Belgrave Square

5

CHARLOTTE SAT at the dinner table at the Hotel Metropole opposite Emily and felt an immense satisfaction. Tonight was going to be marvelous. She had on her very best gown, a gift from Emily and Jack for her help over the last two weeks, and she was quite sure she looked splendid. She had paraded before the mirror enchanted by the grand lady she saw reflected in it, a magical change from the woman she ordinarily saw. This creature was perfectly corsetted to the ultimate shape, her shoulders were creamy white above the Venetian red of the satin fabric, cut in a style up to the very minute, with the new, slender skirt, and hardly any bustle. It was so new it was almost ahead of the mode. Her hair was piled up in a shining crown, and her face was radiant with the contemplation of the evening. They were dining in the most elegant of places, then going to the opera, to Lohengrin, no less, the greatest draw of the season. Personally she would have preferred something Italian, but this was the “in” thing this year, and who would quarrel with that on such a night? After all, it was still part of Jack’s campaign, and as such a duty.

Emily was dressed in her favorite delicate water green. She was feeling a great deal better and looked as lovely as an early flower with her fair hair and alabaster skin. Certainly she could have done with a trifle more color, but an attempt to lend it artificially had looked so awful they had both laughed heartily, and Emily had scrubbed it off. The Ashworth diamonds at her ears and around her neck would lend all the sparkle her uncertain health might lack, and she was determined to enjoy herself.

Jack sat next to her, looking at her every few minutes in concern. But far more extraordinary than that, Pitt was present, dressed after considerable argument, and a mighty victory for Charlotte, in a borrowed dinner suit which really fitted remarkably well. Charlotte thought privately this was due to some clever and exceedingly tactful planning on Jack’s part. Pitt was sitting a trifle uncomfortably, now and again running his hand around inside his collar, and stretching his arms as if his cuffs were riding up, but he was smiling, and even when no one was looking at him, still appeared remarkably pleased with himself.

That might have been due at least in part to another occupant of the table-not Lord Anstiss, sitting playing with his fork and a mouthful of smoked salmon, his concentration on his plate, his face wreathed in mild anticipation, but Great-Aunt Vespasia, her hair pale silver, wound on her head like a coronet, the light shining through it, her eyes bright with humor, a tiny smile on her lips as she looked at Charlotte, then at Pitt. In fact as she watched Pitt ease his shoulders again in his jacket her smile widened and the affection in it was plain, as most definitely was the amusement.

The waiters came and served the next course, and Lord Anstiss resumed his extraordinary tale of courtly romance about Edward Heneage Dering who in 1859 had fallen in love with Rebecca Dulcibella Orpen.

He had gone to her aunt, Lady Chatterton, a woman quite naturally old enough to be his mother, and somehow so mishandled his request for Rebecca’s hand that the aunt had assumed the offer intended for herself, and accepted it forthwith. He had been too much the gentleman to disabuse her of her illusion.

“In 1865 all three were received into the Catholic church,” he went on with a wry smile. “And two years after that Rebecca Orpen married a friend of Dering’s named Marmion Edward Ferrars, also a Catholic.”

Charlotte was fascinated. Had she known him better she would have challenged the truth of this odd story, as it was she had to content herself with a hasty glance at Aunt Vespasia, who nodded imperceptibly.

Anstiss saw the look, but his face registered only amusement.

“Indeed,” he said with relish, “they all four settled in Ferrars’s home at Baddesley Clinton, a marvelously isolated house in Warwickshire, with a moat.”

Pitt coughed but Anstiss took no exception to it as a comment. In fact their incredulity seemed to be precisely the reaction he desired. He looked to Vespasia for confirmation, which she readily gave.

“Ferrars had no money to speak of.” Anstiss picked delicately at his food. “And Dering had a great deal, so he paid off the mortgage, restored the local church and they all four settled down together to devote their lives to good works-and philosophy and sitting reading Tennyson together in the evenings. Dering wrote bad novels; Ferrars, who believed, quite correctly, that he resembled Charles I, dressed and cut his beard accordingly; Rebecca painted rather good water-color portraits of them all.

“Lady Chatterton-she still called herself that-died in ’seventy-six. Marmion Ferrars died in ’eighty-four, and the year after Dering at last married Rebecca, where they still live-one presumes happily ever after.”

“Absolutely marvelous,” Emily said with delight. “And you swear it is true.”

“In every particular,” he said, meeting her eyes with unfeigned amusement. “There have been a great many people devoted to the romantic ideal, artists, poets, painters and dreamers. We are only now being taken over by the aesthete movement, which I suppose is a natural progression from extreme innocence to ostentatious ’experience.’”

They continued speaking until the waiter brought the final course, then a trifle more hastily than would ordinarily have been the case, and still smiling, they repaired to their respective carriages and set out for Covent Garden and the opera.

“Of course all the world and his wife will be there,” Emily warned as they sat almost stationary, moving forward barely a step or two at a time in the press of traffic. “It is necessary to come this early if one hopes to arrive at a civilized time and not inconvenience everyone and make a spectacle of oneself by taking one’s seat after the music has begun. And of course that is hopelessly vulgar, because it is the cheapest way of making everyone look at you.” She settled a little more comfortably. “Never mind. It is an excellent opportunity to catch up on events. I have not seen you for simply ages, Thomas.” She smiled with vivid humor which she did not bother to suppress. “You hardly look like yourself. It is most difficult to tell how you are.”

“I am sitting very carefully so as not to rumple my shirt, crease my jacket or lose my cuffs up my arms,” he replied with a grin. “But I am greatly obliged-and looking forward to the evening.”

“And are you pursuing some interesting case?” she went on. “I gather not, because Charlotte has said nothing about it. I doubt even Lord Anstiss’s tales could hold her interest against a really good case-or mine either.”

“The murder of a usurer,” he replied with a wry expression. “And I don’t yet know whether it is going to be ‘good’ or not.”

“A usurer?” Her voice reflected her disappointment. The carriage moved another twenty yards forward and stopped again. Somewhere ahead of them a footman shouted angrily, but it made no difference; they stayed precisely where they were. “That does not sound very promising.”

“I know they provide a service of sorts.” Jack pulled a face. “But I loathe them-most of them bleed their clients dry. I’m sorry, but I have some sympathy with whoever killed him.”

“He was also a blackmailer,” Pitt added.

“A lot of sympathy,” Jack amended.

“I too,” Pitt confessed. “But he blackmailed some interesting people-or it appears from his books that he did.”

“Oh?” Emily sat up a little straighter, her attention sparked. “Such as whom?”

Pitt looked at her without apology. “That is presently confidential, and the matter is one of indiscretion in one case, and poor judgment of character in another, which led to a tragedy, but there is no crime involved in either. There are others I have yet to investigate.”

Emily was quick and subtle to read his face in the light from the neighboring carriage lamps.

“And you are hating it. Are they people you admire?”

He shrugged ruefully. He had forgotten how very astute she was, not quite as brave as Charlotte or as passionate, but a better judge of others, and a far better actress when it came to presenting exactly the right expression and gesture to govern a situation. Emily was supremely practical.

“People I know,” he replied. “It will feel like a kind of betrayal, and I do not want to know their weaknesses, even if they turn out to be innocent of murder.”

Emily flashed him a quick smile of understanding.

“Of course not.”

Pitt fidgeted with his collar yet again. “Since I have nothing to contribute, let us speak of your affairs. Tell me something of Lord Anstiss. I hear he is a great patron of the arts and a political and social benefactor. He is certainly very entertaining. Is there no Lady Anstiss?”

“She died many years ago,” Emily answered. Then she leaned forward confidentially. “I believe it was very tragic.”

At that moment their carriage moved several steps forward, stopped abruptly, rocking a little on its springs, then went another fifty yards before stopping again.

“Oh?” Pitt did not attempt to keep the interest out of his voice.

It was all the invitation Emily required.

“She died by accident. It was dreadful; she went out onto her balcony at night, and slipped over the edge. She must have been leaning out, although one cannot imagine for what reason.” She shivered a little at the thought. “There was speculation that she might have had a good deal too much wine at dinner. It is not easy to fall over the edge of a balcony if one is stone cold sober.”

“What was she like?” Pitt asked, screwing up his face. “What kind of woman?”

“Beautiful,” Emily answered without hesitation. “The most beautiful woman in London, so they said, perhaps in England.”

“Her nature?” Pitt pressed. “Was she spoiled? Many great beauties are.”

Charlotte hid her smile, but did not interrupt.

The carriage jerked and moved forward yet again.

“Really the traffic is getting so bad,” Jack said sharply. “I wonder if it can go on like this much longer, or we shall all be reduced to walking!”

“People have been saying that for years,” Emily replied soothingly. “But we still manage.” She turned back to Pitt. “I suppose she may well have been spoiled, but I haven’t heard it. No, that’s not true: Lord Anstiss himself did say something that was not quite that, but one has to make allowances for his own emotions, and his grief. He did say all manner of people loved her and she had a charm that made everyone her slave. I think it was his own way of admitting that no one ever denied her anything, which is the same as being spoiled, isn’t it?”

“It sounds like it,” Pitt agreed.

“Except Great-Aunt Vespasia,” Emily went on. “She said she only met her a few times, but she liked her, and Aunt Vespasia loathes spoiled people.” She grinned broadly. “And from a woman who was one of the greatest beauties herself, and ruled London society with a glance of steel in her day, it is an opinion that merits much respect.”

The carriage moved forward again, this time considerably, and Jack leaned out of the window.

“I think we are nearly there,” he said with satisfaction.

And indeed within a few minutes they were alighting. Emily on Jack’s arm, Charlotte on Pitt’s, they mounted the steps and went into the foyer, which was glittering with lights, swirling with satins, laces and velvets, and patched and dotted with the slender black of men’s dress jackets and white gleam of shirt fronts, the blaze of jewels at throats and ears and in hair. Everywhere the babble of sound rose and mounted in pitch.

Charlotte felt a thrill of excitement. She gazed around at the beautifully decorated walls, the sweeping stairs, the chandeliers; in fact she leaned so far backwards staring up that it was well she was on Pitt’s arm or she might have overbalanced. It was all so vivid, so pulsing with life and anticipation. Everyone was talking, moving; the air was filled with the rustle of skirts and chatter of voices.

She leaned closer to Pitt and squeezed his arm, and he tightened his hold. There was no need for words, and for once she could think of none that would fill the occasion.

As they were moving up the stairs towards their box she glanced down and saw quite clearly Lord Byam’s dark head. It was quite distinctive in its smooth, handsome shape, and in the sprinkling of silver at the temples. He carried it at an angle not quite like anyone else, and when he glanced around to acknowledge an acquaintance she saw his marvelous eyes. Next to him Eleanor Byam was elegant, but without the remarkable individuality he possessed. She seemed somehow more subdued and not quite as effortlessly graceful. Neither of them looked up, nor in all likelihood would they have remembered her if they had.

At the top of the stairs she turned for one last look down at the foyer and saw a man’s head. He had thick hair, too long, like Pitt’s, but as richly toned as dying leaves, and she wondered if it were the odd young man who at Emily’s ball had seemed so obsessed with the injustices he saw, or thought he saw, in international finance.

Upstairs they had no difficulty in getting to Emily’s box. She had kept it ever since her marriage to George Ashworth, and still retained it now both for necessary entertainments, such as this, and for pleasure, because she genuinely liked the music as well as the occasion.

Vespasia and Lord Anstiss were there ahead of them. Anstiss rose as they came in and held Emily’s chair for her to seat herself at the front where she could see most easily. Charlotte was offered the chair in the center with Aunt Vespasia to her right. As soon as the gentlemen were seated also, Vespasia handed Charlotte her opera glasses to indulge in the beginning of the evening’s entertainment, which was to gaze at the occupants of the other boxes, observe who they were, who they were with, how they looked, what they wore, and above all who called upon them and how they deported themselves.

It was several minutes before she recognized anyone she knew. This was not to be wondered at since she had very seldom been to the opera before. It had not been an occasion her mother had considered likely to produce results in attracting a suitor fitting its expense. However, Pitt had taken her once or twice as a great treat to see Gilbert and Sullivan at the Savoy Theatre, but that was not quite the same.

“Who have you seen?” Vespasia said softly.

“Mr. Fitzherbert and Miss Morden,” Charlotte replied in a whisper. “He really is extraordinarily handsome.”

“Indeed,” Vespasia said dryly. “A deal too much so. And what of Miss Morden?”

“She looks very well too,” Charlotte said with less pleasure. “And I think she is aware of it, from the way she is sitting with her face in the light and a satisfied smile on it.”

“Do you think so?”

“That is the way I sit when I think I am at my best,” Charlotte admitted with candor. “I dislike women as ostentatiously pleased with themselves as she seems. She has the world on a string, and she contemplates it with some satisfaction.”

“Perhaps,” Vespasia agreed dubiously. “But not everyone who wears a brave face feels as certain underneath. I am surprised that you do not know that. Many a gay laugh hides loneliness or fear of all manner of things. A wild night does not mean a happy morrow.” Her voice softened. “I think perhaps, my dear, it is you, with Thomas to love you, who has grown a trifle complacent.”

Charlotte sat rigid, keeping the glasses to her eyes to hide her face, and hoped no one else saw the slow, hot color burn up her cheeks. Suddenly and quite overwhelmingly she knew Vespasia was right. She had grown very used to happiness, very certain of the things that mattered most. Involuntarily she turned around and looked at Pitt watching Jack and Lord Anstiss talking to each other. He smiled at her and pulled a face.

She turned back, crowded with emotion, and stared across at the box where Herbert Fitzherbert was looking down at the stage, and half behind him, Odelia Morden was smiling vacantly into the air, her thoughts obviously miles from the glittering crowd and the rising buzz of excitement.

Charlotte moved the glasses further around the arc of the balcony and saw Micah Drummond, his eyes on the vast, closed curtain, and three boxes beyond him Eleanor Byam, sitting forward, her hands on the velvet-padded edge of the box, fingers gripping tightly. For a moment she seemed to be looking at Drummond, then she saw someone she knew and raised her hand in a small, rather stiff salute. Beside her Lord Byam’s face was in the shadows and his expression hidden.

There was a sudden hush, the house lights dimmed and a spotlight blossomed on the stage. The prima donna appeared in front of the curtain, and the orchestra, which had been tuning their instruments under the hum of conversation, began to play the national anthem. At one stroke the chatter died. The prima donna’s glorious voice broke into the words, “God save our gracious Queen,” and as a single person every man and woman stood.

The evening had commenced.

The curtain rose on a magnificent scene, brilliantly lit, static, and the slow, magical story unfolded.

Charlotte found it strangely cold. The music was huge, full of great chords, grand passages, and sweeping gestures, but it had none of the personal passion she had expected from her small knowledge of the Italian operas, and she found her attention wandering. She borrowed Vespasia’s glasses again, and when she hoped no one would notice, she swung them around to watch the occupants of the other boxes.

The slow drama played itself out on the stage in a glory of sound and lights, and in the dim, plush-lined balconies other comedies and tragedies took place of which Charlotte saw snatches and was fascinated. An elderly general, gorgeous in stars and medals, snoozed gently, his white mustache fluttering as he breathed, while his wife smiled and nodded imperceptibly at a young lieutenant in a box opposite. Two women, sisters from their likeness to each other, giggled behind their fans and flirted with a portly middle-aged gentleman who admired them extravagantly. Two duchesses sat together, diamonds blazing, and gossiped about everyone in sight. They could have had no idea whether the work on the stage was Lohengrin or The Mikado.

In the first interval the lights went up and they all arose to take whatever respite they most wished. Jack and Anstiss excused themselves and retired to the smoking room, naturally peopled only by men, where they could discuss politics. Emily granted her permission graciously only because she knew that this was the principal purpose of the whole evening. The visit to the opera was merely a civilized way of achieving it.

Pitt, a trifle self-consciously, escorted Aunt Vespasia, Emily and Charlotte to the foyer, where he bought them refreshments of cool lemonade in tall glasses, and they swapped greetings, gossip, and trivial conversation with passersby. It was a glorious, gay, noisy, brilliant throng of people, swishing skirts, clinking glasses, blazing jewelry and eager faces. Charlotte found it immensely exciting and could hardly keep her eyes on one person more than a moment or two, because there were so many things to see.

However she did observe Herbert Fitzherbert, so close he almost bumped her elbow, although quite unaware of her. He was speaking to Odelia Morden, their heads together, laughing at some small, private joke, or perhaps no joke at all, simply that they were happy and felt themselves in love.

Suddenly Odelia gave a little start and turned sharply to see a young man accidentally step on the edge of her gown, and blush in embarrassment.

“Oh-I am sorry, ma’am!” he exclaimed in confusion. “I do beg your pardon!”

Odelia stared at him in horror, still uncertain how damaged her gown might be, and not at all sure if the stitches might have been ripped at the waist, leaving her in danger of becoming something of a spectacle should it tear any further.

The young man colored furiously. “I-I am most profoundly sorry, ma’am! If there is any way…” He tailed off, becoming aware there was nothing whatever he could do and all his protestations were quite pointless.

His companion, a remarkably pretty girl with a mass of soft, honey-brown hair in natural curls and a peculiarly vivid face, looked more practically at the damage, then smiled at Odelia.

“It is only two or three stitches at the hem,” she reassured. “It will cause you no embarrassment, and I am sure your maid will be able to repair it. But we do apologize. My brother was bumped against by a gentleman a little too happy for the occasion, and I am afraid he lost his balance.” Her smile was bright and friendly, but there was nothing abashed in it, nor was she going to accept blame for what was not her fault.

Charlotte resisted the pressure to move with the crowd and stayed behind the potted palm where she could both hear and see unobserved. Pitt and Aunt Vespasia carried on.

Odelia breathed out, still uncertain how to react, whether to accept the situation with a gracious wave of her hand, dismissing the whole matter, or whether to remain injured and keep in them a sense of discomfort. She glanced at Fitz.

Fitzherbert looked at the girl, at her bright, frank face, and bowed.

“Herbert Fitzherbert, ma’am.” He turned to Odelia. “And may I present Miss Odelia Morden.” He touched her arm proprietorially. “We are delighted to make your acquaintance, and a small piece of fabric is a trivial price to pay. Please think no more of it.”

The girl smiled and dropped a tiny curtsey.

“Theophania Hilliard, but if you should ever think of me by name, I should greatly prefer it to be Fanny, which is what my friends call me. And this is my brother, James.”

“Fanny!” James said quickly. “We have already intruded more than enough on Mr. Fitzherbert and Miss Morden! They are very unlikely to wish to know us any better, in case we ruin their entire wardrobe!”

“You don’t make a habit of it, do you?” Fitz asked with humor. “If you do, I have several acquaintances I should like you to meet. I think it could be most entertaining…”

Charlotte moved even closer to the palm and tucked her skirts out of the way.

A flash of irritation crossed Odelia’s face. She looked at Fanny. “He is joking,” she said a little stiffly. “I am afraid his sense of humor is not of the most readily understood. I am sure you do not customarily stand…” She tailed off, realizing that she had put herself in a position where to continue would be unnecessarily discourteous.

Fanny smiled at her very briefly, then her eyes moved back to Fitz.

“There is no need to explain,” she said gaily. “I understand perfectly. Such exchanges are like bubbles, very pretty, and fly only if you do not touch them.”

“Perfect!” Fitz said with obvious pleasure. “You have a gift for the exact expression, Miss Hilliard. Tell me, are you enjoying the opera?”

“If you mean the music,” she replied, wrinkling her nose, “not a great deal. There is nothing in it I shall remember, and certainly nothing I shall hum in the street. But the spectacle is wonderful. And the story is certainly romantic enough. It starts all sorts of dreams in my head, and makes me want to go and read the great poems about heroes, like El Cid, and Roland and Charlemagne and the battle at Roncesvalles, and of course King Arthur.” Her eyes were brilliant and she closed them for a moment as if the knights in splendor were riding across her vision as she spoke.

“How charming,” Odelia said dryly. “How delightful to be so… young… and have such a touching imagination.”

Fanny opened her eyes wide. “I suppose it passes as one gets older?” Then as Odelia’s face went white she realized just what an unfortunate thing she had said, blushed deep pink and burst into giggles, putting her hand to her mouth. “Oh I’m so sorry! I’m just as bad tripping over my tongue as James was over your dress. I thought you meant I was being a little naive-and I don’t suppose you meant that at all.”

Charlotte drew in her breath, but did not move.

Odelia was perfectly caught.

“Of course not,” she lied quickly. “It is an excellent quality.” She could think of nothing else to add and fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Fitz was biting his lip with ill-hidden pleasure in the sheer humor of the situation.

“We perhaps should get tripped over less if we were less often in the way?” he said lightly. “But I hope we are in your way again some time soon, Miss Hilliard. In fact I shall engage to make sure we are. I trust you will enjoy the remainder of the evening.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzherbert,” she said with bright eyes. “If everyone else is as charming as you are, I am sure we shall. Good evening, Miss Morden. It was a great pleasure to meet you.”

“Delighted,” James said, still uncomfortable and avoiding Odelia’s glance. Then taking his sister’s arm he almost pushed her away and they were lost in the crowd.

“Really!” Odelia said between her teeth. “The clumsy oaf! He has torn my gown, you know! And she is as awkward with her tongue as he is with his feet. She will be a disaster in society. She is far too brash.”

“I thought she commanded the situation very well,” he said without a trace of ill-humor. “There is a fearful crush in here, and anyone might lose their balance and tread on someone else without meaning to, or being able to help it.” He looked at her wryly. “Anyway, you can never predict what society will do. It takes a fancy to some of the oddest people-far odder than she is.”

“You have too little discrimination, Fitz,” she said proprietorially, linking her arm in his and moving a little closer to him. “You will have to learn to distinguish between the people one should know socially and those one should simply be civil to because one does not wish to be seen being less than civil.”

“It sounds like a bore to me,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t think I care to have my acquaintances dictated by such criteria.”

Odelia’s answer to that was lost as they moved away, and Charlotte was left wishing Fitz were not Jack’s rival for the nomination, because she found him most agreeable. On the other hand, Odelia Morden did not appeal to her nearly so much. She hoped that Emily would be more than a match for her, but she was not at all sure; Miss Morden had a touch of steel under that complacent, pretty face.

During the second act Charlotte again found her attention wandering, and with Vespasia’s glasses she was able to see very clearly at least those who sat forward in the boxes where the light caught their faces.

She was examining, as discreetly as she could, the people sitting in the tier above hers, and on the far side, when she saw the curtains at the back of one of the boxes open and the distinctive figure of Micah Drummond come in. She remembered him with personal gratitude for the understanding he had displayed towards her at the dreadful culmination of the murders on Westminster Bridge, when it would have been natural for him to have been furious with her. Instead he had been so gentle she felt her own faults without the instinctive defense which an angrier, less sensitive man would certainly have produced in her. But she had hurt so deeply, and felt so overwhelmingly frightened and guilty.

Now she moved the little wheel on the glasses to focus them more clearly, and looked at the tense, self-conscious expression on his face as he spoke to the occupants of the box. All she could see of them was the back of the woman’s head, her beautiful black hair wound in the currently fashionable Greek style, and laced with pearls. Her shoulders were very white and she sat upright. Micah Drummond bowed to her and raised her hand to his lips. He did it so gently it seemed to Charlotte to be more than just the usual formality but rather a gesture that was meant for itself. It gave her a little shiver of empathy with the woman, whoever she was, as if she too had sat in that dark box and felt his lips brush her skin.

The man in the box moved forward a step and his face was no longer in complete shadow, but in a half-barred light so at least his profile was visible. Charlotte knew him: the straight, jutting nose, a little short, was familiar, and the clean angle of his head, hair perfectly straight and smooth. But she could not think who he was.

Drummond turned to the man, his brows furrowing with anxiety, and began to speak. It was listened to earnestly, the man leaning a little towards him.

Charlotte moved on and saw Odelia Morden and Fitz sitting close together, his face toward the stage, hers towards him.

She looked back again at the drama as the music rose to a long sustained climax and there was a rush of applause.

When she turned back at the box where Micah Drummond had been he was no longer there, and the man appeared to be staring towards Charlotte, which made her acutely embarrassed. He seemed so close, as if he would see her as clearly as she saw him. He had no glasses, but hers magnified him alarmingly and she felt caught in a gross act of intrusion. There was a curious expression on his face, beyond her ability to interpret. Only his mouth was in the full light. He looked melancholy, vulnerable, and yet there was a driving intensity in the feeling, nothing passive about it except the openness to hurt, almost an anticipation of pain.

The woman in the box turned towards the stage and leaned over the balcony rail. Now that she was in profile in the light Charlotte could see it was Eleanor Byam, and knew in that same moment that of course the man was Lord Byam. Now that she was aware who it was, the curve of his head was perfectly easily discernible, the hollows of his fine eyes.

He too moved forward a bit and Charlotte realized with a blush of relief, and as if a guilt had been removed, that it was not she he was looking at, but someone beyond her and a trifle to her left. She returned the glasses to Vespasia with a whisper of thanks, and thus was able to look to her left with good excuse. The only person there was Lord Anstiss, and he was watching the singers on the brilliantly lit stage as though oblivious of everything and everyone else, the other members of the audience.

The second interval was less diverting but Charlotte was still full of the exhilaration of the occasion and all the glamour and laughter and swirl of silks. She felt as if she walked on air and she wanted to see and hear and remember it all so she would recall everything years from now when she was back in her own home on the ordinary days that would come so soon, full of comfortable, repetitive chores. And she would have to tell Gracie as much as she could. She would want to know every detail.

Pitt stood with his back against a pillar; this time he had fewer duties of courtesy towards the women. Jack was escorting Emily, Lord Anstiss had offered to fetch refreshment for Vespasia, which she had accepted, and Charlotte was too interested in looking and listening to care about such things.

“Enjoying yourself?” Pitt asked quietly, putting his arm around her shoulders and leaning a little closer so he could be heard above the buzz and clatter.

She looked at him wordlessly; the bubble of happiness inside her was too large to need description, and nothing could do it justice anyway. They stood together watching the people pass by in twos and threes, in groups, and here and there one alone. It was halfway through the apportioned time when she saw the tall, lean figure of one such man, his face intent in thought, apparently not seeing the crowd as individuals but merely as a bright mass, like a field of flowers. After a moment or two Charlotte recognized Peter Valerius, the young man at Emily’s ball who had been so passionate about finances and the rates of interest charged and the restrictions attached where certain businesses were involved in colonial countries, dependent upon the rich nations of Europe, and on Britain in particular. It was a subject in which she had no interest whatever, but his face had such a power of feeling in it she had found herself drawn to him, in spite of her complete lack of intellectual engagement. He seemed to be alone, and she wondered why he was here at such a social event, in so many ways superficial.

A few moments after he passed, going back towards the stairs up to the boxes, she saw Lord and Lady Byam. They were walking close to each other, side by side, but she was not on his arm, and she held herself very erect. He seemed a little abstracted, his mind elsewhere. He turned as something caught the edge of his vision, and saw Pitt, a little taller than the average and outlined against the pink stone of the pillar. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, then puzzlement, a small furrow between his brows as he struggled to place him in his mind.

It was all over in a few moments. Byam passed and his attention was taken by someone else. Pitt smiled with a dark, wry amusement.

“That’s Lord Byam,” Charlotte whispered. “Do you know him?” Pitt’s smile became softer, reflective. He came to some decision within himself. He turned to face her and exclude the party of laughing people behind him.

“Yes. Yes I do. The usurer whose murder I am investigating was blackmailing Byam over Lady Anstiss’s death.”

“What?” she gasped, looking at him in amazement. “Laura Anstiss. But what had he to do with that? It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“No,” he said very quietly. “She fell passionately in love with Byam, who was Anstiss’s closest friend, and when he did not return it, she took her own life. They covered it up to make it look like an accident, to protect her-and of course the family reputation.”

“Oh.” She was stunned. Thoughts whirled around in her mind, passion and tragedy, a beautiful woman lonely, rejected and in despair. She could hardly imagine Anstiss’s grief, his sense of betrayal by a man he had believed his friend. Byam’s guilt. All that was twenty years ago, Vespasia had said. But what did they feel now? What had the years healed? Was that the strange emotion she had seen in Byam’s face as he looked out of the shadows of his box across at Anstiss?

The bell rang for them to return to their seats, and Charlotte took Pitt’s arm and sailed, head high, back up the stairs, jostling with the crowd, the chatter and laughter, the rustle of taffeta and scrape of heels. Fortunately he was looking where they were going, so it was unnecessary for her to.

The last act was the dramatic and musical climax and Charlotte gave it her attention, at least outwardly. Inwardly her mind was still thinking of the sharper, more immediate drama in the faces of Byam and of Fitz, and in the bright eyes of Fanny Hilliard.

After the final curtain, when the applause had died away, they joined the queue to leave, going very slowly down the stairs, pretending indifference to the crush and the waiting. There was no point in pushing their way through; they might so easily become separated, and then their carriage would not be there yet anyway.

It was nearly an hour later that they were sitting at a small, elegant supper table swapping gossip. Anstiss and Jack were talking quietly, sipping champagne, and Emily was telling Pitt all she could remember about Eleanor Byam.

“Did you enjoy the opera?” Vespasia asked Charlotte, looking at her flushed face and smiling.

“Yes,” Charlotte replied more or less honestly. Then she was compelled to add, “But I am not sure that I understood the story, and I don’t think I shall remember any of the music. I shall remember the way it looked, though. It was splendid, wasn’t it!”

“The best I’ve seen, I think,” Vespasia agreed, the smile still hovering about her lips.

Charlotte frowned. “Doesn’t opera ever have songs you can remember, like the music halls?”

Vespasia’s silver eyebrows rose. “My dear girl, I have no idea.”

Charlotte was disappointed. “But you come to the opera often, don’t you?”

Vespasia’s lips quivered. “Certainly. It is the music halls I do not frequent.”

“Ah!” Charlotte was filled with confusion. “I’m sorry.”

Vespasia started to laugh. “I have heard that Vesta Tilley has a song or two that are memorable.” And very quietly, in a sweet contralto, she began a racy, lilting song. She stopped after about eight bars. “I’m sorry I don’t know any more. Isn’t it a shame?”

Charlotte began to laugh as well, and found the hilarity bubbling up inside her till she could not stop.

It was nearly two in the morning and they were all tired, beginning to yawn, the women to become aware of tight shoes and even tighter stays, when Lord and Lady Byam came towards them, passing close by the table in order to leave. Beside Jack, Lord Anstiss was facing towards them and it was unavoidable they should acknowledge each other.

“Good evening.” Byam spoke first, being the one who had entered the circle. His face had a curious expression, his wide eyes were restless. Had it not seemed ridiculous Charlotte would have said he was seeking something, some answering emotion which he did not find, and the lack of it did not surprise him, and yet it still hurt. Or perhaps it was not ridiculous, if what Pitt had said was true and the old tragedy of Laura Anstiss had involved Byam. Anstiss was still alone; he had never remarried. Perhaps under his wit and outward composure the wound was still new. He had loved Laura, and even now no other woman could take her place. It was guilt and hope for forgiveness she had seen in Byam’s eyes, and in Anstiss’s face a continued courtesy, the outward show of a decent man trying to do what he believed was Christian.

Byam had stopped by their table.

Aiistiss leaned back a trifle in his chair and looked up at him. “Good evening, Byam,” he said agreeably, but without warmth. He smiled very slightly. “Good evening, Lady Byam. How pleasant to see you. Did you enjoy the opera?”

She smiled back at him, though with a shadow in her eyes, an uncertainty beneath the social ease which was inbred in years of polite trivia. “It was delightful,” she replied meaninglessly. One did not own to any other feeling, unless one wished to enter into a discussion. “It was most beautifully staged, don’t you think?”

“The best I can recall,” he agreed, equally as a matter of form. His eyes moved to Byam with an unflinching gaze. Had he been a less exquisitely civilized man Charlotte would have thought it almost aggressive.

Byam moved as if to continue his journey towards the door, then glanced back at Anstiss, who was still staring at him.

Eleanor Byam stood with a frown puckering her face, for once not sure what to say, or even whether to speak or not.

Beneath the superficial inquiries and answers Charlotte could feel a tension so powerful it was like a heat in the room. She glanced at Emily, then at Pitt, and saw Pitt’s face intent in concentration. Jack was lost, uncertain whether to intrude or not. Charlotte could bear it no longer.

“Is Wagnerian opera always like this?” she said, rushing into the silence, not caring how much ignorance she betrayed. “Lohengrin is the first I have seen. It all seems a trifle unreal to me.”

The moment was broken. Eleanor let out her breath in an inaudible sigh. Byam relaxed his tight shoulders.

Anstiss turned to Charlotte with a charming smile, his back to Byam. “My dear, most of it is far more unreal than anything you have seen tonight, believe me. This was eminently worldly and sensible compared with the Ring cycle, which concerns gods and goddesses, monsters, giants and dwarfs and all manner of unlikely events, not to say impossible ones.” His eyes were brilliant with wit and imagination. “I think you might greatly prefer the Italian operas, if you like your stories of ordinary men and women, and situations with which one can readily identify.” He saw that that might sound a little patronizing and went on to soften the effect. “I admit I do. I can take only a very small amount of mythology at this level. I prefer my fantasy to have an element of humor, like Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan, even an element of the delightful absurd, rather than the German angst. There is a touch of sophistication combined with innocence in their conception that I find pleases me.”

“You are too English,” Byam said from behind him. “Wagner would say your imagination is pedestrian. We make fun of the grand design because we do not understand it, and cannot sustain an intellectual passion because at that level we are still children.”

Anstiss swung back to him. “Would he?” he said coldly. “Where did you hear that?”

“I did not hear it,” Byam replied with a touch of asperity. “I deduced it. Now if you will excuse me, it has been a superb evening, but it is now extremely late and I am quite ready to find my carriage and go home.”

“Of course.” Anstiss was smiling again. “Such a comparison of philosophy will keep until another time. We must not keep you. Good night, Lady Byam.”

Byam hesitated as if for a moment he would have pursued the discussion.

“Good night, my lord,” Eleanor said with an unsuccessful attempt to keep the relief out of her voice, and taking Byam’s arm she turned him away and together they went out between the other tables towards the door, without glancing backwards.

Charlotte looked at Pitt, but he was staring into some place in the distance, his brows puckered and his eyes dark with thought.

“How much was said that had nothing to do with what was meant?” Vespasia said so softly under her breath that Charlotte only just caught the words.

“What do you mean?” she whispered back.

“I have no idea,” Vespasia answered. “Or at least very little. But I would swear that the whole conversation was merely a vehicle for a sea of feelings that were quite unrelated to Mr. Wagner or his operas. Perhaps that is so with a great deal of conversations, all the ’good evening’s and ’how are you’s. We are simply measuring each other. It gives one an excuse to stare, to meet each other’s eyes in a way that would be quite unacceptable were we standing there in silence.”

Before Charlotte could think of a reply, which would certainly have been an agreement, they were approached by a considerable group of people who were also wending their way towards the door. Charlotte recognized the man immediately, although it was a moment before she could recall his name. Then it came to her just as the group was passing the next table. It was Addison Carswell, whom she had met at Emily’s ball, and with him were his wife, the woman she had admired for her good sense, and the three fair unmarried daughters, all dressed in shades from pink through to the richest burgundy. They reminded Charlotte of a drift of magnificent hollyhocks in bloom all toning with one another. They were a striking sight, more effective together than any one of them would have been alone. Charlotte respected Mrs. Carswell’s strategy.

Carswell glanced sideways at their table, as one does when not occupied in speaking. His eyes passed over Jack and Emily with a cursory smile and nod, and acknowledged Vespasia, without knowing who she was, simply that her bearing commanded it. Then his eye fell on Pitt and a tightness came over his features, a stiffness to his body so that quite suddenly his clothes looked uncomfortable and he seemed far more tired than he had the moment before, as if all the evening’s events had caught up with him and exhausted him in that instant. The recognition was quite plain, but he made not the slightest movement to speak or acknowledge Pitt.

Charlotte realized with a shiver of amazement that whatever the circumstances in which he knew Pitt, it must be professional, and that he was distressed by it. And also, from the fact he gave no overt sign now, that his wife was unaware of it.

However Regina Carswell had recognized Charlotte and out of good manners she stopped to speak.

“Good evening, Mrs. Pitt, how very pleasant to see you again. I hope you are well?”

“Very well, thank you, Mrs. Carswell,” Charlotte replied. “How kind of you to stop.” She turned to Vespasia. “Aunt Vespasia, may I present Mrs. Addison Carswell? I am not sure if you are already acquainted.” And she introduced them all around the circle, introducing Pitt to Mr. Carswell. They spoke to each other stiffly and without a flicker of anything to signify they had ever met before.

The group was still exchanging stilted pleasantries, words fumbling on their tongues, minds too tired to think easily of the necessary trivialities to cover the discomfort underneath, when they were made aware by the arrival of Herbert Fitzherbert with Odelia on his arm that they were blocking the aisle. She looked perfectly composed again, her face glowing with a calm radiance, every hair in place in spite of the lateness of the hour.

“I’m so sorry!” Carswell collected himself and grasped the opportunity to escape. “We are in your way, sir,” he said with alacrity. “I do apologize. If you will excuse us?” He bowed perfunctorily to Vespasia, and made as if to leave.

“Not at all,” Fitzherbert said quickly, oblivious of the panic in Carswell’s face. “My dear sir, we have no desire to spoil your party. It would be unforgivable.” He smiled devastatingly at Vespasia, then glanced at Jack and Emily. “Good to see you, Radley, Mrs. Radley. What a splendid evening, is it not? Ah, Mrs. Pitt. You look extremely well, if I am not impertinent to say so.” He knew perfectly well he was not.

Charlotte would like to have rebuffed him, or at least taken some of the satisfaction from his face, but his charm was so spontaneous she did not know how without being churlish, which would entirely defeat her purpose. And perhaps she was being unfair to Jack. He was perfectly capable of measuring up to Herbert Fitzherbert. And if he were not, perhaps he should not win the selection anyway.

“Thank you,” she said with a sweet smile. “I have enjoyed myself so much it would be hard not to feel well. Good evening, Miss Morden. How pleasant to see you again.”

Odelia smiled a trifle fixedly, and formal introductions were made. Carswell had missed his opportunity to leave without making his departure abrupt to the point of discourtesy. He mumbled something polite, and conversation about the evening was resumed.

He thought a second chance had offered itself when they became aware yet again that they were occupying all the space between the tables and others wished to pass. But when he turned to apologize and offer to leave, his whole body stiffened and the blood rose in a pink tide up his face, then fled, leaving him ashen. Beside him stood young Theophania Hilliard and her brother. Her eager face also looked pale, but it might have been tiredness. It was, after all, well past two in the morning.

“I-er-” Carswell stammered. He seemed to shrink within himself. “I-I’m so sorry, Miss-er-”

“Not at all,” Fanny said huskily. “We have no wish to intrude.” She swallowed hard. “It was uncivil of us. We shall leave by another route-please-”

“I-er-most-” Carswell breathed deeply.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Fitz said cheerfully. “Miss Fanny Hilliard, are you acquainted with Mr. Addison Carswell, and Mrs. Carswell? And the Misses Carswell?” And completely unaware of any discomfort, Fitz proceeded to introduce them all. Carswell cast one look at Pitt for only the smallest part of a second, then away again. Had Charlotte not been watching him she would have missed the anguish and the mute appeal, so instantly did it vanish again.

Pitt looked at him blankly, and silently. Whatever he felt, he gave no sign.

Gradually Carswell regained some control of himself. The color came back faintly to his cheeks.

“I am delighted to meet you, Miss-er, Hilliard,” he said hoarsely. “Forgive me for leaving so hastily, but we were about to depart, and it is very late. Good night to you.”

“Good night, sir,” Fanny said with downcast eyes. “Good night, Mrs. Carswell.” Her eyes flicked up and she looked at Regina with interest.

Regina was too tired to notice.

“Good night, Miss Hilliard. Come Mabel.” She raised her voice fractionally to her daughter, who was falling into conversation with Odelia. “Come, my dear. It is past time we were at home.”

“Yes Mama,” Mabel said obediently, and with a little shrug of her shoulders, excused herself and trooped off behind her sisters.

“It is certainly time we too were leaving,” Charlotte said quickly, looking at Emily. “Perhaps we might find a hansom, since it would be foolish to take you so far out of your way when we are going to Bloomsbury and you to Mayfair. I am sure it is time you were in bed.”

Indeed Emily had begun to flag a little, and Jack was concerned for her, by the look upon his face, and his arm around her shoulder.

“I shall take you home in my carriage,” Vespasia announced, rising to her feet. “It is not so very far, and I sleep longer than I need to anyway.”

“I would not hear of it,” Pitt said firmly. “It has been a marvelous night, and I will not spoil my enjoyment of it by taking you out of your way and keeping you up an extra half hour at the very least. We shall find a hansom.”

Vespasia drew herself up with great dignity and stared at Pitt with a mixture of affection and outrage.

“I am not some little old lady whom you need to assist across the street, Thomas! I am perfectly capable of organizing my carriage to do as I please.” There was a tiny smile at the corner of his lips and both Charlotte and Pitt knew precisely why she was taking them home. “And I may lie in bed in the morning for as long as I desire-until luncheon, if it takes my fancy-which is a deal more than you may say. I shall take you home to Bloomsbury, and then go to my own house thereafter.” She fixed Charlotte with a fine, silvery-gray eye, and with a small smile Pitt did as he was told.

They bade good-night to Emily and Jack, thanking them yet again for their generosity, and had the doorman call Vespasia’s carriage. When they were inside, the doors closed, and had begun the journey, Vespasia looked across at Pitt, who as the gentleman was naturally sitting with his back to the driver.

“Well Thomas,” she said quietly. “Is this case something you are not free to discuss?”

“It is… confidential,” he answered carefully. There was no smile on his face, but his eyes were very bright in the light from the coach lamps. He and Vespasia understood each other perfectly, neither the humor nor the knowledge of pity needed to be expressed.

“It may be simply a matter of debt and despair,” he went on. “Or it may be blackmail. I don’t know yet-but it is certainly murder.”

“Of course,” she agreed with a sigh. “They would hardly use you for anything less.”

His answer was lost in the sound of carriage wheels, but apparently Vespasia did not require to hear it.

“Who has been murdered?” Her voice brooked no evasion.

“A particularly disagreeable usurer,” he replied.

Charlotte settled further down into the seat, putting her cloak around her, and listened, hoping to learn some new scraps.

“Who do usurers blackmail, for heaven’s sake?” Vespasia said with disgust. “I cannot imagine their even having the acquaintance of anyone to interest you. It is hardly a political matter-or is it?”

He smiled, his teeth white in a sudden flash of light from the lamps of a passing brougham.

“It may well be.”

“Indeed? Well if I may be of assistance to you, I trust you will let me know.” It was said as a polite offer, but there was something of the imperiousness of an order in it also.

“Of course I will,” he agreed sincerely. “I would be both ungrateful and unwise not to.”

Vespasia snorted delicately, and said nothing.

The following day Pitt left early and Charlotte was busy trying to catch up with some of the domestic chores she should have done the day before, had she not been trying to dress at Emily’s and preparing for the opera. She had done a large laundry of different items which all required special care, instructing Gracie in the finer arts of preserving colors, textures and shape, all the while retelling the events of the evening before, the opera, the clothes, the people, and something of Pitt’s present case.

She washed a lilac dress which needed a pinch of soda in the rinse, exactly the right amount was necessary or it faded the color, and a green cloth gown for which she used two tablespoons of vinegar in a quart of rinse. She had been keeping her best floral dress and two of Jemima’s to wash until she had time to make the recommended mixture she had recently heard of: new ivy leaves added to a quart of bran and a quarter of a pound of yellow household soap.

Gracie observed her as carefully as the continuing story of the evening would allow.

And then there was the starching to do, or more correctly the stiffening, Fine muslin was treated with isinglass, of which she had three half sheets. She broke them up carefully and dissolved the pieces in water, and dipped the lawns and muslins and hung them up to dry, before ironing them. The chintzes would have to wait for another day. She was certainly not boiling rice water as well.

When all the laundry was finished, in the middle of the afternoon, she set about cleaning the smoothing irons by melting fresh mutton suet and spreading it over the still-warm irons, then dusting them with unslaked lime tied in muslin. For some time now they had had a woman come in to take the household linen, and return it two days later clean and ironed.

By evening she was exhausted, and thoroughly complacent with virtue.

The following day she was sitting at the kitchen table trying to decide whether to have a little fish roe on toast for luncheon, or a boiled egg, when Gracie came tripping down the hall to say that Mrs. Radley was here. Emily herself followed hard on her heels in a swirl of floral muslin and lace, with an exquisite parasol decorated with blush-pink roses.

“I’m going to the Royal Academy exhibition,” she announced, sitting down on one of the other chairs and leaning her elbows on the scrubbed wooden table. “I really don’t want to go alone, and Jack is off to see someone about factories and new housing. Please come with me? It will be entertaining if we go together, and a terrible bore alone. Do come.”

Charlotte wrestled with temptation for a moment or two, then with additional encouragement from Gracie, gave in to it. She ran upstairs and changed as quickly as she could into a spotted muslin gown trimmed with green, took up the best hat she had, decorated with silk roses Emily had brought back with her from her honeymoon, and came downstairs again. She was not quite as immaculate as if dressed by a ladies’ maid, but nonetheless very handsome.

The Royal Academy exhibition was every bit as formal and hidebound as Emily had said. Elegant ladies with sweeping hats and flowered parasols moved from one painting to another, looking at them through lorgnettes, standing back and looking again and then passing their instant opinions. Gowns were gorgeous, etiquette absolutely precise and the social hierarchy unyielding.

“Oh, I don’t care for that. Much too modern. I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

“Quite vulgar, my dear. And talking of vulgarity, did you see Martha Wolcott at the theater last evening? What an extraordinary shade to wear. So unflattering!”

“Of course she’s fifty if she’s a day.”

“Really? I would have sworn she said she was thirty-nine.”

“I don’t doubt she did. She’s been saying that for as long as I’ve known her. Presumably in the beginning it was quite true, but that was a dozen years ago. Well I declare, did you ever see anything like that? Whatever do you suppose it means?”

“I’m sure I have not the faintest notion!”

Charlotte and Emily overheard many such snatches of conversations as they passed between the crowds, speaking to someone here, passing a compliment there, exchanging small politenesses, but above all being seen.

They were at least halfway around the exhibition, and they felt compelled to see all of it, when they ran into Fitz and Odelia looking charming, courteous, and most of the time interested.

Emily made a little growling noise in the back of her throat.

“There are times when I loathe that man,” she whispered, forcing a brilliant smile to her face as Odelia caught her eye. “And her,” she added, inclining her head graciously. “She is so terribly certain of everything.”

“Complacent is the word,” Charlotte elaborated, smiling and nodding also. “The way she condescended to Miss Hilliard the evening at the opera, I was longing to be thoroughly rude.”

Emily’s eyebrows shot up. “And you weren’t? My dear, I am sensible of your sisterly loyalty. I shall tell Jack; he will be overcome.”

“You will spoil it if you tell him I only overheard the conversation, so I was not in a position to say anything at all.”

“You always ruin a good story by being overheard, Charlotte. Is that Miss Hilliard over there? I was so tired by suppertime I don’t remember what she looked like.”

“Yes it is. I liked her spirit. She gave as good as she got, I thought, and she was at a definite disadvantage.”

“Good. They are about to encounter Fitz and Odelia again. This time I shall be there-and you hold your tongue.” And so saying she hastened towards Fitz and Odelia as if their simple smile of acknowledgment had been an urgent invitation.

They arrived precisely as James and Fanny Hilliard stepped back from a picture the better to consider it, and were so close Emily could very easily bump into James and apologize with devastating sweetness. A moment later they were all exchanging greetings.

“How charming you look, Miss Hilliard.” Odelia smiled. “Such a lovely hat. I meant to compliment you on it last time, and somehow it slipped my mind.”

Fanny colored faintly, quite aware that the meaning of the remark was not that it was especially handsome, but that she had worn the same hat on the previous occasion also.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “How kind of you to say so.”

“Such an attractive quality, don’t you agree?” Emily said quickly, turning to Odelia. “I admire it above all others!”

“Remembering hats?” Odelia’s eyebrows shot up incredulously. “Really, Mrs. Radley. I cannot think why?”

“Kindness,” Emily corrected. “I admire kindness, Miss Morden. The ability not to take advantage, to find generous pleasure in someone else’s success, even when you are not finding particular success yourself. That takes a truly fine spirit, don’t you think?”

“I was not aware that I was being particularly kind.” Odelia frowned, a spark of suspicion in her eyes.

Emily’s hand flew to her mouth in a delicate gesture of embarrassment.

“Oh-your own hat is charming. I simply meant your generosity in admiring Miss Hilliard’s hat with such candor.”

Charlotte stifled a giggle with difficulty, and avoided meeting anyone’s eyes.

Both James Hilliard and Fitz looked a trifle puzzled.

“Are you enjoying the exhibition?” Fitz asked quickly. “Have you seen anything you would buy?”

“I like the roses over there,” Charlotte answered instantly, struggling for anything that would fill the silence. “And I thought some of the portraits were very fine, although I am not sure who they are.”

“The woman in the white gown with the lace is Lillie Langtry,” Fitz said with a broad smile.

“Oh is it?” Charlotte was interested in spite of herself, and the pucker of disapproval between Odelia’s brows did nothing to discourage her. “If it is a good likeness, then she is very lovely. Have you met her?”

“One meets everyone sooner or later. Society is very small, you know.”

“Do you not find that, Mrs. Pitt?” Odelia asked with a spark of interest.

There was no purpose in lying; she would only be caught in it and look even more foolish. And she did not hunger for social rank enough to pretend to it.

“I did before I was married,” she said with a candid stare. “But since then I have spent far more time at home with my family. I only departed from it this season to be what help I can to Emily, in the circumstances.”

“Very generous of you,” Odelia said politely, having established a certain superiority. She linked her arm in Fitz’s and leaned a fraction closer to him. “I am sure she will feel greatly eased in her mind for your company. It is something of a disadvantage that the selection of a candidate should occur just now, however I am sure it will not influence a decision.” She lifted one slender shoulder slightly. “You have met many of the most important people. I saw you with Lord Anstiss at the opera. Such a fine man. Most of us will never know how much he gives away to all manner of deserving causes. Some of the artists here are only able to exhibit at all because of his patronage, you know.”

And the conversation moved to the much safer subject of Lord Anstiss’s benefactions in many fields, Fanny and James Hilliard joining in where a pleasant but uninformed opinion was acceptable.

Charlotte glanced at Emily and saw with a flash of understanding that she was equally bored. Fitz caught the look.

“Who cares?” he agreed with a laugh. He turned to Fanny, and her face flooded with relief and humor. “Let’s talk of something more fun,” he said quickly. “What is the latest scandal? There must be something entertaining?”

“I don’t know of anything,” Odelia said with regret. “It is all a matter of who may marry whom, and unless you know them it is all very tedious, and probably quite predictable anyway.”

They moved a few steps to the next picture without looking at it.

“There is the matter of Mr. Horatio Osmar,” James said tentatively. “That seems to have elements of the ludicrous about it.”

“Horatio Osmar?” Fitz seized on it. “Isn’t he a minister in the government? Do tell us: what has he done? Or, to be more accurate, what do they say he has done?”

“He used to be a junior minister of sorts,” James corrected.

“Oh dear-I should know that, shouldn’t I?” Fitz said ruefully. “What about him? Is it money?”

“Nothing so dry.” James smiled. It was a gentle, diffident and very warm expression which lit his face, giving him a charm he had lacked before. “He was arrested for indecent behavior with a young woman-on a park bench!”

They all burst into laughter, making several heads turn and causing a few elderly ladies to frown and mutter to themselves on the indelicacy of the young, and their increasing lack of decorum. One lady dressed in gray with a stuffed bird on her hat glared fiercely, and held her head so high the bird wobbled violently and appeared as if it were attempting to fly, and she was obliged to reach up with her hand to make sure it did not overbalance.

“Very out of date,” Fanny whispered a trifle too loudly.

“What is?” Charlotte asked.

“Stuffed animals on your clothes,” Fanny replied. “Don’t you remember-it was all the rage a couple of years ago. My mother’s cousin had a hat with flowers with all the beetles and spiders in them.”

“You are twitting us!” Fitz said with wide eyes.

“Not at all! And I have a friend whose aunt had a gown with stuffed mice on the hem and up the outer fold of the skirt.”

“Ugh!” He was staring at her with delight. “Really?”

“I swear it.”

“How disgusting!”

“Worse than that. We have a domestic cat-” She was giggling as she said it. “She was an excellent mouser. It was a disaster.”

“A mouser,” Fitz said quickly. “Oh do tell us.”

Odelia pulled a face of distaste but Fanny was looking at Fitz and was totally unaware of her.

“Aunt Dorabella had been asked to favor us with a song, which she did with some enthusiasm. It was the Kashmiri Love Song, you know?”

“Pale hands I love,” Fitz said quickly.

“Yes, that’s right. Well she swept across the space we had cleared for her, swirling her skirts behind her, raising her hands to illustrate the song-and Pansy, the cat, shot out from under the drapes ’round the piano legs and bolted up Dorabella’s skirt after the mouse. Dorabella hit a high note very much higher than she had intended-and louder-”

Fitz was having trouble keeping his composure, and Charlotte and Emily were not even trying.

“Pansy took fright and ran down again,” Fanny went on, “with the mouse between her teeth, and a sizable piece of the skirt with it. Dorabella tripped over the rest and fell against the pianist, who shrieked and overbalanced off the stool.”

Fanny shrugged her shoulders and dissolved into giggles. “We disgraced ourselves so utterly,” she finished, “that my friend was cut out of Uncle Arthur’s will. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. I was so sorry, but if it had been my fortune at stake, I could not have helped myself. Fortunately, it would have been only two rather ordinary chairs-and Uncle Arthur lived to be ninety-three anyway! Of course I apologized profoundly, but Aunt Dorabella did not believe a word, and neither of them ever forgave us.”

“How marvelous,” Fitz said sincerely. “I’m sure it was worth it.” He looked around to each of them. “Is there a great deal more you wish to see here?”

“Not I.” Emily shook her head, still smiling, but Charlotte had a good idea she had had enough of standing for a while anyway.

“Nor I,” she agreed quickly.

“Then let us find some refreshment,” Fitz suggested. “Come, James, I shall take you all to tea, and you shall tell us what befell poor Mr. Osmar.” And he offered his arm to Fanny, who accepted it with a quick smile. James escorted Odelia, and Charlotte and Emily were left to bring up the rear.

They took both carriages, and met up again inside the hotel, where they were served a most delicious tea in a large, softly lit room with the most flattering pinks and apricots. They began with thinly sliced cucumber sandwiches on brown bread, cream cheese beaten with a few chopped chives, then smoked salmon mousse. There were white bread sandwiches with smoked ham, egg mayonnaise with mustard and cress, and finely grated cheese. When these had blunted the edge of appetite, they were served scones so fresh they were still warm, with plenty of jam and cream, then lastly cakes and exquisite French pastries, choux and puff pastries filled with whipped cream, lacelike icing and thin slices of fruit.

During all this James Hilliard entertained them with the story of Horatio Osmar, his trial and unaccountable acquittal, without mentioning the name of the magistrate, which apparently he did not know.

“What did the young woman say?” Charlotte asked.

“Nothing,” James replied, setting his cup down on its saucer. “She was not asked.”

“But that’s absurd!” Charlotte protested.

“The whole thing is absurd,” he answered. “And now I hear they are talking of police perjury-”

“Oh! Which station did you say it was?”

“Bow Street.”

She drew in a deep breath. Under the table Emily reached out and touched her. There was nothing she could say. She forced herself to smile.

“Oh dear. How unfortunate,” she said meaninglessly, aware how inadequate it sounded.

Emily folded her napkin and laid it on the table.

“It has been the most charming afternoon,” she said with a smile at each of them. “It is time we excused ourselves and went home to change for the evening.”

“Of course.” Both Fitz and James Hilliard rose to their feet. Good-byes were said and Emily and Charlotte departed to their carriage.

Charlotte reached her own home at nearly six o’clock and swept in to find Gracie preparing dinner and giving Jemima and Daniel their supper at the same time. She looked tired and harassed, her hair falling out of her cap, her sleeves rolled up, her face flushed.

Charlotte was smitten with instant guilt, aware how long she had been away, and that she had neglected her duties. It did not help at all when Pitt came home shortly afterwards and, on seeing the state of the kitchen, Charlotte’s gloriously piled hair and flushed face, and Gracie looking weary and untidy, he lost his temper.

“What the devil is going on?” he demanded, staring at Gracie then at Charlotte. “Where have you been?”

There was no point in lying. He would find out, and she was no good at it anyway, not to him.

“At the Royal Academy exhibition-”

His face was bleak, the warmth and tenderness vanished. His eyebrows rose.

“Indeed? And for what purpose did you go there?”

For a wild moment she thought of saying “To look at the pictures,” then saw his eyes and knew it was not the moment for levity.

“Just to accompany Emily,” she said very quietly.

“And left Gracie here to do your work!” he snapped. “I don’t admire your selfishness, Charlotte.”

It was the most cutting thing he could have said, and she had no answer to it. The only way she could defend her dignity was to force herself into sufficient anger to stop herself from crying.

Supper was eaten in miserable silence. Gracie had gone upstairs, sniffing with unhappiness at the unusual conflict in what she regarded as her own home, and in a curious sense, her family.

Afterwards, Charlotte sat in her chair in the parlor opposite Pitt and pretended to be sewing, but she had no pleasure in it, and accomplished nothing. She knew she had been selfish, thinking only of the glamour and the excitement, not of her children and house, where she should have been, or at the very least of her responsibility.

Pitt sat quietly reading a newspaper, without once looking over it at her.

At bedtime she went upstairs alone, more crushingly miserable than she could remember being for a year or more.

She took off her dress and hung it up, then extricated the pins from her hair and let it fall over her shoulders without the usual sensual pleasure, knowing that Pitt loved it. Strange how all the warmth and light could go out of everything just because she felt such a gulf between them. Odelia Morden’s face kept coming back into her mind as she climbed into bed, feeling the sheets chill on her skin. She could see her so clearly, the look of sudden, wounded surprise as she saw Fitz’s eyes on Fanny Hilliard, heard them laugh together, and realized that something was slipping away from her and she was powerless to cling onto it. There was a warmth between Fitz and Fanny Hilliard, an ease of understanding, laughter at the same things. Odelia would never be part of it. Today Charlotte had seen the first wing of loneliness touch her, and a premonition of loss. Whatever happened in the future, Odelia had become aware that something precious was beyond her reach.

And Charlotte had thought her so complacent. She was just at the beginning of pain.

Aunt Vespasia had said it was Charlotte who was too satisfied, not nurturing what was precious.

Pitt came to bed in the dark, lying next to her but apart, his back towards her.

She had no idea whether he was asleep or not, or what he was thinking. Did he really feel she was totally selfish? Surely he knew her better than that-after all these years. Could he not understand how much the opera had meant to her, and that she had gone to the exhibition only to keep Emily company?

No. He knew how it had thrilled her. She had seen that in his face. And he knew how long she had waited-until Emily took them.

Emily took them-not Pitt.

She reached out her hand and touched him.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I should have thought-and I didn’t.”

For seconds nothing happened. She began to think he was asleep. Then slowly he moved over and touched her fingertips, saying nothing.

Tears of relief filled her eyes and she wriggled down to be comfortable, and at last composed herself to go to sleep.