, for which he thanked her loudly, and pushed his broom through another pile of manure. The door was closed behind her and a moment later it drew away.

Charlotte did the same, and was still behind her when they alighted outside the imposing and now familiar Worlingham house, all its blinds drawn and black crepe fluttering from the door. The roadway was liberally spread with straw to silence the horses’ hooves, out of respect for the dead, and the wheels made barely a sound as the coachman drove away to wait.

Inside everything had been prepared to the last detail. The huge dining room was festooned with black crepe till it looked as if some enormous spider had been followed by a chimney fire and an extremely clumsy sweep. White lilies, which must have cost enough to feed an ordinary family for a week, were arranged with some artistry on the table, and in a porcelain vase on the jardiniere. The table itself was set with a magnificent array of baked meats, sandwiches, fruits and confectionary, bottles of wine in baskets, suitably dusty from the cellar and carrying labels to satisfy even the most discriminating connoisseur. Some of the Port was very old indeed. The bishop must have laid it down in his prime, and forgotten it.

Celeste and Angeline stood side by side, both dressed in black bombazine. Celeste’s was stitched with jet beads and had a fall of velvet over the front and caught up in the bustle. It was a fraction tight at the bosom. Angeline’s was draped over the shoulders with heavy black lace fastened with a jet pin set with tiny pearls, a very traditional mourning brooch. The lace was also echoed across the stomach and under the bombazine bustle; only the most discriminating would know it was last year’s arrangement of folds. And it was even tighter around the bosom. Charlotte guessed they had performed the same service at Theophilus’s funeral, and perhaps at the bishop’s as well. A clever dressmaker could do a great deal, and from observation it seemed, like many wealthy people, the Worlingham sisters liked their economies.

Celeste greeted them with deep solemnity, as if she had been a duchess receiving callers, standing stiff-backed, inclining her head a fraction and repeating everyone’s names as though they were of significant importance. Angeline kept a lace-edged handkerchief in her hand and dabbed at her cheek occasionally, echoing the last two words of everything Celeste said.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt.” Celeste moved her hand an inch in recognition of a relative stranger of no discernible rank.

“Mrs. Pitt,” Angeline repeated, smiling uncertainly.

“Gracious of you to come to express your condolences.”

“Gracious.” Angeline chose the first word this time.

“Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould.” Celeste was startled, and for once the fact that she was a bishop’s daughter seemed unimpressive. “How—how generous of you to come. I am sure our late father would have been quite touched.”

“Quite touched,” Angeline added eagerly.

“There would be no reason for him to be,” Vespasia said with a cool smile and very direct stare. “I came entirely on Clemency Shaw’s behalf. She was a very fine woman of both courage and conscience—a rare-enough combination. I am truly grieved that she is gone.”

Celeste was lost for words. She knew nothing of Clemency to warrant such an extraordinary tribute.

“Oh!” Angeline gave a little gasp and clutched the handkerchief more tightly, then dabbed at a tear that started down her pink cheek. “Poor Clemency,” she whispered almost inaudibly.

Vespasia did not linger for any further trivialities that could only be painful, and led the way into the dining room. Somerset Carlisle, immediately behind her, was so used to speaking gently with the inarticulate he had no trouble murmuring something kind but meaningless and following them in.

There were some thirty people there already. Charlotte recognized several from her own previous brief meetings at the Worlinghams’, others she deduced from Pitt’s description as she had done in the church.

She looked at the table, pretending to be engrossed in admiring it, as Caroline and Grandmama came in. Grandmama was scowling and waving her stick in front of her to the considerable peril of anyone within range. She did not particularly want Charlotte with her, but she was furious at being left behind. It lacked the respect due to her.

It was a gracious room, very large, with fine windows all ornately curtained, a dark marble fireplace, an oak sideboard and serving table and a dresser with a Crown Derby tea service set out for display, all reds, blues and golds.

The main table was exquisitely appointed, crystal with a coat of arms engraved on the side of each goblet, silver polished till it reflected every facet of the chandelier, also monogrammed with an ornate Gothic W, and linen embroidered in white with both crest and monogram. The porcelain serving platters were blue-and-gold-rimmed Minton; Charlotte remembered the pattern from the details of such knowledge her mother had taught her, in the days when she attended such functions where information of the sort was required in the would-be bride.

“They never put all this out for her when she was alive,” Shaw said at her elbow. “But then I suppose, God help us, we never had the entire neighborhood in to dine, especially all at once.”

“It often helps grief to do something with a special effort,” Charlotte answered him quietly. “Perhaps even a trifle to excess. We do not all cope with our losses in the same way.”

“What a very charitable view,” he said gloomily. “If I had not already met you before, and heard you be most excruciatingly candid, I would suspect you of hypocrisy.”

“Then you would do me an injustice,” she said quickly. “I meant what I said. If I wished to be critical I could think of several things to comment on, but that is not one of them.”

“Oh!” His fair eyebrows rose. “What would you choose?” The faintest smile lit his eyes. “If, of course, you wished to be critical.”

“Should I wish to be, and you are still interested, I shall let you know,” she replied without the slightest rancor. Then remembering that it was his bereavement more than anyone else’s, and not wishing to seem to cut him, even in so small a way, she leaned a little closer and whispered, “Celeste’s gown is a trifle tight, and should have been let out under the arms. The gentleman I take to be Mr. Dalgetty needs a haircut, and Mrs. Hatch has odd gloves, which is probably why she has taken one off and is carrying it.”

His smile was immediate and filled with warmth.

“What acute observation! Did you learn it being married to the police, or is it a natural gift?”

“I think it comes from being a woman,” she replied. “When I was single I had so little to do that observation of other people formed a very large part of the day. It is more entertaining than embroidery and painting bad watercolors.”

“I thought women spent their time gossiping and doing good works,” he whispered back, the humor still in his eyes, not masking the pain but contrasting with it so he seemed alive and intensely vulnerable.

“We do,” she assured him. “But you have to have something to gossip about, if it is to be any fun at all. And doing good work is deadly, because one does it with such an air of condescension it is more to justify oneself than to benefit anyone else. I should have to be very desperate indeed before a visit from a society lady bringing me ajar of honey would do more than make me want to spit at her—which of course I could not afford to do at all.” She was exaggerating, but his smile was ample reward, and she was perfectly sure he knew the truth was both homelier and kinder, at least much of the time.

Before he could reply their attention was drawn to Celeste a few feet away from them, still playing the duchess. Alfred Lutterworth was standing in front of her with Flora by his side, and Celeste had just cut them dead, meeting their eyes and then moving on as if they were servants and not to be spoken to. The color flared up Lutterworth’s cheeks and Flora looked for a moment as if she would weep.

“Damn her!” Shaw said savagely under his breath, then added a simile from the farmyard that was extremely unkind, and unfair to the animal in question. Without excusing himself to Charlotte he walked forward, treading on a thin woman’s dress and ignoring her.

“Good afternoon, Lutterworth,” he said loudly. “Good of you to come. I appreciate it. Good afternoon, Miss Lutterworth. Thank you for being here—not the sort of thing one would choose, except in friendship.”

Flora smiled uncertainly, then saw the candor in his eyes and regained her composure.

“We would hardly do less, Dr. Shaw. We feel for you very much.”

Shaw indicated Charlotte. “Do you know Mrs. Pitt?” He introduced them and they all made formal acknowledgment of each other. The tension evaporated, but Celeste, who could not have failed to hear the exchange, as must everyone else in their half of the room, was stiff-faced and tight-lipped. Shaw ignored her and continued a loud, inconsequential conversation, drawing in Charlotte as an ally, willingly or not.

Ten minutes later both the group and the conversation had changed. Caroline and Grandmama had joined them, and Charlotte was listening to an extremely handsome woman in her middle forties with shining hair piled most fashionably high, magnificent dark eyes, and a black hat which would have been daring two years ago. Her face was beginning to lose the bloom of youth, but there was still enough beauty to cause several people to look at her more than once, albeit a type of beauty more characteristic of hotter climates than the restrained English rose—especially those bred in the genteel gardens of Highgate. She had been introduced as Maude Dalgetty, and Charlotte liked her more the longer she spoke. She seemed a woman too contented within herself to bear any malice towards others, and there were none of the small barbs of callousness or idleness in her comments.

Charlotte was surprised when Josiah Hatch joined them, and it was immediately apparent from the softening of his grim expression that he held her in considerable esteem. He looked at Charlotte with little interest and even that was prepared to be critical. He already suspected she had come either out of curiosity, which he considered intolerable, or because she was a friend of Shaw’s of whom he would be bound to disapprove. However, when he turned to Maude Dalgetty the angle of his body eased, even the rigidity of his collar seemed less constricting.

“Mrs. Dalgetty, I’m so pleased you were able to come.” He sought for something else to add, perhaps more personal, and failed to find it.

“Of course, Mr. Hatch.” She smiled at him and he unbent even more, finding a very small smile himself. “I was very fond of Clemency; I think she was one of the best women I knew.”

Hatch paled again, the blood leaving his cheeks. “Indeed,” he said huskily, then cleared his throat with a rasping breath. “There was very much in her to praise—a virtuous woman, neither immodest nor unmindful of all her duties, and yet with good humor at all times. It is a great tragedy her life—was—” His face hardened again and he shot a glance across the table to where Shaw’s fair head could be seen bending a little to listen to a stout woman wearing a tiny hat. “Was in so many ways wasted. She could have had so much more.” He left it hanging in the air, ambiguous as to whether he was referring to Shaw or Clemency’s longevity.

Maude Dalgetty chose to interpret it as the latter.

“Indeed it is,” she agreed with a sad shake of her head. “Poor Dr. Shaw. This must be appalling for him, and yet I can think of nothing at all that one could do to help. It is a miserable feeling to see grief and be unable even to reach it, let alone offer anything of comfort.”

“Your compassion does you credit,” he said quickly. “But do not distress yourself too deeply on his behalf; he is unworthy of it.” All the tightness returned to his body, his shoulders cramped in the black fabric of his coat seemed to strain at the seams. “He has characteristics it would be inappropriate I should mention in front of you, dear lady, but I assure you I speak from knowledge.” His voice shook a little, whether from weariness or emotion it was impossible to say. “He treats with mockery and insult all that is worthiest of reverence in our society. Indeed he would spread slander about the finest of us, did not some of us, your husband among them, prevent him.”

He looked at Maude intently. “I disagree with all your husband’s principles as far as publishing is concerned, as you well know; but I stand by him in the defense of a lady’s good name—”

Maude Dalgetty’s fine arched brows rose in surprise and interest.

“A lady’s good name! Good gracious, was Dr. Shaw speaking ill of someone? You surprise me.”

“That is because you do not know him.” Hatch was warming to the subject. “And your mind is too fine to imagine ill of people unless it is proved right before you.” His cheeks were quite pink. “But I soon put him in his place, and your husband added to my words, most eloquently, although I flatter myself that what I said to him was sufficient.”

“John did?” Her husky voice lifted in surprise. “How very unusual. You almost make me think it was me Dr. Shaw spoke ill of.”

Hatch colored furiously and his breath quickened; his large hands were clenched by his sides.

Standing well within earshot, Charlotte was certain that it had indeed been Maude Dalgetty Shaw had spoken ill of, truly or not, and she wished intensely there were some way to learn what he had said, and why.

Hatch moved a little, turning his back half towards Charlotte. Since she did not wish to be conspicuous in her interest, she allowed herself to be excluded, and drifted towards Lally Clitheridge and Celeste. But before she reached them they separated and Lally accosted Flora Lutterworth, circumspectly but very definitely.

“How good of you to come, my dear Flora.” Her tone was at once warm and acutely condescending, like a duchess interviewing a prospective daughter-in-law. “You are charmingly softhearted—a nice virtue in a girl, if not carried to indiscretion.”

Flora stared at her, opened her mouth to reply, and was lost for any words that would express her feelings.

“And modesty as well,” Lally continued. “I am so glad you do not argue, my dear. Indiscretion can be the ruin of a girl, indeed has been of many. But I am sure your father will have told you that.”

Flora blushed. Obviously the quarrel had not yet been healed.

“You must heed him, you know.” Lally was equally perceptive, and placed her arm in Flora’s as if in confidence. “He has your very best interest at heart. You are very young, and inexperienced in society and the ways in which people assess each other. An unwise act now, and you may well be considered a girl of less than complete virtue—which would ruin all the excellent chances you have for a fine future.” She nodded very slightly. “I hope you understand me, my dear.”

Flora stared at her. “No—I don’t think I do,” she said coolly, but her face was very tight and her knuckles were white where she clasped her handkerchief.

“Then I must explain.” Lally leaned a little closer. “Dr. Shaw is a very charming man, but at times rather too outspoken in his opinions and rash in his respect for other people’s judgment. Such things are acceptable in a man, especially a professional man—”

“I find Dr. Shaw perfectly agreeable.” Flora defended him hotly. “I have received nothing but kindness at his hands. If you disagree with his opinions, that is your affair, Mrs. Clitheridge. You must tell him so. Pray do not concern me with the matter.”

“You misunderstand me.” Lally was plainly annoyed. “I am concerned for your reputation, my dear—which is frankly in some need of repair.”

“Then your quarrel is with those who speak ill of me,” Flora retorted. “I have done nothing to warrant it.”

“Of course not!” Lally said sharply. “I know that. It is not what you have done, it is your indiscretion in appearance. I warn you as your vicar’s wife. He finds the matter difficult to discuss with a young lady, but he is concerned for your welfare.”

“Then please thank him for me.” Flora looked at her very directly, her cheeks pink, her eyes blazing. “And assure him that neither my body nor my soul are in any jeopardy. You may consider your duty well acquitted.” And with a tight little smile she inclined her head politely and walked away, leaving Lally standing in the center of the room, her mouth in a thin line of anger.

Charlotte moved backward hastily in case Lally should realize she had been listening. As she swung around, she came face-to-face with Great-Aunt Vespasia, who had been waiting until she had her attention, her eyebrows raised in curiosity, her mouth touched with humor.

“Eavesdropping?” she said under her breath.

“Yes,” Charlotte admitted. “Most interesting. Flora Lutterworth and the vicar’s wife, having a spat over Dr. Shaw.”

“Indeed? Who is for him and who against?”

“Oh, both for him—very much. I rather think that is the trouble.”

Vespasia’s smile widened, but it was not without pity. “How very interesting—and wildly unsuitable. Poor Mrs. Clitheridge, she seems worthy of better stuff than the vicar. I am hardly surprised she is drawn elsewhere, even if her virtue forbids she follow.” She took Charlotte by the arm and moved away from the two women now close behind them. She was able to resume a normal speaking voice. “Do you think you have learned anything else? I do not find it easy to believe the vicar’s wife set fire to the house out of unrequited love for the doctor—although it is not impossible.”

“Or Flora Lutterworth, for that matter,” Charlotte added. “And perhaps it is not unrequited. Flora will have a great deal of money when her father dies.”

“And you think the Worlingham money is not sufficient for Dr. Shaw, and he has eyes on Lutterworth’s as well?” Vespasia asked.

Charlotte thought of her conversation with Stephen Shaw, of the energy in him, the humor, the intense feeling of inner honesty that still lingered with her. It was a painful idea. And she did not wish to think Clemency Shaw had spent her life married to such a man. And surely she would have known.

“No,” she said aloud. “I believe it may all have to do with Clemency’s work against slum owners. But Thomas thinks it is here in Highgate, and that really it was Dr. Shaw himself who was the intended victim. So naturally I shall observe all I can, and tell him of it, whether I can see any sense in it or not.”

“Very proper of you.” Now Vespasia did not even attempt to hide her amusement. “Perhaps it was Shaw himself who killed his wife—I imagine Thomas has thought of that, even if you have not.”

“Why should I not think of it also?” Charlotte said briskly, but under her breath.

“Because you like him, my dear; and I believe your feeling is more than returned. Good afternoon, Dr. Shaw.” As she spoke Shaw had come back and was standing in front of them, courteous to Vespasia, but his attention principally upon Charlotte.

Aware of Vespasia’s remarks, Charlotte found herself coloring, her cheeks hot.

“Lady Cumming-Gould.” He inclined his head politely. “I appreciate your coming. I’m sure Clemency would have been pleased.” He winced as if saying her name aloud had touched a nerve. “You are one of the few here who have not come out of curiosity, the social desire to be seen, or sheer greed for the best repast the Worlinghams have laid out since Theophilus died.”

Amos Lindsay materialized at Shaw’s elbow. “Really, Stephen, sometimes you do yourself less than justice in expressing your thoughts. A great many people are here for more commendable reasons.” His words were directed not to curbing Shaw but to excusing him to Vespasia and Charlotte.

“Nevertheless we must eat,” Shaw said rather ungraciously. “Mrs. Pitt—may I offer you a slice of pheasant in aspic? It looks repulsive, but I am assured it is delicious.”

“No thank you,” Charlotte declined rather crisply. “I do not feel any compulsion to eat, or indeed any desire.”

“I apologize,” he said immediately, and his smile was so unforced she found her anger evaporated. She felt for his distress, whatever the nature of his love for Clemency. This was a time of grief for him when he would probably far rather have been alone than standing being polite to a crowd of people of widely varying emotions, from family bereavement, in Prudence, right to social obligation like Alfred Lutterworth, or even vulgar curiosity, as was ill-hidden on the faces of several people whose names Charlotte did not know. And it was even possible one of them might be Clemency’s murderer.

“There is no need,” she said, answering his smile. “You have every cause to find us intrusive and extremely trying. It is we who should apologize.”

He reached out his hand as if he would have touched her, so much more immediate a communication than words. Then he remembered at the last moment that it was inappropriate, and withdrew, but she felt almost as if he had, the desire was so plain in his eyes. It was a gesture of both gratitude and understanding. For an instant he had not been alone.

“You are very gracious, Mrs. Pitt,” he said aloud. “Lady Cumming-Gould, may I offer you anything, or are you also less than hungry?”

Vespasia gave him her goblet. “You may bring me another glass of claret,” she answered graciously. “I imagine it has been in the cellar since the bishop’s time. It is excellent.”

“With pleasure.” He took the goblet and withdrew.

He was replaced within moments by Celeste and Angeline, still presiding over the gathering like a duchess and her lady-in-waiting. Prudence Hatch brought up the rear, her face very pale and her eyes pink rimmed. Charlotte remembered with a sharp pang of pity that Clemency had been her sister. Were it Emily who had been burned to death, she did not think she could be here with any composure at all; in fact she would probably be at home unable to stop weeping, and the idea of being civil to a lot of comparative strangers would be unbearable. She smiled at Prudence with all the gentleness she could convey, and met only a numb and confused stare. Perhaps shock was still anesthetizing at least some of the pain? The reality of it would come later in the days of loneliness, the mornings when she woke and remembered.

But Celeste was busy being the bishop’s daughter and conducting the funeral supper as it should be done. The conversation should be elevated and suitable to the occasion. Maude Dalgetty had mentioned a romantic novel of no literary pretension at all, and must be put in her place.

“I don’t mind the servants reading that sort of thing, as long as their work is satisfactory of course; but such books really have no merit at all.”

Beside her a curious mixture of expressions crossed Prudence’s face: first alarm, then embarrassment, then a kind of obscure satisfaction.

“And a lady of any breeding is far better without them,” Celeste went on. “They really are totally trivial and encourage the most superficial of emotions.”

Angeline became very pink. “I think you are too critical, Celeste. Not all romances are as shallow as you suggest. I recently—I mean, I learned of one entitled Lady Pamela’s Secret, which was very moving and most sensitively written.”

“You what?” Celeste’s eyebrows rose in utter contempt.

“Some of them reflect what many people feel …” Angeline began, then tailed off under Celeste’s icy stare.

“I’m sure I don’t know any women who feel anything of the sort.” Celeste was not prepared to let it go. “Such fancies are entirely spurious.” She turned to Maude, apparently oblivious of Prudence’s scarlet face and wide eyes. “Mrs. Dalgetty, I am sure with your literary background, your husband’s tastes, that you found it so? Girls like Flora Lutterworth, for example … But then her status in Highgate is very recent; her background is in trade, poor girl—which of course she cannot help, but neither can she change it.”

Maude Dalgetty met Celeste’s gaze with complete candor. “Actually it makes me think of my own youth, Miss Worlingham, and I thoroughly enjoyed Lady Pamela’s Secret. Also I considered it quite well written—without pretensions and with a considerable sensitivity.”

Prudence blushed painfully and stared at the carpet.

“Good gracious,” Celeste replied flatly, making it very obvious she was thinking something far less civil. “Dear me.”

Shaw had returned with Vespasia’s glass of claret and she took it from him with a nod of thanks. He looked from one to another of them and noticed Prudence’s high color.

“Are you all right, Prudence?” he asked with more solicitude than tact.

“Ah!” She jumped nervously and met his concerned expression with alarm, and colored even more deeply.

“Are you all right?” he repeated. “Would you like to retire for a while, perhaps lie down?”

“No. No, I am perfectly—oh—” She sniffed fiercely. “Oh dear—”

Amos Lindsay came up behind her, glanced at Shaw, then took her by the elbow. “Come, my dear,” he said gently. “Perhaps a little air. Please allow me to help you.” And without waiting for her to make up her mind, he assisted her away from the crush and out of the door towards some private part of the house.

“Poor soul,” Angeline said softly. “She and Clemency were very fond of each other.”

“We were all fond of her,” Celeste added, and for a moment she too looked into some distance far away, or within her memory, and her face reflected sadness and hurt. Charlotte wondered how much her managerial attitude and abrasively condescending manner were her way of coping with loss, not only of a niece but perhaps of all the opportunities for affection she had missed, or forfeited, over the years. She had probably loved her father at the time, admired him, been grateful for the ample provision of home, gowns, servants, social position; and also hated him for all the things her duty had cost her.

“I mean the family,” Celeste added, looking at Shaw with sudden distaste. “There are ties of blood which no one else can understand—particularly in a family with a heritage like ours.” Shaw winced but she ignored him. “I never cease to be grateful for our blessings, nor to realize the responsibility they carry. Our dear father, Clemency’s grandfather, was one of the world’s great men. I think outside those of us of his blood, only Josiah truly appreciates what a marvelous man he was.”

“You are quite right,” Shaw said abruptly. “I certainly didn’t and don’t now…. I think he was an opinionated, domineering, sententious and thoroughly selfish old hypocrite—”

“How dare you!” Celeste was furious. Her face purpled and her whole body shook, the jet beads on her bosom scintillating in the light of the chandeliers. “If you do not apologize this instant I shall demand you leave this house.”

“Oh, Stephen, really.” Angeline moved from one foot to the other nervously. “You go too far, you know. That is unforgivable. Papa was a veritable saint.”

Charlotte struggled for something to say, anything that would retrieve an awful situation. Privately she thought Shaw might well be right, but he had no business to say so here, or now. She was still searching her brain wildly when Aunt Vespasia came to the rescue.

“Saints are seldom easy to live with,” she said in the appalled silence. “Least of all by those who are obliged to put up with them every day. Not that I am granting that the late Bishop Worlingham was necessarily a saint,” she added as Shaw’s face darkened. She held up her hand elegantly and her expression was enough to freeze the rebuttal on his lips. “But no doubt he was a man of decided opinions—and such people always arouse controversy, thank heaven. Who wills a nation of sheep who bleat agreement to everything that is said to them?”

Shaw’s temper subsided, and both Celeste and Angeline seemed to feel that honor had been served. Charlotte grabbed for some harmless subject, and heard herself complimenting Celeste on the lilies displayed on the table, rather as if laid out above a coffin.

“Beautiful,” she repeated fatuously. “Where did you find such perfect blooms?”

“Oh, we grow them,” Angeline put in, gushing with relief. “In our conservatory, you know. They require a lot of attention—” She told them all at some length exactly how they were planted, fertilized and cared for. They all listened in sheer gratitude for the respite from unpleasantness.

When Angeline finally ran out of anything to add, they murmured politely and drifted away, pretending to have caught the eye of another acquaintance. Charlotte found herself with Maude Dalgetty again, and then when she went to see if Prudence was recovered, with John Dalgetty, listening to him expound on the latest article he had reviewed, on the subject of liberty of expression.

“One of the sacred principles of civilized men, Mrs. Pitt,” he said, leaning towards her, his face intent. “The tragedy is that there are so many well-meaning but ignorant and frightened people who would bind us in the chains of old ideas. Take Quinton Pascoe.” He nodded towards Pascoe very slightly, to be sure Charlotte knew to whom he was referring. “A good man, in his own way, but terrified of a new thought.” He waved his arm. “Which wouldn’t matter if he were only limiting himself, but he wants to imprison all our minds in what he believes to be best for us.” His voice rose in outrage at the very conception.

Charlotte felt a strong sympathy with him. She could clearly recall her indignation when her father had forbidden her the newspaper, as he had all his daughters, and she felt as if all the interest and excitement in the world were passing her by and she was shut out from it. She had bribed the butler to pass her the political pages, without her parents’ knowledge, and pored over them, reading every word and visualizing the people and events in minute detail. To have robbed her of it would have been like shutting all the windows in the house and drawing the curtains.

“I quite agree with you,” she said with feeling. “Thought should never be imprisoned nor anyone told they may not believe as they choose.”

“How right you are, Mrs. Pitt! Unfortunately, not everyone is able to see it as you do. Pascoe, and those like him, would set themselves up to decide what people may learn, and what they may not. He is not personally an unpleasant man—far from it, you would find him charming—yet the arrogance of the man is beyond belief.”

Apparently Pascoe had heard his name mentioned. He pushed his way between two men discussing finance and faced Dalgetty, his eyes hot with anger.

“It is not arrogance, Dalgetty.” His voice was low but only just in control. “It is a sense of responsibility. To publish every single thing that comes into your hand, regardless of what it is or whom it may hurt, is not freedom; it is an abuse of the art of printing. It is no better than a fool who stands on the corner of the street and shouts out whatever enters his thoughts—be it true or false—”

“And who is to judge whether it is true or false?” Dalgetty demanded. “You? Are you to be the final arbiter of what the world shall believe? Who are you to judge what we may hope for or aspire to? How dare you?” His eyes blazed with the sheer monstrosity of any mere human limiting the dreams of mankind.

Pascoe was equally enraged. His whole body quivered with frustrated fury at Dalgetty’s obtuseness and willful failure to grasp the real meaning.

“You are utterly wrong!” he shouted, his skin suffusing with color. “It has nothing whatsoever to do with limiting aspiration or dreams—as well you know. But it does have to do with not creating nightmares.” He swung his arms wildly, catching the top of a nearby woman’s feathered hat and knocking it over her eye, and quite oblivious of it. “What you do not have the right to do is topple the dreams of others by making mock of them—yes—it is you who are arrogant, not I.”

“You pygmy!” Dalgetty shouted back. “You nincompoop. You are talking complete balderdash—which perfectly reflects your muddled thinking. It is an impossibility to build a new idea except at the expense of part of the old—by the very fact that it is new.”

“And what if your new idea is ugly and dangerous?” Pascoe demanded furiously, his hand chopping the air. “And adds nothing to human knowledge or happiness? Ah? Nincompoop. You are an intellectual child—and a spiritual and moral vandal. You are—”

At this point the heated voices had drawn everyone’s attention, all other conversation had ceased and Hector Clitheridge was wading towards them in extreme agitation, his clothes flapping, his arms waving in the air and his face expressing extreme embarrassment and a kind of desperate confusion.

“Mr. Pascoe! Please!” he implored. “Gentlemen!” he turned to Dalgetty. “Please remember poor Dr. Shaw—”

That was the last thing he should have said. The very name was as a red rag to a bull for Pascoe.

“A perfect case in point,” he said triumphantly. “A very precise example! He rushes in—”

“Exactly!” Dalgetty chopped the air with his hands in excitement. “He is an honest man who abhors idolatry. Especially the worship of the unworthy, the dishonorable, the valueless—”

“Who says it is valueless?” Pascoe jumped up and down on the spot, his voice rising to falsetto in triumph. “Do you set yourself up to decide what may be kept, and what destroyed? Eh?”

Now Dalgetty lost his temper completely. “You incompetent!” he shouted, scarlet-cheeked. “You double—dyed ass! You—”

“Mr. Dalgetty!” Clitheridge pleaded futilely. “Mr.—” Eulalia came to the rescue, her face set in firm lines of disapproval. For an instant she reminded Charlotte of a particularly strict nanny. She ignored Dalgetty except for one glare. “Mr. Pascoe.” Her voice was determined and under perfect control. “You are behaving disgracefully. This is a funeral supper—have you completely forgotten yourself? You are not usually without any sense of what is fitting, or of how much distress you may be causing to innocent people, already injured by circumstance.”

Pascoe’s bearing changed. He looked crestfallen and thoroughly abashed. But she had no intention of leaving any blow unstruck.

“Imagine how poor Prudence feels. Is one tragedy not enough?”

“Oh, I am sorry.” Pascoe was shocked at himself and his penitence was transparently sincere. Dalgetty no longer entered even the edge of his thoughts. “I am mortified that I should have been so utterly thoughtless. How can I apologize?”

“You can’t.” Eulalia was relentless. “But you should try.” She turned to Dalgetty, who was looking decidedly apprehensive. “You, of course, I do not expect to have any sensitivity towards the feelings of others. Liberty is your god, and I sometimes think you are prepared to sacrifice anyone at all on its shrine.”

“That is unfair.” He was sincerely aggrieved. “Quite unfair. I desire to liberate, not to injure—I wish only to do good.”

“Indeed?” Her eyebrows shot up. “Then you are singularly unsuccessful. You should most seriously reconsider your assumptions—and your resulting behavior. You are a foolish man.” And having delivered herself of her most formidable tirade to date, she was flushed, and handsomer than at any time since she was a bride. She was also rather alarmed at what she had dared to say, and the fact that she had rescued the whole assembly from a miserable and acutely embarrassing situation was only just becoming apparent to her. She blushed as she saw every eye on her, and retreated hastily. For once it would be ridiculous to pretend she had merely been helping her husband. He was standing with his hands in the air and his mouth open, but intensely relieved, and also alarmed and a little resentful.

“Bravo, Lally,” Shaw said quietly. “You are quite magnificent. We are all duly chastened.” He bowed very slightly in a small, quaintly courteous gesture, then moved to stand beside Charlotte.

Again Eulalia colored hotly. This time it was obviously with pleasure, but so acute and unaccustomed it was painful to see.

“Really—” Clitheridge protested. No one heard what he was going to say next, if indeed he knew himself. He was interrupted by Shaw.

“You make me feel as if we are all in the nursery again. Perhaps that is where we should be.” He looked at Dalgetty and Pascoe and there was humor in his face rather than anger. If he resented Clemency’s funeral being interrupted by such a scene there was no trace of it in his expression. In fact Charlotte thought it might even have been a relief to him from the pain of the reality. He looked set now to prolong the tension and make matters worse.

“I think it is long past time we all grew out of it,” she said briskly, taking Shaw by the arm. “Don’t you, Dr. Shaw? Squabbling is quite fun at times, but this is a selfish and totally inappropriate place for it. We should be adult enough to think of others, as well as ourselves. I am sure you agree?” She was not sure at all, but she did not intend to allow him the opportunity to say so. “You have already told me about the magnificent conservatory the Misses Worlingham have, and I have seen the lilies on the table. Perhaps you would be generous enough to show it me now?”

“I should be delighted,” he said with enthusiasm. “I cannot think of anything I should rather do.” And he took her hand in his and placed it on his arm, leading her through the room to the far side. She glanced backwards only once, and saw a look of fury and dislike on Lally Clitheridge’s face so intense the memory of it remained with her the rest of the day. It was still powerful in her mind when she finally returned home to Bloomsbury, and gave Pitt her account of the day, and her impressions of it.