Bedford Square

5

CHARLOTTE KNEW that Gracie had had something to report to Pitt from Tellman’s visit the previous evening, but it was one of those mornings when nothing seemed to be straightforward, and she was not in the kitchen at the time, at least only dashing in and out. The day before had been mild and sunny, but now the wind had a sharp edge and it was threatening rain. The clothes she had put out for Jemima to go to school in were now not warm enough. Jemima was very serious and did not complain about her pinafore as usual. That meant something else was worrying her, which was more urgent.

It took patient and careful questioning to elicit exactly what the difficulty was, and the answer, most solemnly given, reminded Charlotte how intensely important social questions were even at the age of nine. The precise way of dealing with a matter of accepting favors from the acknowledged leader of the twenty or so little girls in the classroom was a matter of great consequence. Debts were incurred and must be lived up to. Refusals must be explained without offense or one would be placed outside the magic circle of those who were favored.

She treated the problem with appropriate gravity. She had not gone to school herself. Having two sisters, she was taught by a governess in the classroom at home. But the principles were the same as in adult society, and sometimes the pattern of hierarchy lasted as long. Certainly the wounds of exclusion were as deep.

All of which meant that Daniel, two years younger, felt that something of importance was going on and he was not part of it. He knocked and banged around, dropping things and making loud comments, ostensibly to himself but really to take Charlotte’s attention.

So when she had finished with Jemima she decided she would walk to school with Daniel, instead of sending Gracie. The result was that by the time she had returned, dealt with the laundry, decided exactly how much longer the socks would last, which shirts needed their collars and cuffs turned (a job she hated), it was late morning when she sat down at the kitchen table for a cup of tea and Gracie told her what Tellman had said about Albert Cole’s strange, contradictory character.

“You did very well,” she said sincerely.

“I give ’im dinner, jus’ cold mutton an’ bubble an’ squeak. I ’ope that’s all right?” Gracie answered, blushing with satisfaction.

“Of course it’s all right,” Charlotte assured her. “In return for information, he can have the best food in the house. I’d even buy in for him.” She thought privately that the food was incidental; it was Gracie’s company which brought him. She had seen the slight flush in his face, the way, in spite of all his intentions to the contrary, his eyes softened when he looked at her. Above all, she had felt for his awkwardness and his grief for Gracie when she had had to face the loss of her dreams in Ashworth Hall.

But she did not say so. It would embarrass Gracie and perhaps make her feel as if her most personal affairs were the subject of other people’s thoughts and plans.

“That in’t necessary,” Gracie dismissed it. “Give ’im airs above ’is station. Jus’ so’s it’s all right ter give ’im suffink.”

“Most certainly. Use your own judgment.” What Tellman had said about Cole weighed heavily on Charlotte’s mind. She believed Balantyne, both as to his innocence of the original cowardice in Abyssinia, and certainly of the murder of Cole, but the more she learned the less chance did she see of proving it. So far she had not told Pitt about the blackmail, but it would strain her conscience to withhold it a great deal longer, and he must surely already have considered the possibility, in view of Cornwallis’s similar plight.

She needed to be able to discuss it with someone whom she could trust absolutely, not only for her discretion but also for an understanding of the sort of men both Cornwallis and Balantyne were, and of the world in which they moved. Great-Aunt Vespasia was perfect in both respects. She was in her mid-eighties, of an unassailable position in society, and in her day had been the most beautiful woman in London, if not in England. She had excellent judgment of people, and as sharp a tongue to express it as Charlotte had ever known, coupled with the wit to do so with very little unkindness. She also had the courage to follow her own conscience and to fight for the causes she believed in, regardless of other people’s tastes. Charlotte had never liked anyone more.

“I shall go and visit Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould,” she announced to Gracie as she stood up from the table. “I think we need her view of this matter.”

“She couldn’t know about the likes o’ Albert Cole, ma’am,” Gracie said with surprise. “At ’is best ’e were an ordinary soldier, an’ from what Mr. Tellman says, ’e were a thief. Looks like ’e fell out wif ’is mate over wot they took, an’ ’e came orff worst. Mr. Pitt said as ’e looked like ’e bin in a fight.”

Charlotte felt considerably comforted by that thought. It did seem to make sense. However, it still left the uneasy knowledge that he had had the snuffbox.

“Mebbe more was took,” Gracie went on, as if sensing Charlotte’s thoughts. She stood by the sink with the dishcloth in her hand. “An’ the other feller ’as ’em. ’e just missed the box ’cos ’e were in an ’urry. P’raps the lamplighter were comin’, an’ ’e scarpered?”

“Yes, perhaps,” Charlotte agreed. She could not tell Gracie, or anyone, that Balantyne had given the box to the blackmailer. Did that make Cole the blackmailer, or not? Or his messenger? Or had he stolen it from the blackmailer … by an extraordinary chance? “I still think I shall go and see Lady Vespasia,” she stated. “I shall probably take luncheon out.”

Gracie looked at her keenly, but she made no remark other than to acknowledge that she had heard.

Charlotte went upstairs and took several minutes to select an appropriate gown. On past occasions when she had needed to look more glamorous or impressive than her own very limited wardrobe allowed, she had been given clothes by Aunt Vespasia: dresses and sometimes capes or hats which she no longer used. Vespasia’s maid had altered them to fit Charlotte’s rather fuller figure, and changed the style a little, usually bringing it both up-to-date and making it a trifle more practical and less formal than it had been when Vespasia had worn it. Vespasia had always loved clothes and had every intention of leading fashion, not following it.

The only problem was that Vespasia was in her eighties, a trifle thin; her hair was silver and her tastes extravagant, to go with her station in life. Charlotte was in her thirties and dark with a rich tint of chestnut in her hair, her skin a warm honey tone. Some adjustments needed to be made.

She chose a pale blue muslin. It had gorgeous sleeves, a very slight bustle gathered from an overskirt of green which took from it the delicacy which on her looked not sophisticated, as it had on Vespasia, but rather insipid. She had a pale blue hat, which complemented the gown. She was reasonably satisfied with the result, and left at a quarter to twelve. The only way to travel dressed like this was by hansom—unless, of course, one had one’s own carriage.

She arrived at Vespasia’s house shortly after noon, and was admitted by the maid, who by now knew her very well.

Vespasia was sitting in her favorite room, opening onto the garden. She was dressed in her favorite ivory lace gown with ropes of soft, gleaming pearls. The sunlight made a pool around her, and her black-and-white dog was lying on the floor beside her feet. It rose and greeted Charlotte with enthusiasm. Vespasia remained where she was, but her face lit with pleasure.

“How nice to see you, my dear. I was rather hoping you would come. I am bored to weeping with the season this year. There doesn’t seem to be anybody with the slightest flair for the unpredictable. Everyone says and does precisely what I expect them to.” She moved one shoulder in elegant dismissal. “They even wear what I expect. It is very fashionable, but of no interest whatever. It is frightening. I begin to fear I am growing old. I seem to know everything … and I hate it!” She raised her eyebrows. “What is the point in being alive if you are never taken completely by surprise, all your ideas scattered like leaves before a gale, and you have to pick them up and put them together again and find the picture is new and different? If you are not capable of passion or surprise, you really are dead.”

She surveyed Charlotte critically, but with affection.

“Well, you are wearing something I had not predicted. Where on earth did you get that gown?”

“It is one of yours, Aunt Vespasia.” Charlotte leaned over and kissed her delicately on the cheek.

Vespasia’s eyebrows rose even higher.

“Good heavens! Please be good enough not to tell anyone. I should be mortified.”

Charlotte did not know whether to be hurt or to laugh. She wanted to do both. “Is it really so awful?”

Vespasia waved her to stand back a little, and regarded the gown critically for several moments.

“The pale blue doesn’t suit me,” Charlotte explained. It was the addition of the green which seemed to be the focus of Vespasia’s displeasure.

“It would if you added cream,” Vespasia replied. “That green is far too heavy. You look as if you had fallen into the sea and come out covered in weed!”

“Oh! A sort of drowned look—like the Lady of Shalott?” Charlotte asked.

“Not quite as peaceful,” Vespasia said dryly. “Don’t tempt me to go further. Let me take that and find you something better.” She rose to her feet, leaning a little on her silver-topped cane, and led the way upstairs to her dressing room. Charlotte followed obediently.

It was while Vespasia was looking through various swathes and shawls and other accessories that she said quite casually, “I suppose you are concerned about that peculiarly unfortunate matter in Bedford Square? As I recall, you were fond of Brandon Balantyne.”

Charlotte found herself blushing quite hotly. That was not at all the way she would have phrased it. She looked at Vespasia’s elegant back as she fingered a piece of silvery cream silk and considered its suitability. If Charlotte were to argue over Vespasia’s choice of words she would only draw attention to her self-consciousness. She took a deep breath.

“I am upset about it, yes. I went to see him. Please don’t tell Thomas; he doesn’t know. I … I went on impulse, without thinking about it, except that I wanted him to have some … sense of friendship …” She faltered to a stop.

Vespasia turned around holding the cream silk. It was soft as gauze, faintly shimmering. “This will lighten it,” she said with decision. “This piece as a fichu, and this around the bustle and down the front. It will warm the whole effect. Of course you went to see him because you care for him, and you wanted him to know that that was not changed by this new circumstance.” Her face become more grave, touched with a gentleness. “How was he?” She looked very carefully at Charlotte, and her own perception of distress became deeper as she read Charlotte’s feelings. “Not well …”

“He is being blackmailed,” Charlotte replied, surprised how sharply it troubled her to say so, as if she were learning it for the first time herself. “Over something he did not do, but he cannot prove it.”

Vespasia remained without speaking for several moments, but it was transparent in her face that it was the silence of thought, not of indifference or a failure of understanding.

Charlotte had a sudden, chill feeling that Vespasia knew or guessed something which she herself did not. She waited with a tightening of her throat.

“For money?” Vespasia said, almost as if she did not expect an answer in the affirmative.

“Not for anything,” Charlotte replied. “Just … just to show that the blackmailer has the power, so far …”

“I see.” Vespasia draped the silk over Charlotte’s gown and tied it expertly. She fiddled with it, pulling it here and there, rearranging it, but her fingers moved absentmindedly. “There,” she said when she had finished. “Do you care for that more?”

Charlotte surveyed herself in the glass. It was a great deal better, but that was hardly important.

“Yes, thank you.” She turned. “Aunt Vespasia …”

But Vespasia was already walking away towards the landing and the stairs down. She held the banister to steady herself, something she would not have done a year or two before. Charlotte had an acute sense of her fragility, and painful knowledge of how much she loved her. She wanted to say so, but it might be overfamiliar; after all, they were not really related. And this was not the time.

At the bottom of the stairs in the hall, Vespasia started back towards the morning room, now full of sunlight.

“I have a friend,” she said thoughtfully. “Mr. Justice Dunraithe White.”

Charlotte caught up with her and they went into the pale, bright room. There were early white roses in the green bowl on the center table, and the sun through the leaves outside made shifting patterns on the carpet.

“Theloneus tells me he has made some very … odd … decisions lately, quite out of the character he has hitherto shown. He has delivered opinions which at the very kindest could be described as eccentric.” Theloneus Quade was also a judge, and a longtime admirer of Vespasia. Twenty years before he had been deeply in love with her, and would have married her had she accepted him, but she had felt the difference in their ages to be too great. He was still in love, but now it was also a deeper friendship.

She sat down on her favorite seat near the window and let the stick go. The black-and-white dog thumped its tail with pleasure. Vespasia looked steadily at Charlotte.

“You think he is ill … or …” Charlotte began, then realized her slowness of perception. “You think he is being blackmailed too!”

“I think he is under very great pressure of some sort,” Vespasia said more exactly. “I have known him for many years, and he has always been a most honorable man, scrupulously so. His responsibilities to the law are central to his life, second only to his love for Marguerite, his wife. They have no children, and perhaps have consoled each other for this and grown closer than many others.”

Charlotte sat opposite her, rearranging the newly glamorous gown. She was hesitant to ask the next question, but it burned in her mind, and her concern for Balantyne gave her a boldness she would not normally have had.

“Are these decisions in favor of anyone in particular, or any interests?”

A flash of understanding lit Vespasia’s eyes, and wry sadness.

“Not yet. According to Theloneus these are merely erratic, ill thought out, quite unlike his usual careful consideration and weighing of all factors.” She frowned. “It is as if his mind were only half on what he is doing. I was most concerned about him. I thought perhaps it was illness, which it may be. I saw him two or three days ago, and he looked most unwell, as if he had slept very little. But there was more, a sense of abstraction in him. Only when you told me of Brandon Balantyne did the thought of blackmail occur to me.” She moved her hands fractionally. “There are so many things a man may not be able to disprove once the suggestion is made. One only has to look at this ridiculous Tranby Croft affair to see how easily ruin may come simply by a misplaced word, a charge, whether it can be proved or not.”

“Is Gordon-Cumming going to be ruined?” Charlotte asked. “And is he innocent?” She knew Vespasia would be at least to some degree acquainted with the principal characters concerned, and very probably know a good deal about their private lives.

Vespasia shook her head slightly. “I have no idea whether he is innocent, but it is perfectly possible. The whole matter should never have arisen. It was handled appallingly badly. When they believed he was cheating they should have called an end to the game, without requiring him to sign a piece of paper promising never to play cards again, which was tantamount to an admission of guilt. Condemning who was present, somebody was bound to speak of it, and then scandal was inevitable. With two wits to rub together they could have foreseen that.” She shook her head with impatience.

“But there’s got to be something we can do about this threat of blackmail!” Charlotte protested. “It is monstrously unjust. It could happen to anyone.”

Vespasia was very tense, unaccustomed lines of anxiety in her face.

“What worries me is what this blackmailer may ask for. You say he has made no demand of Balantyne yet?”

“No … except a snuffbox … and that was found on the body of the man who was murdered on his doorstep.” She found her own fingers clenching. “Thomas knows all about the murder, of course, because it is his case. But that is not all ….”

“There is worse,” Vespasia said quietly; it was more of a conclusion than a question.

“Yes. Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis is being blackmailed too. Also for something in the past in which he cannot prove his innocence.”

“What, precisely?”

“Taking the credit for another man’s act of courage.”

“And General Balantyne?”

“That he panicked in the face of the enemy and allowed someone else to conceal it for him.”

“I see.” Vespasia looked deeply troubled. She understood only too bitterly how such rumors, no matter how softly whispered, how passionately denied, would make a man’s life nigh to intolerable. Less vicious charges than either of those had at best driven men to retire from all public life and move to some remote spot in the wilder parts of Scotland, or even to leave Britain altogether and become expatriates without a purpose. At worst, they had caused suicide.

“We must fight,” Charlotte urged, leaning forward a little. “We can’t let it happen.”

“You are right,” Vespasia agreed. “I have no idea whether we can win. Blackmailers have all the advantages.” She rose to her feet, again using the cane. The dog uncurled itself and stood up also. “They use methods we cannot and would not,” she continued. “They fight from the shadows. They are the ultimate cowards. We shall have luncheon, then we shall call upon the Whites.” She reached for the bell rope and pulled it. When it was answered she informed the butler of her plans, for him in turn to tell the cook and the coachman.

Dunraithe and Marguerite White lived in Upper Brook Street, between Park Lane and Grosvenor Street. Charlotte and Vespasia alighted from the carriage in the bright mid-afternoon sun. Vespasia knew all the proper etiquette for calling on “at home” days, once or twice a month. Anyone with a suitable degree of acquaintance might come. All “morning calls” actually took place in the afternoon, from three o’clock until four for the most formal and ceremonial, from four to five for those less formal, and from five until six for those which were quite intimate or between close friends.

However, there were certain advantages to high birth and the passage of time. When Vespasia chose to break the rules no one complained, except those who would like to have done so themselves but did not dare to, and they made their comments very quietly—and if overheard, denied them.

Fortunately, this was not an “at home” day. Mrs. White was without company, and a somewhat startled maid took Vespasia’s card and returned a few moments later to say that Mrs. White would receive them.

Charlotte was too concerned about the issues which had brought them there to take anything but the slightest notice of the house or its furnishings. She had a fleeting impression of heavy, gold-framed pictures, rather a lot of carved oak and curtains with fringes.

In the withdrawing room, Marguerite White stood near a chaise longue covered with cushions, rather as if she had just risen from it. She was slender and pale, with a mass of dark hair. Her eyes were hollow, heavy lidded, her brows delicate. She was a beautiful woman, but Charlotte’s most powerful impression was that she was not strong and the slightest exertion would tire her. She was dressed in a dark muslin gown, which was obviously not what she would have chosen had she expected callers.

A greater surprise was that her husband was standing behind her. He was only a little taller than she, a trifle portly now, and broad shouldered. But in spite of his ample frame and genial features, he looked as if he, too, had been ill. There was no color in his skin, and the shadows under his eyes were dark.

“Vespasia! How charming of you to call.” He made an effort to be courteous, and a genuine good nature was unmistakable in his voice. Nevertheless, he could not entirely conceal that he was puzzled to see her, and of course he was unacquainted with Charlotte.

Vespasia greeted him with warmth and made the appropriate introductions. All the usual remarks were made about health and weather, and tea was offered, although no one expected it to be accepted at this hour.

“Thank you,” Vespasia said with a smile, sitting down on the wide sofa and arranging her skirts with the merest flick of her hand, indicating that she fully intended to stay.

Marguerite looked startled, but there was nothing she could do about it short of extreme rudeness, and it had been apparent from her first response to Vespasia that she was fond of her, and perhaps a little in awe.

Charlotte sat down nervously. What could she possibly say in this absurd but desperately important situation? Something flattering but innocuous. She glanced out of the window.

“What a delightful garden you have, Mrs. White.”

Marguerite looked relieved. It must be a subject that gave her pleasure. Her face eased of some of its tension; her eyes brightened.

“Do you like it?” she asked eagerly. “I wish it were larger, but we do what we can to give the illusion of space.”

“You succeed admirably.” Charlotte was able to say it with sincerity. “I should love to have such a skill, or perhaps I should say an art? I doubt it is something which can be learned.”

“Would you like to see it more closely?” Marguerite offered.

It was precisely what Vespasia had most hoped for and intended to bring about were she able. Charlotte had accomplished it within the first few minutes of their visit.

Charlotte turned to her. Enquiring if it were acceptable was a necessary courtesy.

Vespasia smiled, but casually, as if it were of no importance.

“By all means, my dear. I should go while the sun is out and you can enjoy it to its very best advantage. I am sure Mrs. White will be willing to allow you to look at it closely enough to see the delicacy of the details.”

“Of course,” Marguerite agreed. “It is one virtue most gardeners possess: we all love to show off, but we seldom mind sharing our ideas.” She turned to her husband. “You will excuse us, won’t you? I seldom have anyone here whose interest is more than an indulgence of my passion. I am so tired of polite nothings.”

“Of course, my dear,” he said gently, and his regard for Charlotte changed in that moment. It was clear in his expression, the way his shoulders relaxed as he moved to open the French doors for them both, that she had in that one gesture become a friend.

When they were gone—two graceful figures across the small strip of green lawn, outlined by the background of trees, urns of pale flowers reflecting the sunlight, white petunias dramatic against the dark flames of cypress—he closed the doors and came back across the room to Vespasia.

“You look tired, Dunraithe,” she said gently.

He remained standing, half turned away from her.

“I was awake a little last night. It is nothing. It happens to all of us now and again.”

She must not waste precious time while Marguerite was occupied outside. He would certainly not tell her anything once his wife returned. He had always done everything in his power to protect her from distress of any kind. And yet if Vespasia were precipitate he would regard it as intrusive and be offended. Not only would she not have helped but she would also have damaged a friendship which she valued.

“It does,” she agreed with a self-deprecatory little shrug. Then an idea came to her. There was no time to weigh its merits. The garden was small, and Charlotte could keep Marguerite outside only a given length of time. “I have lost some sleep myself recently.”

He wished to be courteous, but his attention was only half upon her, and in spite of his efforts, she was aware of it. Theloneus was right, Dunraithe White was deeply worried about something.

“Oh … I’m sorry,” he said with an absentminded smile. It did not occur to him to enquire as to what the cause might be. She was going to have to be far more blunt than she had wished.

“It is the curse of an imagination,” she responded.

That was something to which he could not easily think of a casual reply.

“Of an imagination?” His attention was real at last. “Are you afraid of something, Vespasia?”

“Not for myself,” she answered, meeting his eyes. “For my friends, which I suppose in the end is the same thing. We are given pain or happiness through those we care for.”

“Of course.” He said it with sudden intensity. “It is the core of what we are. Without the ability to love we would be half alive … less. And what we have would be of no value … no joy.”

“And no pain,” she added.

His eyes clouded, and there was a fierce tenderness in his face. Suddenly his emotions were raw. She had always known he loved Marguerite, but in that moment she saw something of the depth of it, and the vulnerability. She could not help wondering if Marguerite White was really as fragile as he believed. But it was a judgment only he had the right to make.

“Yes, of course,” he said in little more than a whisper. “The two are inseparable.”

She waited, but he did not go on. Either he was too absorbed in his own feelings or he believed that asking her about herself would be intrusive.

She took a deep breath and let it out silently.

“One cannot see a true friend suffer, perhaps even be ruined, without attempting to help.” She watched him as she spoke.

His head jerked up, his body became rigid. It was as if she had struck him. The quiet room, sunlit from the garden beyond, was permeated with fear. Still he said nothing.

She would not let it go, she could not. “Dunraithe, I need your advice. That is really why I have come at this very inappropriate hour. I do know better than to call unannounced at three in the afternoon.”

A flash of painful humor crossed his face and vanished.

“You, of all people, do not need to apologize. How can I help you?”

At last!

“Someone I know and care for,” she answered, “and for reasons which will be obvious to you, I should prefer not to name him, is being blackmailed.” She stopped. The expression on his face did not change in the slightest; indeed, it was unnaturally frozen. But the blood rushed into his cheeks, and then fled, leaving him ashen. If she had ever doubted that he, too, was a victim, she could not possibly do so now.

Had he any idea how his color had betrayed him? Did he feel the heat in his skin, and then the faintness? She looked into his eyes and still was not certain. She continued because the only alternative was to retreat.

“Over something which, in fact, he did not do.” She gave a tiny smile. “But he cannot prove it. It was all many years ago, and rests now on the word of people whose memories are dulled or whose testimony may not be sufficient.” She gave the minutest shrug. “Anyway, I daresay you are as aware as I that a whisper can be enough to cause irreparable damage, whether it is true or not. Many of the people one would like to admire actually have very little charity when it comes to the chance to cause a stir with a piece of gossip. One has not far to look to know that is true.”

He started to say something, then swallowed convulsively.

“Do sit down, Dunraithe,” she said softly.” You look as if you are quite ill. A stiff brandy might help, but I think a word of friendship might do more. You also are carrying a great burden of some sort. One does not need the eye of a friend to see that. I have shared my concern with you, and feel better for it, even if you are not able to give me any practical advice. And I admit, I cannot think what such advice might be. What can one do against blackmail?”

He avoided her eyes, looking down at the roses in the Aubusson carpet beneath his feet.

“I don’t know,” he answered, his voice husky. “If you pay, then you only dig yourself in the more deeply. You have created a precedent, and shown the blackguard that you are afraid of him and will yield.”

“That is part of the trouble.” She watched him intently. “You see, he has not asked for anything.”

“Not … asked for anything?” His words were stilted, his face drained of color.

“Not yet.” She kept her own voice level. “It is most unpleasant, and of course my friend fears that in time he will. The question is what will it be?”

“Money?” There was a lift of hope in him now, as if a demand for money would have been almost a relief.

“I imagine so,” she answered. “If not, then it may be something far uglier. He is a man of influence. The worst possibility is that he may be asked to do something corrupt … to misuse his power ….”

He closed his eyes, and for a moment she was afraid he was actually going to faint.

“Why do you tell me this, Vespasia?” he whispered. “What do you know of it?”

“Only what I have told you,” she replied. “And that I fear he may not be the only victim. Dunraithe … I am very much afraid there may be a far larger conspiracy involved than merely the misery of one man, or even two. One cannot keep one’s reputation, however justly earned, by committing an act of dishonor, possibly even greater than that with which one is falsely accused.”

Suddenly he looked at her very directly, anger and desperation in his face. “I cannot tell how much you know, even if that is why you are here, and what of your friend is mythical, what true.” His voice was rough, almost angry. “But I confess I also am being blackmailed for something of which I am totally innocent. But I will not risk having it said … by anyone! I shall pay him whatever he asks, but I will keep him silent.” He was shaking. He looked so ill as to be on the point of collapse.

“My friend is as real as you are.” It mattered to her that he did not think she had lied, no matter for what reason. “I did not know you were also a victim, but your distress caused me to wonder. I am profoundly sorry. It is the filthiest of crimes.” She spoke more fervently. “But we must fight him. We must do it together, if necessary. We must believe in one another. My friend was accused of cowardice in the face of the enemy … a sin which would be anathema to him, a shame he could not live with.”

“I’m sorry.” The words were wrung from him. She could not doubt he meant them passionately. It was in his face, the angle of his body, the clenched shoulders. “But to allow what I am accused of to be said aloud would be a torment Marguerite could not live with. And that I will not allow … whatever he does to me. There is no use arguing with me, Vespasia. I will do anything on earth before I permit her to be hurt. And she would be devastated.”

This was no time for tactful evasions. Charlotte and Marguerite would return at any moment. Charlotte had already kept the conversation on gardening alive miraculously long.

“What are you accused of?” Vespasia asked.

He was pale to the lips. Again, the answer seemed forced from him. “Suit for the paternity of the child of one of my closest friends.” He struggled for breath. “The husband passed away recently. He cannot even deny that he contemplated such a thing.” His voice rose. “Of course he did not! The child was his, and he never could have thought otherwise. But even a whisper of doubt would ruin the mother’s reputation, and mine, the more so since we were friends … and even call into question the son’s inheritance, both of his father’s title and his considerable wealth.”

His face crumpled and his voice trembled now.

“To have anyone think that I could have behaved in such a way would kill Marguerite. She is … very frail. You know that. She has never ever been strong, and of late she has suffered … I simply will not allow it!”

“But you have done nothing wrong,” she pointed out. “There is nothing for you or Marguerite to be shamed by.”

His lip curled. The bright sunlight streaming through the windows showed the contempt in his face. “And do you imagine people will believe that … all people? There will be whispers, glances.” He laughed derisively. “Some well-meaning busybody will be sure to tell Marguerite what is being said, probably in the guise of forewarning her, perhaps in simple malice.”

“And so you will do what he asks of you,” Vespasia said. “The first time, and the second … and maybe the third? By which time you will truly have done something to be ashamed of, and his hold upon you will be real!” She leaned forward a little. “How far will you go? You are a judge, Dunraithe. Justice must be your first loyalty.”

“Marguerite is my first loyalty!” His voice was raw, his fists clenched. “I have loved her nearly all my life, and I will do anything to protect her.”

Vespasia said nothing. He did not need her to repeat that for him to betray his trust, sell his honor, would also devastate Marguerite. He must see it all in her eyes. He could not bear to look beyond the first danger and deal with them one at a time, pay the cost and think about tomorrow’s evil afterwards, hope then for some escape. Perhaps someone else would defeat the blackmailer before that?

The French doors opened, and Charlotte and Marguerite came in in a gust of bright wind and billowing skirts. There was color in Marguerite’s cheeks, and she looked excited and happy.

Dunraithe made a mighty effort to master the pain and the fear that had been so naked in him a few moments before. His whole expression changed. He straightened his body. He smiled at both the women, extending his warmth towards Charlotte as well.

“Your garden is quite lovely,” Charlotte said with very real admiration. “What marvelous things can be achieved when you have both the art to see what should be done and the skill to do it. In the nicest way, I am perfectly envious.”

“I am so glad you enjoyed it,” he said. “She is very clever, isn’t she?” The pride in him was enormous, a thing of unalloyed pleasure.

Marguerite beamed with happiness.

The tea was brought, and it was now almost four o’clock anyway. They sat making another half hour’s trivial conversation, then said their farewells and the carriage was called.

Vespasia told Charlotte what she had learned as they traveled back to Keppel Street.

“I am very afraid that this is far bigger than we had at first supposed” she said grimly. “I am sorry, my dear, but you can no longer keep your knowledge of Brandon Balantyne’s involvement from Thomas. I realize it will not be easy for you to tell him how you have become aware of it, but you have no alternative now.”

Charlotte looked at her steadily. “Do you really think this is some kind of conspiracy, Aunt Vespasia?”

“Do you not think it looks like it?” Vespasia replied. “Cornwallis, Balantyne, and now Dunraithe White.”

“Yes … I suppose so. If only he had asked for money!”

“He would still have to be stopped,” Vespasia pointed out. “Money is only the beginning.”

“I suppose so.”

It was not an easy conversation, as Vespasia had predicted, but Charlotte broached the subject as soon as Pitt returned home. For once he was quite early, coming into the kitchen in his stocking feet and finding her busy putting away clean crockery. She did it immediately because once she had determined to do it, she could not settle to any kind of peace of mind until it was accomplished. She had rehearsed it several times, never entirely satisfactorily.

“Thomas, I have something I must tell you about the Bedford Square case. I don’t know whether it is relevant or not … I hope not, but I feel you should know.”

It was not her usual pattern of speech, and he caught the difference, turning from the sink, where he was washing his hands, and looking at her with surprise.

She stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, half a dozen plates in her hand. She took a deep breath and then spoke, without waiting for him to ask or allowing him to interrupt.

“I spent the afternoon with Aunt Vespasia. One of her friends, Judge Dunraithe White, is also a victim of this blackmailer who is threatening Mr. Cornwallis.”

He stiffened. “How do you know? Did he tell Vespasia?” His voice was high and sharp with incredulity.

“Not easily, of course,” she answered, putting the plates back on the table and passing him a clean towel. “But they are old friends. I occupied his wife, who is a most excellent gardener. I must tell you more about that—I know! Later,” she interrupted herself quickly.

“Vespasia spoke alone with Mr. White, and he confessed to her his situation. He is absolutely distracted with worry and fear, but the accusation is that he fathered the eldest son and heir of one of their closest friends. And now that the friend is dead and cannot deny it, the blackmailer is saying that he was actually going to sue Mr. White ….”

Pitt winced, his expression conveying plainly how he appreciated the hurt. He dropped the towel over the back of the chair nearest to him.

“And Mr. White said such a thing would devastate his wife. She is very frail and so they have no children of their own. He adores her, and will pay any price asked of him rather than allow that.”

Pitt hunched his shoulders and pushed his hands hard down into his pockets. “That’s Cornwallis, White, and, I heard today, also a man named Tannifer, a merchant banker in the City. He’s accused of fraud with his clients’ funds.”

“Another one!” She was startled. It was looking increasingly as if Vespasia was right and the problem was far larger and more serious than any individual blackmail for greed.

He looked at her gravely. “Have you considered that perhaps General Balantyne is also being blackmailed? I know you would rather not think so, in view of the murdered man on his doorstep, but I can’t dismiss it just because I would prefer to.”

Now was the time. “He is.” She watched his face to see how angry he might be. He stood absolutely still, all kinds of emotions conflicting in his eyes, anger and amazement, pity, understanding, and something which for an instant she thought was a sense of betrayal. She went on talking, quickly, trying to cover the moment. “I went to convey my sympathy for his new tragedy … really that the wretched newspapers had raised the Christina business all over again, as if living it once were not enough.” Now what was in his face was unmistakably pity, memory of indescribable pain, not for himself but for Balantyne, and understanding of what she had done. “I knew something else was extremely wrong,” she went on, smiling at him now. “And I offered my friendship, for whatever comfort that was. He told me, with great embarrassment, that he is being blackmailed over an incident in the Abyssinian Campaign twenty-five years ago which never happened, but he cannot prove it. Most of the other people concerned are either dead or abroad, or senile.”

She took a breath and hurried on again. “No one has asked him for money either, or anything else, but he has had a second letter, and it is very threatening. Such a charge would ruin him and Lady Augusta, whom I don’t care about, but Brandy too. He is trying to find anyone from the campaign who can help, but he hasn’t succeeded so far. What can we do, Thomas? This is dreadful!”

He remained silent for several moments.

“Thomas …”

“What?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about General Balantyne earlier. I wanted to see if I could find something and prove his innocence of the accusation.”

“You also didn’t want me to know because it would make me suspect him of killing Albert Cole, because the snuffbox was his,” he said levelly. “Did he give it to Cole?”

“No … he gave it to the blackmailer. He was asked for it, as a pledge, and it was collected by a boy on a bicycle.” She waited for what he would say next. How angry would he be about that? She really should have told him.

He regarded her steadily.

She felt the color hot in her face. But if she were in the same position over again, she would do the same thing. She had no doubt whatever that Balantyne was innocent. He needed defending. And Augusta would certainly not do it.

Pitt smiled with a curious little twist. He knew her rather too well for comfort at times.

“Your apology is accepted, even if it is not entirely believed,” he said gently. “I suggest for your leisure-time reading you try Don Quixote?’

She winced now, and lowered her eyes. “Are you ready for supper?”

“Yes.” He sat down at the table and waited for her to lay plates for them, put away the rest of the plates, finish preparing the meal and then serve it.

Vespasia did not know about Sigmund Tannifer, but what she did know was enough to cause her such grave concern that she used the telephone, an instrument which she found quite marvelous, to ask her friend Theloneus Quade if she might call upon him that evening.

He responded by offering to call upon her instead. She was tired enough to accept with gratitude. Had the offer come from anyone else she might have declined, even with asperity. She refused to concede any more to age than was forced upon her, and most certainly not in front of others. But Theloneus was different. She had come to realize that his love for her had transcended his initial fascination with the beauty she had possessed even into her sixties, and the core of which was still with her. Now it was a love for the person she was and the experiences they had shared over a lifetime through a tumultuous century. It had begun, for her at least, when the Emperor Napoleon had threatened the very existence of Britain. She remembered Waterloo. Queen Victoria had been a child then, and relatively unknown.

Now she, too, was an old woman, who wore black and was empress of a quarter of the world. Steamships sailed the seas, and the Thames Embankment was illuminated by electric lights.

Theloneus arrived a little before eight. He kissed her on the cheek, and for a moment she smelled the faint perfume of clean skin, laundered cotton, and felt the warmth of him.

Then he stood back. “What is it?” he asked with a frown. “You look extremely worried.”

They were in her sitting room. There was still bright sunlight outside. It would not be dark for nearly two hours, but there was a coolness already in the air, in spite of its golden brilliance.

He sat down, because he knew how it irritated her to have to stare upwards.

“I spent much of the day with Charlotte,” she began. “We called upon Dunraithe White. I am afraid you were correct in your fears for him. He confided in me the source of his anxiety. It is worse than you thought.”

He leaned forward, his thin, gentle face creased with worry.

“You feared premature senility, or even madness, didn’t you?” she asked.

He nodded. “At worst, yes, I did. What could he have told you that you find even more serious?”

“That he is being blackmailed ….”

“Dunraithe White!” He was aghast. “I find that almost impossible to believe. I never knew a more predictably righteous man in my life. Or a more transparently honest one. What on earth can he have done for which anyone could blackmail him, let alone which he would pay to keep secret?” His face was creased in lines of pity and concern, but underlying it all was still incredulity.

Vespasia understood. Only his love for Marguerite made Dunraithe White vulnerable, and that was what was so frightening. The blackmailer must be close enough to him to have known that, otherwise he would not have wasted his time with the attempt.

Theloneus was waiting for her to explain, watching her.

“He is not guilty of anything,” she said softly, “except the desire to protect Marguerite from the whisper of unkindness, true or untrue.” Then she told him of the accusation and Dunraithe’s response.

Theloneus sat for some time without answering.

The black-and-white dog lay asleep in the sun, snoring gently and occasionally giving a little whimper as she dreamed.

“I see,” Theloneus said at last. “You are right; it is far worse than I thought.”

“He will not refuse the man, whatever he demands,” she said gravely. “I tried the arguments of reason. I told him that he has nothing whatever of which to be ashamed now, and Marguerite will understand that. But if he does something because this man forces him to, something he would not do of his own will, then he will have, and she will know that too.”

“Did he not perceive it for himself?” He leaned forward a little.

“T think he is too frightened for her to look beyond tomorrow,” she answered. “Sometimes fear can be like that … paralyzing the will or the ability to see what is too horrible.”

“Is she really so delicate, Vespasia?” He looked uncomfortable, unwilling to appear harsh, and yet he needed to ask.

She considered hard before she answered him, thinking of all she knew of Marguerite White over the years, piecing together memories, wondering how she had interpreted them then, and how with hindsight they might be different now.

“Perhaps not,” she said at length, speaking slowly. “Certainly she does not have good health, that has always been true. How ill she is would be difficult to say. She is in her mid-forties at least, perhaps a trifle more, so the delicacy that was feared in her youth must have been overestimated. She was told that she could not bear children, that to do so would certainly jeopardize her life.”

He was watching her closely, listening.

She wished to be fair, but memory crowded in, and doubt. She was glad she was speaking to Theloneus, whom she loved, and would not have him think ill of her, but also whom she trusted well enough that she dared allow him to see in her what was vulnerable, and perhaps frightened, or weak, or less than beautiful. He would judge with the eyes of a friend.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“She is also used to thinking of herself as the one to be protected,” she went on. “The one who must never be distressed or asked too much of. Dunraithe has spoiled her … with the very best intention. Perhaps he was sometimes too careful to be wise. She might have become stronger, at least in spirit, had she faced reality more often. Most of us will run away if there is someone who will protect us, face all the unpleasantness for us, and count it a privilege to do so.”

“Could she face this?” he asked, his eyes wide and intent, unwavering from hers.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I have been asking myself that, considering all the avenues one might take, even to precipitating some crisis to draw out this blackguard. I can hardly bear to think what will happen if he asks Dunraithe to do something which would be an abuse of his office ….”

Theloneus put his hand over hers, very gently, touching rather than holding. She noticed with surprise how thin it was, how visible the veins. His face had changed so much less; the curve of the nose was the same, the steady eyes, the sensitive mouth. It was so natural to protect someone you loved, someone you saw as vulnerable and to whom you felt a burning loyalty, someone without whom you would have no happiness, no laughter, no sharing, perhaps above all someone who loved you.

“The answer is that whether Marguerite would survive it or not, my dear,” she said with absolute conviction, “Dunraithe will never be sure enough of it to take that risk. We must assume that if some demand comes, he will accede to it.”

He sat back. “Then I shall have to watch all his decisions with the greatest care, a thing I do not wish at all. I do not ask what this person accuses him of, but I think perhaps I need to know whether it is an offense in law which may affect his position.”

“No, it is purely a moral one,” she replied with a twisted smile. “If this were to be an offense in law our prisons would be full and the Houses of Parliament empty.”

“Oh!” His answering smile was instant. “I see … of that nature. I should find it difficult to believe of Dunraithe, but I can see how difficult that might be for Marguerite, even if the better part of her knew it was untrue. Sometimes laughter is the cruelest judgment.”

She must tell him the rest. “That is not all … it is not even the worst of it, Theloneus.”

Something in her voice, an edge of fear, caught him with a sudden sharpness, it was so unlike Vespasia to be afraid of anything. She was far more likely to respond to evil with anger.

“What is it?”

“Dunraithe White is not the only one. John Cornwallis and Brandon Balantyne are being blackmailed also, almost certainly by the same person … or people.”

“Brandon Balantyne?” His eyes widened in amazement. “John Cornwallis? I find that … almost impossible to credit. And you said ’people’? Do you imagine more than one?”

She sighed. Suddenly she was weary with the effort of the ugliness she could imagine. “Perhaps. Nothing has been asked for yet. Dunraithe is not a wealthy man, but he has great power, great influence. He is a judge. To corrupt a judge is very wicked. It strikes at the root of the only barrier between the people and injustice, the loss of trust in society to protect its members, in the end against chaos and the rule of the jungle.”

She saw his agreement in his face. He did not interrupt.

“And John Cornwallis similarly,” she went on. “He is not wealthy, but as assistant commissioner of police he, too, has great power. If the police are corrupted then what protection has anyone against violence or stealth? Order begins to fail, and men take the law into their own hands because they trust no other. The one I do not yet understand is Brandon Balantyne.” She saw the lack of comprehension in his face.

“Did he tell you that he is being blackmailed?” he asked quickly.

“No. Charlotte did. She is most concerned about it. She is very fond of him. And that is an entirely different problem.”

He did not understand that either; she saw it plainly in his eyes.

“No,” she said with the ghost of a smile. “That is not what I mean at all,” she answered the question he was only thinking. “But she has little perception that he may be fonder of her than either of them realizes.” She moved her other hand slightly, dismissing the idea for the moment. “But I am deeply afraid, Theloneus. What does this blackmailer want? If he exercises his power with sufficient skill, the damage he may do is incalculable. Who else may be affected?”

He was very pale. “I don’t know, my dear. But I think we must face the possibility that there are more, and that we may not be able to find them, or even to guess who they are. Vespasia, this may be very serious indeed. Far more than the reputation of any one person may rest on it, important as that is. Is it possible that Brandon Balantyne may be persuaded to stand out against the pressure?”

“Perhaps.” She thought of all she knew of Balantyne, the fleeting memories, his face as a young man, the grief that had come to him since. “The accusation against him is cowardice in the face of the enemy ….”

Theloneus winced. He was not a military man, but he knew enough of war and honor to grasp at least something of what such a thing meant.

“He has already been hurt so much …” she said quietly. “But perhaps with having endured that, he can face public ignominy again with more courage than others. I pray that it will not be necessary.”

“And Cornwallis?” he asked.

“Taking credit for another man’s act of courage at sea,” she replied. “In each case the charge is the most painful that particular man could face. We are dealing with someone who knows his victims well and can hurt with a unique skill.”

“Indeed,” he said grimly. “We shall need as much skill if we are to beat him, and I think a great deal of luck as well.”

“A great deal,” she agreed. “Perhaps we should not go into battle on an empty stomach. Would you care for a little late supper? I believe Cook has asparagus, brown bread and butter, and I expect there is champagne.”

“Knowing you, my dear, I am quite sure there is,” he accepted.

Cornwallis paced along the pavement outside the Royal Academy of Art. He was suffering a kind of pain he had never experienced before. He was long familiar with loneliness, the physical discomfort of coldness, exhaustion, miserable food, stale sea biscuit and salt bacon, brackish water. He had been seasick, feverish, injured. He had certainly been frightened, ashamed, torn with pity he did not know how to bear.

Only since he had met Isadora Underhill, the wife of Bishop Underhill, had he understood what it was to think of a woman with a pleasure and a pain which were inextricably bound together, to long to be in her company, and to be so terrified of hurting or disappointing her that the thought of it made him sick.

Nothing in the world was as sweet as the thought that she also cared for him. In what way he had not dared to contemplate. It was sufficient that she thought well of him, that she believed him to be a man of honor and compassion, of courage and that inner integrity which no outside circumstance can tarnish or bend.

The last time they had met, she had mentioned that she would attend the exhibition of paintings by Tissot at the Royal Academy. If he did not go, she would believe he did not wish to see her. Their relationship was far too delicate for him to offer any explanation, as if she had expected him. And yet if he did go, and they were to meet, and they would, and fall into conversation, as they must, would she see the fear in him caused by the letter? She was so perceptive; in some ways she understood emotions in him no one else had even guessed at. If he could agonize as he was doing, and she were to walk and talk with him, and be unaware of it, then what was their affection worth?

And yet if she did see it, how could he explain it?

Even as he was saying this to himself, he was mounting the steps and going in. The room of the exhibition was posted. He walked past the grave, delicate beauty of a Fra Angelico Madonna, which normally would have stirred a unique joy in him. Today he barely noticed it. He would not go to the room with the Turners. Their passion would overwhelm him.

Without realizing it he was already at the exhibition of Tissot. There was Isadora. He could always see her at a glance, her dark head held at just such an angle. Her hat had a sweeping brim, very plain. She was alone, regarding the paintings as if she took great pleasure in them. They were not really her taste, he knew that, too stylized. She preferred landscape, vision and dream.

He walked across to her as if drawn by a power beyond him to resist.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Underhill,” he said quietly.

She smiled at him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Cornwallis. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. And you, Mrs. Underhill?” He wanted to say how lovely she looked, but that would have been far too familiar. There was a perfect grace in her bearing, a beauty in her far deeper and more pleasing to the mind than simple perfection of line or coloring. It was in the expression of her eyes and her lips. He wished he could tell her that. “A fine exhibition,” he said instead.

“Indeed,” she answered without enthusiasm, a very slight smile touching her lips. “But I prefer the watercolors in the next room.”

“I too,” he agreed immediately. “Shall we look at them instead?”

“I should like that,” she accepted, taking his arm and walking beside him past a small group of gentlemen admiring a portrait of a young woman in a striped gown.

In the room beyond they were almost alone. As one, they stopped in front of a small seascape. “He has caught the effect of light on water very well, don’t you think?” he said with fierce admiration.

“I do,” she agreed, turning to glance at him momentarily. “The touch of green is exactly right. It makes it look so cold and translucent. It is difficult to make water look liquid.” There was concern in her eyes, as if she saw in his face the marks of sleeplessness, fear, the mistrust which was beginning to creep into every waking thought, and last night, even into his dreams.

What would she think if she knew? Would she believe that he was innocent? Would she understand why he was afraid? Might she even be afraid herself, in case others believed it and she would want to distance herself from the shame of it, the embarrassment of having to say she did not believe it, explain why, see the looks of polite amusement and wonder … and then afterwards be abashed?

“Mr. Cornwallis?” There was a lift of concern in her voice.

“Yes!” he said too quickly. He felt a slight warmth in his cheeks. “I’m sorry, my thoughts were wandering. Shall we move to the next picture? I always find pastoral scenes most agreeable.” How stilted he sounded, as if they were strangers forcing a meaningless conversation, and how cold. Agreeable. What a lukewarm word to use for beauty of such deep and abiding peace. He looked at the black-and-white cows grazing in dappled sunlight and the rolling countryside glimpsed through summer trees. It was land he loved with a passion. Why could he not say so to her?

What is love without trust, forgiveness, patience, and gentleness? Mere hunger and need, joy in another’s company, shared pleasures, even laughter and perceptions, are merely the things of good acquaintance. To be more than that must be giving as well as taking, cost as well as gain.

“You look a little concerned, Mr. Cornwallis,” she said gently. “Have you a troublesome case?”

He made a decision. “Yes, but I intend to leave it behind for half an hour.” He forced himself to smile and linked his arm through hers, something he had never done before. “I shall look at this perfect loveliness which nothing shall fade or destroy, and it will be doubled from now because I shall share it with you. The rest of the world can wait. I shall return to it soon enough.”

She smiled back at him, as if she had understood far more than he had said. “How very wise of you. I shall do exactly the same.” And she walked close to his side, keeping her arm through his.