Silence in Hanover Close

4

EMILY RETURNED HOME the day after Boxing Day. The Ashworth town house was large and extremely gracious. George had had much of it redecorated to please Emily’s taste the first year after they were married, and he had been characteristically generous. Nothing that added charm or personality had been denied, and yet the overall effect was not ostentatious in the least. There were no ornate French pieces, no gilt or curlicues; the furniture was Regency and Georgian, in keeping with the architecture of the house itself. Emily had argued with George at the time about his parents’ love of tassels and fringes and had banished most of the indifferent family portraits to unused guest rooms. The result had both surprised and pleased George, who had compared it with satisfaction to the crowded houses of their friends.

Now, as Emily stood in the hallway while the servants obeyed her instructions, carrying in cases, preparing luncheon for Edward and herself, she felt a void of loneliness close round her as if the house were alien. She drew in her breath, wanting to tell them to stop, that she would be returning to Charlotte’s much smaller house. It was positively cramped by comparison, with secondhand furnishings, and located in a narrow, unfashionable street. But Emily had been happy there; for a few days she had entirely forgotten about her new state of widowhood. Physical differences had been irrelevant, they had all been together, and if she woke once or twice in the night in her bed alone and thought of Charlotte lying in a warm bed with Thomas just beyond the wall, those were short moments, quickly banished by returning sleep.

Now the contrast was like a newly whetted blade, making the spacious air of this house, of which she was sole mistress, feel chilly, as if cold water were touching her skin.

It was ridiculous! The servants had fires burning in every grate, and there were the sounds of quick, busy feet in the passage, the clink of silver in the dining room and the chatter of maids on the landing, and the green baize door swung with a faint bump as a footman came through.

She walked quickly up the stairs, undoing her coat as she went. Her lady’s maid appeared and took it from her, along with her hat; she would unpack the cases, sort out what needed laundering, and hang up the gowns. The nurserymaid would do the same for Edward.

Downstairs again, the cook knocked on the boudoir door and inquired for instructions about dinner, and whatever Emily might care for on the menu over the next few days. There was nothing Emily had to do herself but make decisions about things that hardly mattered. That was the trouble. Day after day stretched before her, empty of any necessary or interesting occupation: all the bleak January days she might fill with needlework, writing letters, playing the piano to an empty room, or messing around with brushes and paints and failing to create what she envisioned.

Whatever she did, she did not want to do it alone.

But most of the people she knew were merely acquaintances; to consider them friends would be to devalue the word. Their company would disturb the silence without giving her a sense of companionship, and she was not yet so desperate that she craved any presence at all, regardless of its quality.

In the sensible part of her mind was the realization that company of any value meant relationships, and Emily was not sure what relationship she was prepared for, outside of her family. Although her mother was also fairly recently widowed, Emily felt she had little in common with her. Caroline Ellison had been married a long time, and had been comfortable enough by everyday standards. But she had discovered an aloneness in widowhood that was not at all unmixed with exhilaration. For the first time in her life she answered to no one, neither her autocratic father, her ambitious mother, nor her agreeable but essentially opinionated husband. Even her mother-in-law was not the dictatorial old matriarch she had been while her son was alive. At last Caroline was free to express her own ideas. On more than one occasion she had startled the old lady into a paroxysm of rage by telling her to mind her own business, something she would never have dared do when Emily’s father was alive. It would simply not have been worth the ensuing unpleasantness, nor the impossibility of explanation.

But then Emily’s father had died peacefully after a short illness, and he had been sixty-five. George had been murdered while scarcely in his prime, and Emily had never really lacked the freedom to do things as she wished anyway. The restrictions placed upon her were those of Society, and she was more tightly bound by them now George was dead than she had been while he was alive. Her hollow feeling of loneliness frightened her; it would probably only get worse, and she might be driven to fill her life with pointless activities and silly conversation with people who cared nothing for her.

The alternative seemed remarkably attractive: to pursue her friendship with Jack Radley. At the moment she did not feel it would be too hard to force out of her mind the sort of questions her more rational self would ask: Was there more to him than charm, humor, the ability to make even quite ordinary pastimes seem fun and to understand her so well that explanations were seldom necessary, and justification never?

Liking was fine, for friends. But Emily knew that in a man one was to marry there must also be trust, the knowledge that the important values were shared, that if she were ill or in distress, if she were maligned by others he would support her. And if he were unfaithful—the thought hurt with almost physical sharpness, as the wounds George had dealt were not completely healed—if he were unfaithful it would be meaningless, and he would be discreet enough that she would never know about it, and above all neither would her friends.

And there must be respect. What could she possibly share with someone who did not possess the courage to fight for what he believed, or the largeness of heart to be moved to pity? She would quickly grow to despise a man whose imagination never went beyond his own concerns.

She caught herself with a start of horror and embarrassment. What on earth was she thinking? Marriage? She must be mad! Jack needed to marry into money; she knew that from his presence at Cardington Crescent. That was why Uncle Eustace had originally invited him: as a suitable husband for Tassie, he was to provide the family connections, and she the money. But of course Emily herself was many times wealthier than Tassie March, now she had inherited George’s estate. And that ugly thought must be forgotten. She was a wealthy widow. The fortune hunters would begin to come, circling like vultures round the dying, waiting their turn: not too soon, or they would appear unseemly and spoil their chances, not too late, or they would be beaten to the prize.

The thought was so repellent it was sickening. Her first time in the marriage market, Emily had enjoyed the game. She had everything to win, and she had won. She had deserved to; she had played the game superbly. She had all the innocence and arrogance of inexperience.

Now she felt so much less sure of herself. She had tasted failure, very recently, and she had everything to lose.

Was Veronica York in the same position? Had she turned over these same thoughts in her mind? Her husband had been murdered, and presumably she was heir through him to whatever fortune the Yorks possessed. Did she now regard admirers with suspicion, in her imagination devising tests for them, to see if their love was truly for her or merely for her means?

What monumental arrogance! Jack Radley had never mentioned marriage, nor given Emily the slightest indication that it was what he intended or wished. She must control her thoughts, or she would end up saying something idiotic in front of him and betraying herself completely, which would make this entire situation impossible!

If only there were an urgent crime that she and Charlotte could come to grips with, something real and undeniably important, that would drive all this ridiculous speculation and dreaming out of her mind! How could any woman of the least intelligence occupy all her thoughts with giving orders to servants who knew perfectly well what to do anyway? The parlormaid could have easily organized the running of a household for one woman and a small boy!

So it was with very mixed and somewhat turbulent emotions that Emily greeted the butler the following morning when he came into the withdrawing room to announce that Mr. Jack Radley presented his compliments. He was in the morning room and wished to know if Lady Ashworth would receive him.

She swallowed and sat still for a moment, composing her features; it would not do for the butler to see her confusion.

“What an odd time to call,” she said casually. “There is a matter he was looking into for me; perhaps he has some news. Yes, Wainwright, ask him to come in.”

“Yes m’lady.” If Wainwright noticed anything at all it was absent from his smooth face. He turned slowly and went out of the room, as though he were part of a procession. He had been with the Ashworths since he was a boy, and his father before him, as head gardener. Emily still felt uncomfortable around Wainwright.

Jack came in a moment later, unhurriedly, as decorum required, but there was a lightness to his step and his face was eager. As always he was fashionably dressed, but he wore his clothes with such ease his elegance seemed a happy accident rather than something contrived. It was a look men paid fortunes to achieve.

He hesitated on the edge of telling her she looked well, discarding that lie in favor of a fleeting smile, and the truth.

“You look as bored as I am, Emily. I hate January, and it’s almost here. We must do something terribly interesting, to make it pass quickly, while we are too occupied to notice.

In spite of herself she was moved to smile. “Indeed? And what do you suggest? Pray do sit down.”

He obeyed with elegance and looked at her candidly. “We must pursue our detecting,” he replied. “Surely Charlotte will go back to the Yorks, won’t she? I got the distinct impression she was as keen as we were. In fact, was it not her idea?”

It was the ideal excuse, and Emily seized it without thinking.

“Yes it was! I’m sure she would welcome a chance to call again.” She did not need to add that it would require Jack’s assistance; they both knew that. No single woman in the position Charlotte had pretended to would press such an acquaintance herself. And anyway, Charlotte had not the financial means even to come in a carriage, let alone suitably dressed. Emily could provide those things, but not an escort. Charlotte must be prompted, in case she had forgotten about the Yorks in the excitement of Christmas.

“I will send her a note,” she added aloud. “And it is always possible Pitt will learn something further, so we should keep abreast of that too.”

Jack looked thoughtful, gazing at the floor. “I have tried, extremely discreetly, to sound out one or two acquaintances about the Danvers, but I discovered very little. The father, Garrard Danver, is fairly senior in the Foreign Office, which may be how they came to know the Yorks so closely. Although Society is surprisingly small. Everyone knows everyone else, at least by sight or repute, if not to speak to—but of course that is a different thing from calling upon them. There were two sons: one was killed in the Indian Army some time ago, the other is Julian Danver, who may or may not marry Veronica York, depending upon Pitt’s inquiries.”

Emily gave a little snort of irritation. She was developing an empathy with Veronica York which made the concern about her reputation all the more infuriating.

“I wonder if anyone has bothered to consider whether he is good enough for her!” she said tartly. Instantly Emily regretted the words; she would have bitten her tongue rather than say something so betraying of her own loathsome suspicions. Please God he would not make the connection! She opened her mouth to rush into speech and smother it, then was afraid he would realize that was what she was doing. Instead she brazened it out.

Jack looked a little startled. “You mean his reputation?”

Now she had no answer. To expect a man’s reputation to have the same purity as a woman’s was absurd; she would mark herself as eccentric to the point of idiocy if she suggested such a thing.

But the alternative was the truth, and that was worse. But how could she back out of this discussion without being caught in a lie? She could feel the hot blood in her cheeks. She must say something! The silence positively prickled.

“Well, they might be concerned that he was a man of honor as much as he seems,” she said, scrambling for something that sounded better, more specific. “Some men have most disreputable habits. Perhaps you don’t know, but having assisted in the investigation of one or two crimes, I have learned of some terrible things, which were quite unknown to their families.” She forced herself to look at Jack. She was talking too much.

“Would it have anything to do with Robert York’s murder?” he asked. His eyes revealed nothing.

“No,” she said slowly. “Unless, of course, he killed him.”

“Julian Danver?”

“Why not?”

“Because he was already Veronica’s lover?” He took her point. “Yes, that’s possible.” He said it with assurance. Apparently the idea did not seem farfetched to him. Divorce would not have been open to Veronica, even with grounds such as proven adultery, let alone with no grounds at all! Emily knew that. Only men could divorce for unfaithfulness, and even then the woman was ruined. Women were expected either to prevent such a misfortune or else to put up with it with grace. And if Veronica herself were cast aside as an adulteress, then Julian Danver would lose all prospect of a career if he were to marry her; in fact, they would not even be received in Society. To all intents and purposes, they would cease to exist.

“Do you suppose he was so infatuated with her that he lost his head, his morality, enough to do that?” she asked, not because she thought Jack could possibly know but because she wanted to test his opinion of Veronica. Did he see her as a woman who could inspire such a reckless passion?

The answer was the one she had feared.

“I don’t know Danver,” he answered seriously. “But if he was capable of it, then Veronica would be just the woman to waken such a feeling.”

“Oh.” Emily’s voice was tight, a little high. “Then we had better pursue the matter forthwith, for justice’s sake if nothing else.” She sounded businesslike, very crisp. “I shall write to Charlotte to follow up on the invitation to visit the winter exhibition, and you must do what you can to obtain an invitation for her to meet the rest of the people who might be involved.” Her frustration boiled up suddenly and erupted despite her intentions. “I wish I were not shut up here like a hermit! It’s damnable! I could do so much if only I were free to socialize—oh hellfire!”

He looked startled for a moment, but there was laughter in his eyes. “I don’t think you’re ready for the Honorable Mrs. Piers York’s withdrawing room yet, Emily,” he said wryly.

“On the contrary,” she snapped, her face hot. “I’m over-ready!”

But there was nothing she could do, and her choice lay between accepting it with a good grace or an ill one. After another few minutes of general chatter Jack took his leave with a commission to contrive the necessary invitation. Emily was left alone again to go over and over in her mind all that she had said, changing a word or two, an inflection here and there to make it more gracious, less revealing. She wished she could go back and conduct the whole meeting again, and this time be more casual, perhaps occasionally say something witty. Men liked women who amused them, as long as they were not too clever or too spiteful.

Could she possibly be in love with Jack? That would be indecent so soon after George’s death. Or was it just that she liked him, and she was bored, and so crushingly lonely?

It was six days later, past New Year’s and into January with all its bleak and desperate cold, snow lining the streets and freezing fog creeping up like a white presage of death, clogging the throat, devouring light, distorting sound, and isolating each person who ventured out into it, when Emily’s carriage called for Charlotte in the late afternoon. It took her to Emily’s house, where she changed into a royal blue silk dinner gown while Emily and her maid fussed over her. Then, wrapped in wool and fur, she rode in Jack’s carriage to the house of Garrard Danver and his family in Mayfair, at the farther end of Hanover Close.

The carriage moved slowly through the swirling fog, and Charlotte could barely see the faint luminescence of gas lamps above, one moment clear yellow and the next swathed and blinded with dirty white rags of vapor.

She was glad when they pulled up and it was time to begin being Elisabeth Barnaby again. It was easier to take the plunge into activity than to sit hunched up in the dark turning it over in her mind and worrying about all the things that might go wrong. If they were to catch her out, how could she possibly explain herself? It would be ghastly: she would be stuck there wriggling like a moth on a pin while everyone stared at her and thought how absurd and tasteless she was. She would have to say she had lost her wits—it was the only possible excuse.

And even if she were entirely successful in duping them, would she discover anything at all that could shed any light on Robert York’s death? Perhaps this whole attempt was nothing to do with Robert or Veronica York, but was merely a silly farce to take Emily’s mind off her boredom, and an opportunity for Charlotte to make some judgment on Jack Radley, and only a temporarily successful attempt at that!

The carriage door was open and the footman was waiting to hand her down. She stepped out, glad of his grip for a moment or two as the cold, acrid air hit her like wet muslin. Then she went quickly up the steps and into the wide, warm hallway.

There was no time to look at the furnishings or the pictures beside the flight of stairs that swept upwards to the landing. The butler took her coat and muff and a maid held open the door into the withdrawing room. Charlotte took Jack’s arm and tried to sweep in with confidence, holding her chin high, her silk skirt swishing—or to be accurate, Emily’s silk skirt.

Jack nudged her sharply and she realized she was overdoing it. She was supposed to be modest, and obliged for their help. She lowered her gaze with a sense of irritation. She was tired of being obliged.

They were the last to arrive, which was very suitable, since they were the only ones not known closely to the others already. The six people in the room turned to look at them with varying degrees of interest. The first to speak was a young woman in her late twenties with a most individual face which only just missed being pretty; her nose was tip-tilted too far from the classic, and there was a frankness in her dark eyes that seemed out of place in an unmarried woman. Her figure was not nearly rounded enough for fashion, but her dark hair was shining and thick enough to have pleased anyone. She came forward to greet Charlotte with a good-mannered smile.

“How do you do, Miss Barnaby. I am Harriet Danver. I am so pleased you were able to come. Are you finding London agreeable, apart from this wretched weather?”

“How do you do, Miss Danver,” Charlotte replied courteously. “Oh yes, thank you for asking. Even in this fog it is such a nice change from the country, and people are so kind.”

A tall, lean man with an aquiline, highly ascetic-looking face came forward from where he had been half sitting on the back of a huge armchair. Charlotte judged him to be in his mid-forties, until he passed directly under the chandelier and she saw that the graying at the temples touched the rest of his head as well; the lines on his face were finer and more numerous than the shadows had betrayed.

“I am Garrard Danver.” His voice had a fine timbre to it. “I am delighted to meet you, Miss Barnaby.” He did not take her hand but instead smiled at Jack, bidding him welcome also, and introduced them to the remaining people in the room. Of these the most interesting by far was Julian Danver; indeed he was the principle reason Charlotte had been so keen to come. He was about the same height as his father, with a more athletic build, but it was his face that held her attention. He must have gotten his features from his mother, because Charlotte could see no family resemblance to Garrard at all, whereas in Harriet it was quite recognizable, especially about the eyes. Julian was fair, his eyes were gray or blue—she could not tell in the light of the chandelier—and his hair was brown with a fair streak across the front. His features were strong, and there was intelligence and restraint in his bearing. She could well imagine that Veronica York found him most attractive.

The last member of the Danver family was Garrard’s maiden sister, Miss Adeline Danver. She was rakishly thin, her deep green dress failing to mask the sharp bones of her shoulders. Her features exaggerated the flaws in Harriet’s face—her chin was smaller, her nose more prominent—but she had the same dark eyes and fine head of hair, more faded but still thick.

“Aunt Adeline is hard of hearing,” Harriet whispered softly to Charlotte. “If she says something odd, please smile and disregard it. She frequently gets quite the wrong sense of what is said.”

“Of course,” Charlotte murmured politely.

The only other guests were Felix Asherson and his wife. A striking man with black hair and unexpectedly vivid gray eyes, he worked in the Foreign Office with Julian Danver. But it was his mouth Charlotte noticed. She could not make up her mind about it; was it sensuous and strong, or was that wide lip a sign of self-indulgence? His wife Sonia was a handsome woman with bland, regular features, empty of expression, the sort of face fashion advertisers like because it sets off a hat without drawing the eye from it in the least. Her figure was well-proportioned, and on this occasion she wore a gown in a most becoming shade of coral pink, revealing plump, milk-white shoulders.

After the formal greetings had been exchanged, the usual small talk began. Since all the others were known to each other, it centered upon Charlotte and Jack Radley, and Charlotte concentrated on giving answers that made sense factually and were also in keeping with the character she had created for herself. She was supposed to be a young woman of modest means and good breeding, and, naturally, in search of a husband. Maintaining this role required all her attention, and it was not until they were at dinner round a table gleaming with silver and crystal, partaking of a rather too salty soup, that she was able to take time to observe the rest of the company.

The conversation was still very general: comments upon the unpleasantness of the weather, then minor points of news—nothing political or even remotely contentious—and then remarks about a play that most of them had seen. Charlotte replied only when good manners demanded, which gave her time to think. She might not get this opportunity again, so she must take full advantage of it.

The things she hoped to discover were few, but they would add to the little she had learned from Pitt. How long had Julian Danver and Veronica been acquainted? Did their love predate Robert York’s death, and thus cause it? Was Julian Danver an ambitious man, either in his profession or socially? Was there a noticeable difference in their financial status, so that money might have been a motive, either for Veronica or for him?

Charlotte had grown up in a home where quality was intensely admired, even on those occasions when it could not be afforded. It was one of a well-bred young lady’s attributes that she should be able to distinguish the excellent from the merely good, and naturally also its cost. She had been in the hall and withdrawing room of the York house, and she judged that they had had money long enough to be comfortable with it. There was none of the tendency to show off which so often accompanied recent acquisition. They felt no necessity to parade new furnishings or decorations, or put objets d’art in prominent positions.

Of course, she was quite aware that people’s circumstances can change; she had seen many houses with fine rooms where guests were received, while the rest of the building lacked even a carpet and grates did not know a fire from one Christmas to another. And some prefer to keep a full complement of servants while they themselves eat barely enough to keep alive, rather than be seen to have a poor establishment. But Charlotte had noticed the women’s clothes. They were of the latest cut and there were no worn places on cuffs or elbows; nothing had been altered to fit another season, or turned to hide patches. And she had done enough of that kind of thing herself to know precisely where to look for the telltale needle holes, the slightly different shading of fabric.

Now as she pretended to listen to the conversation across the table, she glanced as discreetly as she could at the dining room and its furnishings. The whole effect was silver and blue, pale on the immaculate wallpaper, dark royal blue in the curtains, which seemed to be without the usual faded marks that the sun so quickly made in blues, which meant they were not above a season old. Perhaps that indicated a tendency to extravagance? There was a painting of a Venetian scene on the wall opposite her, but Charlotte could not tell whether it was excellent or merely agreeable. The table itself was mahogany, or at least the legs were; the top was completely covered by crisp damask of heavy quality. The chairs and two sideboards were of the Adam style, and might well be genuine.

After checking that no one was watching her, she took a quick glance to see the hallmark on the reverse of her silver spoon. Perhaps the salty soup was a mere mischance; even the best people could have an accident with a cook. Perhaps they even liked it like this.

She considered the women’s clothes again with an eye to cost as well as to the indications to character they might show. Presumably both Harriet and Aunt Adeline, as unmarried women, were dependent upon Garrard for their support. Adeline’s gown did not have the panache of high fashion, but then nothing she wore ever would; she was not that kind of person, and Charlotte guessed she never had been. Nonetheless, the dress was well cut and of excellent fabric. Much the same could be said of Harriet’s gown.

No, unless there was some hidden factor, some inheritance or the like, it did not seem as if money entered into the match.

“Don’t you, Miss Barnaby?”

She realized with a start that Felix Asherson was talking to her—but what on earth had he said?

“I find Mr. Wagner’s operas a little long-winded and I am tired some time before the end,” he repeated, looking at her with a slight smile. “I prefer something rather closer to life, don’t you? I don’t care for all this magic.”

“I’m not surprised,” Aunt Adeline put in suddenly, before Charlotte had time to find an answer. “There’s enough of it we can’t avoid as it is.”

Everyone stared at her, and Charlotte was totally confused. The remark seemed to make no sense.

“He said ‘magic,’ Aunt Addie,” Harriet said quietly. “Not ‘tragic’ ”

She did not seem in the least put out. “Oh, really? I don’t care for the magic element very much. Do you, Miss Barnaby?”

Charlotte swallowed. “I don’t think so, Miss Danver. I am not sure that I ever met with it.”

Jack coughed discreetly into his napkin, and Charlotte knew he was laughing.

Julian smiled and offered her more wine. A footman and two maids served the fish course.

“Unrequited love seems to be the theme of a great many operas and plays,” Charlotte said to break the silence. “In fact, it is almost a necessity.”

“I suppose it is something most of us can imagine, even if we have been fortunate enough not to feel it,” Julian answered.

“Do you think such tales are true to life?” Charlotte asked gently, watching his face for sympathy or contempt.

He gave her the courtesy of a thoughtful answer. “Not in detail. Drama has to be condensed, or as Felix says, it becomes too boring; our attention is short. But the emotions are real, at least for some of us—” Suddenly he stopped and looked down at the table, then quickly up again at her. In that moment she found herself liking him. He had said something he had not meant to, but she was certain his embarrassment was not for himself—there was no anger or resentment in it at all—but for someone else at the table.

“My dear Julian,” Garrard said irritably. “You are far too literal. I don’t suppose Miss Barnaby intended anything so grave.”

“No, of course not,” Julian agreed quickly. “I apologize.”

Charlotte was intensely aware that they were talking about something real and known to both of them. It had to be either Adeline or Harriet. Harriet was past the age when one might have expected a personable and well-bred woman of sound financial prospects to marry. Why had they not arranged a suitable match for her?

Charlotte smiled charmingly; her warmth was quite truly felt. “Indeed, I was only thinking, as you were, that too much magic or coincidence spoils one’s belief in the story, and therefore one’s emotional rapport with the characters. It was quite a trivial remark.” She plunged on. “Mrs. York has been kind enough to invite me to go and view the winter exhibition at the Royal Academy with her. Have any of you been yet?”

“I went,” Sonia Asherson said mildly. “But I can’t say that I recall anything in particular.”

“Any portraits?” Aunt Adeline inquired. “I love faces.”

“So do I,” Charlotte agreed. “As long as they are not idealized so that all the flaws are removed. I often think the true character lies in those lines and proportions that depart from the classic—where the individuality is revealed, and the marks of experience.”

“How perceptive of you,” Aunt Adeline said with sudden pleasure, and for the first time she looked with interest directly at Charlotte. Charlotte realized at once what a vivid creature lived inside the thin, rather quaint exterior. How shallow to judge from smooth, conventional looks, like Sonia Asherson’s. Instinctively her eyes went to Felix. How trivial of him to have preferred a bland creature like Sonia rather than someone unconventional but full of feeling, like Harriet.

But perhaps he didn’t. She had no right to assume he was happy; anything might lie behind Felix’s polished manners and elusive face. This was another line of thought altogether, Charlotte reminded herself, and nothing to do with Veronica York, or Robert’s death.

“It was so kind of Mrs. York to invite me to accompany her,” Charlotte repeated a little abruptly. She must keep the conversation to the point. “Do you know, does she paint? I like portraits, but I love those delicate watercolor pictures some travelers make so clearly and with such sensitivity that you can imagine yourself there. I recall some wonderful pictures of Africa; I could almost feel the heat on the stones, so well was it drawn.” They were all looking at her now; right round the table their faces were turned towards her. Sonia Asherson was clearly surprised at her sudden garrulity, while Felix seemed amused; Harriet was looking but not listening, her thoughts elsewhere; Garrard gazed at Charlotte politely. Only Aunt Adeline had a brightness in her eyes that followed her sentiment. Jack was uncharacteristically silent. Apparently he was going to leave the field to her.

It was Julian who answered.

“I don’t think she does paint. We’ve never spoken of it.”

“Have you known her long?” Charlotte asked, trying to be artless, and wondered immediately if she had been too blunt. “I imagine in the diplomatic service you must have traveled?”

“Not to Africa,” he said with a smile. “But it is something I should like to do.”

“Far too hot!” Felix said with a grimace.

“I can understand you’d rather not,” Aunt Adeline said with a sharp glance at him, “but it might be an excellent thing all the same!”

Harriet caught her breath. Her fingers round the stem of her wineglass were so tight the knuckles paled. In that instant a dozen memories flooded back to Charlotte of how she had felt before she had met Thomas, when she was still in love with Dominic, her eldest sister’s husband. She remembered the agonizing fear, the hopelessness of being left out, the wild moments of imagined intimacy, a glance, an accidental touch, the singing heart when he seemed to take extra care speaking to her, the tenderness she thought she saw, and underneath it all the cold, sane despair. But she would not have dreamed of marrying anyone else, no matter what efforts her mother made. Was this not what she was seeing now in Harriet’s lowered eyes, pale lips, and hot cheeks?

“He did not say he would rather not, Aunt Addie,” Julian corrected. “He said it was far too hot. I presume he meant for Veronica to accompany me.”

Aunt Adeline dismissed the idea with scorn. “Nonsense! Some Englishwoman, I forget her name, went up the Congo all by herself. I’d love to do that!”

“What an excellent idea,” Garrard said waspishly. “Shall you go in the summer or the winter?”

She looked at him with bright eyes of disgust. “It is on the Equator, my dear, so it hardly matters. Don’t they teach you anything in the Foreign Office?”

“Not how to row up the Congo in a canoe,” he retorted. “It doesn’t seem to serve any purpose. We leave it to spinster ladies, who, according to you, have a taste for it.”

“Good!” she snapped. “You had better leave us something!”

Jack came to the rescue. He turned to Julian. “I knew Mrs. York several years ago, before her marriage to Robert, but I can’t remember whether she was interested in travel, and of course one may change. I daresay marrying into the Foreign Office will have broadened her knowledge, and perhaps her ambitions.”

Charlotte silently blessed him, and composed her face into an expression of great interest. “Was Mr. York a traveler?”

There was a moment’s silence. A knife clinked on someone’s plate. Out in the hall a servant’s footsteps sounded quite clearly.

“No,” Julian replied. “No, I don’t believe he was, although I did not know him well. I came to the department in the Foreign Office only a couple of months before his death. Felix knew him better.”

“He liked Paris,” Sonia Asherson said suddenly. “I remember him saying so. I wasn’t at all surprised; he was such a charming man, elegant and witty. Paris would be bound to please him.” She looked at her husband. “I wish we could go abroad sometimes, to somewhere sophisticated like that. Africa would be terrible, and India only marginally better.”

Charlotte looked at Harriet, and this time she was almost sure her guess was right. The dark, hollow look in her eyes, the aura of loss surrounding her was exactly what Charlotte herself had once felt when Sarah and Dominic had talked quite lightly of moving away. Yes, Harriet was in love with Felix Asherson. Did he know it? Dominic had never had the faintest idea of the turmoil he had caused in his sister-in-law, the agony, the embarrassment or the idiotic dreams.

She looked at Felix Asherson, but he was staring at the white damask cloth in front of him.

“I shouldn’t anticipate anything,” he answered her irritably. “I can’t imagine any circumstance in which I should be sent to any part of Europe, except perhaps Germany. All the interest in my department is with the empire, particularly Africa and who colonizes where. And if I went there it would be on business. I should be there and back in weeks, and most of the time would be spent on the voyage.”

Harriet was still too absorbed in trying to hide her feelings from the company to say anything. Garrard was leaning backwards in his chair, admiring the sparkle of the wine in his glass as the light from the chandelier caught it. A little self-consciously elegant, Charlotte decided, although she felt there was more emotion behind that highly individual face than she had first imagined—deeper lines round the mouth, a sharper curve to the lips, gestures that told of control mastering an inner restlessness. He was not as unlike Adeline as he had seemed at first.

“I must ask Mrs. York about Paris,” she said, smiling dazzlingly at no one in particular. “I have never traveled, and I daresay I will not have the opportunity, but I love to hear about other people’s experiences.”

“Mostly experiences of barbarous food and plumbing that doesn’t work.” Garrard looked at her with irony. “A much overrated occupation, I assure you, Miss Barnaby. You will usually be too hot or too cold, someone will mislay your baggage, the Channel crossing on the steamer will make you ill, and once you reach Calais you will not understand a word anyone says.”

Charlotte was about to retort with asperity that she spoke French, when she realized she was being teased, and for his amusement, not hers. “Indeed?” She raised her eyebrows. “All experiences I am quite used to in England, except for the Channel crossing. Perhaps you have not lately left London, Mr. Danver?”

“Bravo!” Aunt Adeline said with satisfaction. “She has your measure, my dear.”

His smile touched only his mouth. “Indeed,” he said, but he left it more a question than a concession.

“You shouldn’t spoil people’s dreams, Papa.” Julian began eating again slowly. “Anyway, Miss Barnaby may find things quite different if she comes to travel. I remember Robert’s mother used to enjoy it. She mentioned Brussels in particular.”

“Was that recently?” Charlotte asked eagerly. “Perhaps things have improved since you were there, Mr. Danver.”

His face hardened. The light shone on the smooth, tight skin of his cheeks, and Charlotte sensed a powerful anger inside him. Why on earth should he be abraded by something so trivial? No one had proved him mistaken, merely expressed a different opinion. Was his temper so unstable?

“Perhaps my dreams will never be realized,” she said quietly, “but it is pleasant to have them.”

“God preserve us from dreaming women!” Garrard raised his eyes to the ceiling, and there was an edge to his voice that Charlotte would ordinarily have called him to account for.

“It is frequently the only way we can get anything,” Aunt Adeline said, picking up her glass and sniffing at her Chablis. “But of course, you wouldn’t realize that.”

Everyone looked nonplussed. Felix glanced at Julian. Sonia’s face, with its regular features and flawless skin, registered what Charlotte was convinced was stupidity, although it was totally unfair to judge her so harshly. She was being too partisan towards Harriet and she knew it.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Danver?” Jack said with a frown.

“Not at all your fault,” she said graciously. “I daresay you are in a similar position.”

Jack turned to Charlotte, totally confused.

“What are you talking about, Aunt Addie?” Harriet asked gently.

“Scheming women.” Aunt Adeline’s eyebrows rose above her bright eyes, too round for beauty. “Aren’t you listening, my dear?”

“Henderson!” Garrard called loudly. “For heaven’s sake, bring on the pudding, whatever it is!”

“ ‘Dreaming women,’ Aunt Addie,” Julian said patiently. “Papa said ‘dreaming women,’ not ‘scheming.’ ”

“Oh, really?” She smiled quite suddenly at Jack. “I apologize, Mr. Radley, do forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” he assured her. “One can very easily lead to the other, don’t you think? One begins by dreaming, and without the restraint of morality, isn’t it often too easy to end in working out ways to bring about whatever it is one wants?”

Charlotte glanced from one face to another, not daring to look at Julian too long. Had they any idea why she was here? Was she perhaps far more transparent than she supposed, and they were merely playing with her?

“You are overrating people’s morality.” Garrard’s smile still curved his lips upward, but there was derision in it rather than pleasure. “It is more often a perception of what is practical and what is not—although, God help us, there are some hideous exceptions. Thank you, Henderson; put it down, man!” He accepted the steaming treacle pudding and syrup and brandy sauce. “Miss Barnaby, let us talk of something less sordid. Have you any plans to go to the theater? There are plenty of amusing plays on; one is not restricted to Mr. Wagner by any means.”

The subject had been changed, and she realized that without the most extraordinary ill manners she could not pursue the topic further. Even if she did, it would be profitless now; she would betray herself and ruin all future plans.

“Oh, I certainly hope to,” she said eagerly. “Is there anything you recommend? It would be lovely to go to the theater, wouldn’t it, Jack?”

And so the meal concluded and nothing more was said that seemed to have any bearing upon Robert York’s life or death, or the Danver family’s relationship with the Yorks.

The ladies left the table before the port was brought in, and returned to the withdrawing room. Charlotte had expected the conversation to be stilted, as she sensed what Harriet’s feelings for Felix were. Whether Sonia was aware of them or not, they could not possibly feel at ease with each other. As for Felix himself, Charlotte had not yet decided whether he knew of Harriet’s love, or whether he returned it, and if so, with what sincerity or honor. Aunt Adeline’s sharp tongue and dull hearing were unlikely to help matters.

Charlotte was ready to do her best to smooth the awkwardness with small talk, but she found her assessment mistaken. Apparently they had all known each other long enough to have found their own accommodation. Either by trial or by instinct, they knew what harmless comments to make on fashion, what gossip of mutual acquaintances to exchange, and which short stories in the London Illustrated News they all had read.

Charlotte did not have the time, or the money, to take the Illustrated News, nor had she ever heard of their friends. She sat with a smile of polite interest which became more fixed and less natural as the minutes dragged by. Once or twice she caught Aunt Adeline’s eye, saw a flash of amusement there, and looked away.

Finally Aunt Adeline stood up.

“Miss Barnaby, you expressed an interest in art. Perhaps you would care to see one of the landscapes in the boudoir? It was my sister-in-law’s favorite room, and she was quite fond of travel. She hoped to visit so many places.”

“And did she?” Charlotte asked, rising also.

Adeline led the way. “No. She died young. She was twenty-six. Harriet was barely walking; Julian was seven or eight.”

Charlotte was touched with a sudden sharp sense of loss for the woman whose life had ended when she was on the brink of so much—a husband and children, one a mere baby. How would she feel, if she had to leave Daniel and Jemima, and Thomas, to manage alone?

“I’m so sorry,” she said aloud.

“It was a long time ago,” Aunt Adeline replied half over her shoulder as she crossed the hall, going down a wide passage and opening the door into a lady’s sitting room, known as a boudoir. It was decorated in cream and a muted tone the color of dry sand, with touches of cool liquid green, and one splash of pale coral provided by a single chair. It was most unusual, and rather out of character with the rest of the house. It led Charlotte to a sudden thought that perhaps the young Mrs. Danver had not felt at home here; perhaps she had made this room into an island for herself, contrasting it with the other rooms as strongly as she dared?

On the wall opposite the fireplace was a painting of the Bosphorus, looking down from the Topkapi Palace on the Golden Horn. Fleets of little boats plied the blue-green waters, and in the distance, blurred by the haze of heat and the dazzle of the sun, loomed the shore of Asia. A strong man might easily swim as far, as Leander had done for Hero. Had young Mrs. Danver thought of that when she chose it?

“You say nothing,” Aunt Adeline remarked.

Charlotte was very weary of triteness. She wanted to discard the convention-imprisoned Miss Barnaby and be herself, especially with this woman, whom she liked more and more.

“What could I possibly say that could meet the loveliness of this, or all the ideas and the dreams one might find in it?” she demanded. “I refuse to add any more platitudes to the evening.”

“Oh my dear child, you are doomed to disaster!” Adeline said candidly. “You will take wings like Icarus, and like Icarus, fall into the sea. Society does not permit women to fly, as you will doubtless discover. For heaven’s sake, do not marry suitably; it may well be like walking into cold water, inch by inch, until it covers your head.”

Charlotte had a tremendous impulse to tell Adeline she had already married, highly unsuitably, and was extremely happy. Remembering Emily, she held her tongue at the last moment.

“Shall I marry unsuitably, if I can?” she asked with only half a smile; it was wry, and she knew it, a little painful.

“I don’t suppose your parents will allow it,” Aunt Adeline demurred. “Mine wouldn’t.”

Charlotte drew breath to say again that she was sorry, then knew it would sound too condescending. Adeline was not the sort of person for whom one should feel ever the most glancing touch of that pity which has no fellow feeling. She did not believe that Adeline Danver had shrunk from any decision out of cowardice; but even if she had, passing judgment on it now was none of Charlotte’s right, nor desire.

Instead, she drew a little on truth, remembering what had actually happened to her. “My grandmother is the one who would make the worst fuss,” she said.

Adeline smiled bleakly, but her eyes held no self-pity. She sat sideways on the arm of one of the big sand-colored chairs. “My mother enjoyed poor health. She played it for every second of obedience and attention she could extract from it. But when I was young we all believed she might die from one of her ‘turns.’ Eventually it was Garrard who called her bluff, for which I shall always respect him. But then it was too late for me.” She took a deep breath. “Of course, had I been a beauty, I should have lived a life of glamorous sin. But having never been asked, I am obliged to pretend that I would not have accepted.” Her brown eyes were brilliant. “Have you noticed how one condemns most self-righteously that which one has never had the opportunity to do?”

“Yes,” Charlotte agreed with a candid smile. “Indeed I have. It casts a new meaning upon ‘making a virtue of necessity.’ It is one of the hypocrisies that irritates me the most.”

“You’ll see a great deal of it. You’d do well to hide your feelings and learn to hold conversation with yourself.”

“I fear you are right.”

“I am most certainly right.” Adeline stood up. She really was very gaunt, but there was a strength of vitality in her which made her the most interesting person in the house. She looked at the picture again. “Do you know that a courtesan named Theodora rose to be empress of Byzantium?” she said quite casually. “I wonder if she wore outrageous colors. I love royal blues and peacock greens and scarlets and saffron yellow—even the names of them sound good— but I dare not wear them. Garrard wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace. He would certainly stop my dress allowance.” She stared fixedly at the picture as if she could see beyond it. “You know, there was a woman who used to visit this house, once or twice, in the middle of the night, very beautiful, like a black swan. She wore gowns of blazing cerise, not fiery, not a yellow red like flames, but shot with blues. Fearful color on anyone else. I should look like a nightmare in it.” She turned round with a look of faint surprise. “But she looked marvelous. Can’t imagine what she was doing here, except to see Julian, perhaps; but he really should have been more discreet. Garrard would have been furious. Still, since he began courting Veronica York, as far as I know, he has been above reproach, and that is all one can reasonably expect of a man. A man’s past is his own affair. I wish it were so for a woman, but I am not ingenuous enough to believe it ever will be.”

Charlotte’s mind was whirling. Adeline had said so much, she needed time to disentangle it.

“I have an aunt whom you would like,” she said, realizing even as she spoke how daring she had become. “Lady Cumming-Gould. She is nearly eighty, but she is marvelous. She believes in women having the vote for Parliament, and she is prepared to fight to help bring it about.”

“How unselfish of her.” Adeline’s eyes were bright, although there was self-mockery as well as enthusiasm in them. “She will not live to see it.”

“Don’t you think so? If we all pressed as hard as we could, would not men eventually see the justice of it, and . . .” The expression on Adeline’s face made Charlotte feel naïve, and her voice died away.

“My dear,” Adeline said, shaking her head slightly. “Of course if we all spoke together we could persuade men, or even force them—but we never do speak together. How often have you seen half a dozen women agree and band together for a cause, let alone half a million?” Her thin fingers smoothed over the velvet back of the chair. “We all live our separate lives, in our own kitchens if we are poor, our withdrawing rooms if we are well-to-do; and we do not cooperate for anything, but see ourselves as rivals for the few eligible and well-financed men that are available. Men, on the other hand, work fairly well together, imagining themselves the protectors and providers of the nation, obliged to do everything they can to preserve the situation precisely as it is—in their control—on the assumption that they know best what is right for us and must see that we get it, come hell or high water.” Her head jerked up. “And there are only too many women who are happy to assist them, since the status quo suits them very well also, and they are invariably the people with power.”

“Miss Danver! I think you are a revolutionary!” Charlotte said with delight. “You must meet Great-aunt Vespasia; you’d love each other.”

Before Adeline could respond there were footsteps in the passageway and Harriet appeared at the door, her face pale and her eyes heavy, as if she lacked sleep.

“The gentlemen have rejoined us. Won’t you come back, Aunt Addie?” Then she remembered her manners. “Miss Barnaby?”

A look of pity passed over Adeline’s face and vanished so rapidly that Charlotte was almost doubtful she had seen it; perhaps she had only imagined an echo of her own quick understanding. “Of course.” Adeline moved towards the door. “We were admiring your mother’s painting of the Bosphorus. Come, Miss Barnaby, asylum is over for this evening. We must leave Theodora and Byzantium and return to the world and the pressing matters of the present, such as whether Miss Weatherly will become engaged to Captain Marriott this month, or next, or whether perhaps he will evade her entirely”—she shrugged her thin shoulders—“and go to sea in a sieve.”

Harriet looked puzzled, glancing uncertainly at Charlotte.

“Edward Lear,” Charlotte hazarded an explanation. “ ‘Their heads were blue and their hands were green,’ or the other way round, and they went to sea in a sieve—I think. But he was also an excellent artist. His paintings of Greece are beautiful.”

“Oh.” Harriet looked relieved, but no wiser.

“Well?” Jack asked her as soon as they were alone in the carriage, huddled together in biting cold, breath white as steam. Outside the wind moaned and rattled and the gutters were filled with freezing slush, dark with mud and frozen manure, for once odorless. The horses’ hooves thudded heavily on the ice.

“All sorts of things,” she replied with chattering teeth. She decided not tell him that Harriet was in love with Felix Asherson; it was young Miss Danver’s own private heartache, and if he had not noticed it, then it should remain so. “They seem to have quite as much money as the Yorks, so that is not a motive. And apparently the two families have known each other for some time, so Julian and Veronica might have fallen in love before Robert died. On the other hand, and this really is most interesting, Aunt Addie—”

“Whom you like enormously,” he interrupted.

“Whom I like enormously,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t blind my wits.”

“Of course not.”

“It doesn’t! Aunt Adeline said that twice at least she had seen a strange and beautiful woman in the house, at night, up until three years ago, but not since! She wore an outrageous shade of cerise, always.”

“You mean both times?”

“All right, both times. But who was she? Maybe she was the spy, after Julian’s secrets from the Foreign Office. Perhaps she inveigled him.”

“Then why hasn’t she been seen since?”

“Perhaps after Robert York’s death she went away, or into hiding. Or maybe he was the one with the secrets, and since he is dead, there is nothing for her anymore. Maybe Julian Danver wouldn’t fall for her—he loved Veronica. I don’t know!”

“Are you going to tell Thomas?”

She took a deep bream and let it out slowly. Her hands deep in Emily’s muff were numb with cold. It was so late that she was going to have to stay the night with Emily and go home tomorrow, which would not please Pitt. She could tell him Emily was upset, so she had remained, which was true after a fashion, but she hated lying to him, and it was a lie at heart.

The alternative was to tell him the truth, and the reasons for pursuing the York murder. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I think so.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” he said doubtfully.

“I’m an awfully bad liar, Jack.”

“You amaze me!” he said, his voice rising mockingly. “I would never have guessed it!”

“Pardon?” she asked sharply.

“I should say I’d witnessed a bravura performance this evening.”

“Oh—that’s quite different. It doesn’t count.”

He started to laugh, and although she was furious, she liked him for it. Perhaps Emily would be all right.

Charlotte got up before dawn the following morning, and by seven o’clock she was at home in her own kitchen frying prime bacon and fresh eggs, a peace offering from Emily.

“Is Emily ill?” Pitt looked worried, but she knew he was on the edge of losing his temper if her answer was not satisfactory. She knew perfectly well that she looked too excited, too pleased with herself, to have been up all night by a sickbed.

“Thomas ...” She had thought about this a long time, at least an hour of the short night.

“Yes?” His voice was guarded.

“Emily isn’t ill, but she is very lonely, and being in mourning is pretty wretched.”

“I know that, my dear.” Now there was compassion in his voice, and it made her feel guilty.

“So I thought we should get involved in something,” she hurried on. She poked the bacon and it hissed gently, sending out an exquisite aroma.

“Something?” he pressed with heavy skepticism. He knew her far too well for this to succeed.

“Yes, something totally absorbing—like a mystery. So we started to look into Robert York’s death, which you told me about.” She reached for an egg and cracked it into the pan, then another. “Jack Radley—and that’s another reason: I really do want to get to know him rather better, just in case,” she hurried on, taking a deep breath, “Emily considers marrying him. Someone has to look after her interests—”

“Charlotte!”

“Well, I did have two reasons,” she insisted, then went on hastily. “Anyway, I went to tea with Veronica York and her mother-in-law. Emily arranged it so that Jack Radley took me—that way I was able to observe him while making some discoveries about the Yorks.” She could feel Pitt’s presence behind her as she turned the eggs gently, then took them out and put them on his plate next to the bacon. “There you are,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Last night I dined with the Danvers. I met them all, and they are most interesting. By the way, the Yorks and the Danvers appear to have about the same financial status, so neither Veronica nor Julian Danver would marry the other for money.” As she spoke she made the tea and set it on the table, all without meeting his eyes. “And Aunt Adeline told me the oddest thing: she saw a beautiful, glamorous woman wearing an outrageous shade of cerise in the house. Do you suppose she was a spy?” At last she looked at her husband, and was immensely relieved to see amazement in his face. His eyes were wide and his hand had stopped halfway to his mouth.

“A woman in cerise?” he said after a moment’s silence. “Did she say in cerise?”

“Yes. Yes, why? Have you heard of her? Is she a spy? Thomas!”

“I don’t know. But the maid at the Yorks’ saw her too.”

Charlotte slipped into the seat opposite him and leaned forward, forgetting her own bacon. “What did she say? When did she see her? Do you know who she is?”

“No. But I shall go back and speak to the maid again, I think, and ask her for a closer description, and exactly when she saw this woman. I must find out who she is, if I can.”

But before he went to Hanover Close again, he called by at the Bow Street station to attend to a few other inquiries, particularly a burglary in the Strand. He was halfway through reading the reports when a constable came in, a mug of tea in one hand. He put it down on Pitt’s desk.

“Thank you,” Pitt said absently.

“Thought you’d like to know, Mr. Pitt,” the constable said with a sniff as he reached for a large cotton handkerchief, sneezing into it and blowing his nose, “been a haccident yesterday, sir, at ’anover Close. Very sad. One of the upstairs maids fell out o’ the window, poor soul. Musta leaned out too far for suffink or other, maybe to call to someone. Any’ow the poor girl is dead, sir.”

“Dead?” Pitt looked up, startled and chilled. “Who?”

The constable looked down at the paper in his hand. “Dulcie Mabbutt, sir. Lady’s maid.”