Callander Square

FIVE

General Balantyne was very satisfied with the way his memoirs were coming along. The military history of his family really was remarkable, and the more he put his papers in order, the more outstanding he perceived it to be. There was a heritage of discipline and sacrifice of which anyone might be proud. But far more than that, there was an urgency, an excitement to it more real than the petty domesiticity and the polite fictions of his daily life in Callander Square. The early winter rain drenched the gray cobbles outside, but his imagination felt the rain of Quatre Bras and Waterloo nearly seventy years ago, where his grandfather had lost an arm and a leg struggling through the mud of Belgian fields behind the Iron Duke; scarlet coats and blues, the charge of the Scots Grays, the end of an empire and the beginning of a new age.

The heat from the fire in the grate scorched his legs and he felt in it the blistering sun of India, thought of Tippoo Sultan, the Black Hole of Calcutta, where his great-grandfather had perished. He knew the heat himself. The spear wound on his thigh was not yet totally healed from the Zulu Wars, only three years ago. It still ached in the cold to remind him. Perhaps that would be his last battle, as the nightmare of the Crimea had been his first. He was still frightened far back in the recesses of his memory by the dreadful cold and the slaughter at Sebastopol, the dead lying all over the place, bodies wasted with cholera, blown apart by shot, frozen to death in grotesque positions, some huddled like children asleep. And the horses! God knew how many horses dead, poor beasts. Foolish that the horses should worry him so much.

He had been eighteen at Balaclava. He had come up with a message from his own commander for Lord Cardigan in time to see that unspeakable charge. He remembered the wind in his face, the smell of blood, gunpowder, and the torn-up earth as six hundred and seventy-three men and horses galloped against the entrenched guns of the entire Russian position. He had sat his horse beside the craggy old men, bemused in the uproar, angry, while below them in the valley two hundred and fifty men and six hundred horses obeyed their orders and were slaughtered. His father was in the Eleventh Hussars, and was one of those who did not stagger back.

His uncle had been in the Ninety-third Highlanders, and held the “thin red line,” five hundred and fifty men between thirty thousand Russians and Balaclava itself. Like so many he had died where he stood. It had been he, Brandon, who had sat in the bitter cold of a trench to write to his mother to tell her her husband and her brother were dead. He could still feel now the agony of trying to find the words. Then he had gone on to fight at Inkerman, and the fall of Sebastopol. It had seemed then as if the whole tide of Asia were sweeping over them with the fetch of half the earth behind it.

Surely those not yet born would hear in their hearts the guns of these battles and feel the pride and the pain, the confusions-and the sweep of history? Could he be so inarticulate as to have lived it himself, and pass on nothing of the taste in the mouth, the beat of the blood, the tears afterward?

The young woman, Miss Ellison, seemed competent, and pleasant enough. Although perhaps “pleasant” was not the word. She was too definite in her attitudes and opinions to be entirely agreeable to him. But she was intelligent, that was beyond question. He was relieved of the necessity of having to explain anything more than once, in fact on occasion he had found she had seized the point before he had finished with a first instruction, which he had found faintly annoying. And yet she meant no harm, and she certainly gave herself no airs. Indeed, she appeared to be more than happy to eat in the servants’ hall, rather than put cook to the trouble of setting her a separate tray.

More than once she had actually made suggestions as to how he might proceed, which he had difficulty in accepting with grace. But he was obliged to admit that her ideas were quite good, in fact he had not actually thought of anything better himself. As he was sitting in the library now, he considered what he would write next, and what Miss Ellison might judge of it.

He was irritated to be interrupted by Max at the door to say that Mr. Southeron was in the morning room, wishing to see him, and was he at home?

He hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to be bothered with Reggie Southeron right now, but Reggie was a neighbor, and as such had to be tolerated. Not to do so would provoke reactions that would be endless, and cause all sorts of minor discomforts.

Max was waiting silently. His immaculate figure and calm smile annoyed him as much as the request he made. Wish Augusta would get rid of him and find someone else.

“Yes, of course,” he said tartly. “And you’d better bring something to drink-the Madeira, not the best.”

“No, sir,” Max withdrew, and a moment later Reggie came in, large, affable, clothes already settled in comfortable creases, although he could not have had them on for more than a couple of hours.

“Morning, Brandon,” Reggie said cheerfully, eyes glancing round the room, noting the fire, the comfortable, deep leather chairs, looking for the decanter and glasses.

“Good morning, Reggie,” Balantyne replied. “What brings you visiting on a Saturday morning?”

“Been meaning to see you for a while, actually.” Reggie sat down in the chair nearest the fire. “Not had a decent opportunity before; always something else going on, what? Place like a beehive lately.”

Balantyne had not, to this point, been paying more than nominal attention to him, but now he began to hear a note of strain in Reggie’s voice, and that in spite of his bonhomie, he had come about something specific that caused him an anxiety he was needing to share. Max would be back with the Madeira in a moment, and there was no point in approaching anything serious until he had gone.

“I gather you’ve been busy,” he said conversationally.

“Not me, really,” Reggie replied. “Those wretched police fellows, all over the damn place. Pitt, what’s-his-name, creeping around the servants’ halls, upsetting everything. Damnation, how I hate upheavals in the house. Servants all in a twitter. Great heavens, man, you must know how difficult it is to get decent servants and train them to the way you want them, to know your own tastes, and how to cater to them. Takes long enough. And then some damned fool thing like this has to happen, and before you know where you are, they’re all unsettled. It’s hard enough at any time to keep a good servant. Get ideas of bettering themselves. Fancy working for a duke or an earl, or something. Take an idea for foreign travel. Think they’re badly done by if they don’t get to spend the season in London, summer in the country, and the worst of the winter in the south of France! Wretched creatures take offense at the oddest things and before you know it they’re off! Deuce knows why, half the time; no loyalty. But doesn’t take a fool to know they’ll all go if this damned fellow Pitt goes on asking questions about their private lives and their morals, interfering and making suggestions.” His voice trailed off in exasperation as he anticipated a bleak winter of training new and unsatisfactory servants, cold rooms, burnt meals, unpressed clothes.

Balantyne did not think the eventuality in the least likely, although admittedly he did not especially value his creature comforts; but he did value his peace of mind. The domestic conflict such a crisis would provoke was truly appalling to contemplate. He did not like Reggie very much, they were as different as men could be; but he was sorry for the man’s obvious fears, unfounded though they might prove to be.

“Shouldn’t worry about it,” he said casually. Max came in with the decanter and glasses, set them down, and departed, closing the door silently. Reggie helped himself without being asked.

“Wouldn’t you?” Reggie demanded with a mixture of anxiety and offense.

“Not very likely.” Balantyne declined the Madeira. He did not like the stuff, and it was too early in the day. “No good servant is going to hand in notice because she’s asked a few questions, unless she’s already got another place to go to. And he’s pretty civil, this fellow Pitt. None of my household has complained.”

“For God’s sake, man! Would you know if they had?” Reggie lost his temper at last. “Augusta runs your house like a regiment. Most efficient creature I’ve ever met. She wouldn’t tell you if the whole lot were in revolt! She’d deal with it, and you’d still get your dinner in time.”

Balantyne resented the implication that he was a useless appendage to his own household, but he reminded himself that the man was frightened, although he had no idea why; and he made an allowance for him.

“It is not very likely anyone will give notice now,” he said calmly. “It would suggest guilt to the police, and no doubt make things harder for them than remaining here and carrying on in a normal manner.”

Oddly enough, even this, with its impeccable logic, did not noticeably soothe Reggie. He sat rumpled, deep in the armchair, and glowered at his glass.

“Bad business, though,” he said gloomily. “Don’t suppose for a moment they’ll ever find out who did it. Waste of time. All they’ll do is stir up a lot of speculation and gossip.” He looked up. “Could do us a lot of harm, you know, Brandon. Not good to have the police hanging around. People think there must be something wrong.”

Balantyne could see his point, but there was nothing they could do about it, and he was inclined to think that Reggie was exaggerating.

“I’ll lay you odds Carlton would agree,” Reggie said quickly, a lift in his voice. “‘Above suspicion,’ you know, ‘Caesar’s wife,’ and all that. Foreigners are inclined to be funny. Got to keep an immaculate reputation.”

What he said was probably true. Balantyne frowned, looking at Reggie through narrowed eyes. Reggie had poured himself another glass, and unless Balantyne was mistaken, it was not his second, or even his third today. What was he really frightened of?

“What does he say?” Reggie pressed.

“Haven’t spoken to him,” Balantyne replied honestly.

“Might be a good idea if you did,” Reggie tried to smile, and ended with a grimace that was more like bared teeth. “Would myself but I don’t know him as well as you do. Influential man. He might be able to make the police see sense. They’ll never find out who the woman was, not a chance in hell. Probably some servant girl who’s moved away by now. Wouldn’t want to hang around, would she?”

“The police will have thought of that,” Balantyne answered. “We haven’t dismissed any servants or had them leave in the last couple of years; have you?” Suddenly recollection came to him in a blinding understanding. It seemed stunningly obvious now. “How long ago since Dolly died?” he said baldly.

The blood drained from Reggie’s face till Balantyne thought he was going to faint. His skin looked sweaty gray.

“Was that your child that killed her, Reggie?” he asked.

Reggie’s mouth opened, like a fish, and closed again silently. He could not find a lie that would be of any use.

“I thought that was more than two years ago,” Balantyne went on.

“It was!” Reggie found his tongue at last, his lips stiff. “It was! Four years. Couldn’t possibly have anything to do with it! But you know what people are, give a dog a bad name. They’ll think because-” he foundered in the lie, and took another glass of Madeira.

There was no need to press him about the present; the truth was too obvious, the reason he wanted the police out of the square, away from talkative servants. Poor fool!

“I expect they’ll give up of their own accord soon,” Balantyne said with a pity he resented feeling. “But I’ll see what Carlton feels, when I get an opportunity. Don’t suppose that Pitt chap wants to spend more time than he has to up a blind alley. No good for his career.”

“No,” Reggie cheered up visibly. “Don’t suppose we need to point that out to him.” His words were a little blurred. “But speak to Carlton all the same. He must know people; few words in the right places, could get it closed a bit sooner. Save a lot of nasty gossip; some public money too. Whole thing’s a waste of time.” He stood up a little shakily. “Thanks, old man. Thought you’d understand.”

Christina did not appear for luncheon, and Brandy was spending a week in the country with friends. He found himself alone at the table with Augusta.

“Christina still not better?” he said with a touch of anxiety. “Why hasn’t she seen a doctor? Get Freddie to look at her, if Meredith can’t come.”

“Not necessary,” Augusta replied, reaching for cold salmon. “It’s only a chill. Cook prepared her a tray. Have some of the salmon. It’s one Brandy caught last weekend in Cumberland. Very good, don’t you think?”

He took some and tasted it.

“Excellent. Are you sure it’s nothing worse? She’s been in bed for a long time.”

“Quite sure. A spell in bed will do her no harm. She’s been overdoing it lately. Too many parties. Which reminds me, have you remembered we are dining with the Campbells this evening?”

He had not remembered. Still, it could have been worse. Garson Campbell was an interesting fellow, dry humor, if a little cynical; and Mariah was a more than usually sensible woman. Hardly ever heard her indulge in gossip or the endless flirtations that so many women seemed to engage their emotions with.

“Was that Reggie Southeron here this morning?” Augusta asked.

“Yes.”

“What did he want, on a Saturday morning?”

“Nothing really. In a bit of a lather about the police upsetting the servants with a lot of questions and insinuations.”

“Upsetting the servants?” she said incredulously.

He looked at her across the salmon.

“Yes. Why not?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Brandon. Reggie never gave a hoot about the servants, his own or anybody else’s. What did he intend you should do about it anyway?”

He smiled in spite of himself.

“What makes you think he intended me to do anything about it?”

“He didn’t come here to drink your Madeira. You always give him the worst, and he knows it. What did he want?”

“He suggested I should speak to Robert Carlton to see if he can persuade the police to let the thing lie. They’ll probably never discover the truth, anyway, all they can achieve is to waste their time, and stir up a lot of gossip. He could be right.”

“He is right,” she agreed tartly. “But I doubt that is why he is concerned. And I would be surprised if that odd young man-Pitt, I think his name is-will let it die until he has explored a good deal further than he has so far. But you can try, by all means, if you wish. Don’t let Reggie make a fool of himself. It will rub off on all of us. Apart from the embarrassment to Adelina, poor creature.”

“Why should Reggie make a fool of himself?” He had no intention of telling her about Dolly. It was not a matter for a decent woman to know of.

Augusta sighed.

“Sometimes, Brandon, I wonder if you affect to be obtuse merely to annoy me. Reggie wishes to keep the police from questioning his own servants too closely, which you must know quite as well as I do.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” He did not wish to have to explain to her something which would both shock and distress her. She would find it sordid; as indeed perhaps it was, but a common human failing which women were apt, since the offense was against them, to view differently, and without the compassion a man might feel.

Augusta snorted and pushed away her empty plate. The pudding was brought in and served. When they were alone again she looked at him coolly.

“Then perhaps I had better tell you, before you unwittingly say something clumsy and embarrass us all. Reggie sleeps with all his parlormaids, so no doubt he is afraid the police will discover it, and be less than discreet about it. They may even think he has wandered farther afield.”

He was stunned. She was speaking about it as if it hardly mattered!

“How on earth do you know?” he said hoarsely.

“My dear Brandon, everybody knows. One doesn’t discuss it, of course; but one knows.”

“Adelina?”

“Of course she knows. Do you take her for a fool?”

”Doesn’t she-mind?”

“I’ve no idea. One doesn’t ask, and naturally she doesn’t mention it.”

He was stunned. He could think of no reply adequate to his confusion. He had always known that women’s minds and emotions worked on lines not comprehensible to men, but never before had it been so forcibly brought home to him.

Augusta was still looking at him.

“I wish there were some way it could be kept from that policeman, for Adelina’s sake,” she went on, “but I have not so far thought of any. That is why it might be a good idea for you to approach Robert Carlton to see if he can get the investigation shelved. It can hardly serve any purpose now, even in the unlikely event of their discovering which poor girl was responsible.”

“There is the small matter of justice,” he said indignantly, his feelings stunned once again. How on earth could she speak of it as if it were all irrelevant, as if they had not been human babies, now dead, possibly murdered?

“Really, Brandon, sometimes I despair of you,” she said as she passed him the caramel sauce. “You are the most impractical man I ever knew. Why are soldiers such dreamers? You would think with the command of armies in their charge they would at least be practical, if nothing else, wouldn’t you?” she sighed. “But then I suppose war is really the most idiotic of all pursuits, so perhaps not.”

He stared at her as if she were a totally alien creature, as if she had changed shape from the known to the unknown in front of him.

“Naturally you don’t understand war,” he dismissed the last subject. “But even if justice is too abstract a concept for you, surely as a woman, who has borne children herself, you are moved to compassion?”

She put down her spoon and fork and leaned a little forward.

“The children are dead; whether they were born dead or died afterward, they are beyond our help now. The mother will have been through deeper hell than you can imagine, or probably than I can either. Whatever manner of woman she was, she will have paid for it in grief in this life, and will answer to God for it in the next. What else is it you want from her? Her example will not prevent it happening again, I assure you, as long as there are both men and women in the world.

“Yes, your idea of justice is far too abstract for me. It is a word that sounds sonorous and pleasing to you; but you have no idea what it means from day to day; you have satisfied your ideals, and someone else is left to live it through.

“This thing is better buried. It is a pity those men ever went to plant their tree. If you can persuade Robert Carlton to exert a little influence and have the police leave well enough alone, it will be the best day’s work you have done in a long time.

“Now if you intend to eat that pudding you had better do so before it gets cold, or it will give you indigestion. I am going upstairs to see how Christina is,” and she stood up and walked out, leaving him staring after her, speechless.

Balantyne worked on his military papers in the afternoon, because they were something he was sure of; perhaps in time Augusta would explain herself, or else the matter would fall into recess of memory and cease to be important.

It was early evening, and already dark and turning very cold when Max announced Robert Carlton. Balantyne had always liked Carlton, he was a man whose quiet confidence and dignity appealed to him, the best type of Englishman, who followed the military into all the corners of the empire to govern and teach civilization where it was hitherto unknown. They were two partners to the same cause, and he felt they had an instinctive understanding, an inbred sense of duty and justice.

This evening he was especially pleased to see him because the mass of papers palled on him. It was more difficult without Miss Ellison to assist him, and in truth, gave him less than the usual satisfaction. He stood up with a smile, his hand out.

“’Evening, Robert, come in and warm yourself. Best fire in the house. Have a sherry, or whisky if you like? It must be about that time,” he glanced at the brass carriage clock on the mantelpiece. How he hated the ormolu one in the withdrawing room and the fat cherubs round it; it did not even keep correct time!

“No, thank you, not yet.”

Balantyne looked at him in surprise, then saw his face clearly for the first time. There were gray lines under his eyes and a flat, bare look about his whole aspect. Augusta would have been subtle, but he was incapable of it.

“For heaven’s sake, man, have one, you look as if you need it! What’s the matter?”

Carlton stood by the fire, unsure how to begin, and Balantyne realized he had embarrassed him by noticing a private distress he was not yet able to put into words. He was in turn embarrassed by his own clumsiness. Why could he not be warmer, more instinctive? He knew how to act in a crisis, but so often not what to say.

The silence hung between them, growing worse.

It was Carlton who resolved it.

“I’m sorry. Yes, I would like a whisky. I’m a little upset this evening-” he stopped, still looking not at Balantyne but at the fire. “Am I holding you up from changing to dine?”

“No, no. Plenty of time. Going to the Campbells.”

“Oh yes, of course. So are we. Forgot.”

Balantyne poured two whiskys from the decanter on the sideboard and passed him one. Surely Carlton wanted to discuss whatever it was? Was that not why he had come?

“Anything wrong in particular?” he asked.

“Had that police chap, Pitt, round again.”

Balantyne opened his mouth to ask if the servants were upset, then realized that such a domestic disturbance would hardly cause the distress he thought he saw. He remained silent, waiting for Carlton to frame whatever it was that lay so close under the surface.

It was a few minutes before it came, but this silence was one of patience.

“I think they suspect Euphemia,” Carlton said at last.

Balantyne was stunned. He could think of nothing coherent to say. How could they possibly suspect Euphemia Carlton? It was preposterous. He must have misunderstood: especially since the more he thought about it, the more he honestly believed it was most likely to be some indulgence of Reggie’s, and Reggie knew it, which was why he was in such a sweat.

He suddenly remembered that Reggie had wanted him to get Carlton to have the investigation suppressed! It was ludicrous.

“They can’t,” he said flatly. “It doesn’t make any sense at all, and Pitt’s an ordinary sort of chap, but he’s not a fool. They wouldn’t let him be an inspector if he made wild charges like that. You must have misunderstood something. Apart from anything else, Euphemia could have no reason!”

Carlton still looked into the fire, keeping his face away.

“Yes, she has, Brandon. She has a lover.”

From many men that would have meant little, as long as it were not publicly known, but to Carlton it was a sacrilege against his home, his most private person. Balantyne understood that much, although he could not feel the same inner injury to purity and pride himself. If Augusta had betrayed him, he would have been above all surprised; and yes, angry too; but not wounded except on the surface.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

“Thank you,” Carlton accepted it with the same politeness he might have received a compliment or a glass of wine, but Balantyne could see the pain in his drawn face. “You see,” Carlton went on, “they think she might have got rid of the children, in case the-made her-her situation obvious.”

“Yes, of course. But surely, you would have known? I mean-a woman you live with-your wife! If she had been with child-?”

“I do not ask a-a-great deal of Euphemia,” Carlton said awkwardly, his shoulders stiff, his face turned away. “I am considerably older than she is-I do not-like to-” he could not find words to finish, but his meaning was obvious.

Balantyne had never been so delicate about feelings, least of all Augusta’s, and suddenly he saw himself as a boor. He was ashamed for himself, and for Carlton he was inexplicably hurt. How could Euphemia, with a man so sensitive to her, loving her so deeply, have behaved like this? But neither his anger nor his disgust would be of any ease to Carlton now.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Do you know who?”

“No. It is all very-discreet still. The police say as little as they can.”

“Do you know if she-cares for him?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You haven’t asked her?”

Carlton turned and sheer surprise, for a moment, superseded the pain in his face.

“Of course not. I couldn’t-speak-to her of it. It would be-” he held out his hands helplessly.

“No.” Balantyne had no idea why he agreed. He was agreeing for Carlton, not for himself-he would have had a blazing row about it-but he could see that this quiet man, with whom he had thought he had so much in common, was utterly different. “I’m awfully sorry, Robert. I wish I knew what to say.”

For the first time Carlton smiled very faintly.

“Thank you, Brandon. There really isn’t anything to say. I don’t know why I bothered you with it, except that I felt like speaking to someone.”

“Yes,” Balantyne suddenly found his awkwardness again. “Yes, yes, of course. I-er-”

Carlton drank the last of his whisky and put the glass down.

“Better get back home. Must be toward dinner time. Got to change. Give my regards to Augusta. Good night, and thank you.”

“Good night-” he let out his breath again. There was nothing to say.

He thought several times of mentioning the subject to Augusta, but somehow could not bring himself to do it. It seemed a private matter, between men. For another woman to have known would have compounded the injury.

It was still at the back of his mind when Miss Ellison arrived on Monday morning to continue with the papers. He was surprisingly pleased to see her, perhaps because she was outside the family, and knew nothing of Callander Square or its wounds. Added to which she was cheerful, without being in the least coquettish. As he grew older he found coquettish women increasingly offensive.

“Good morning, Miss Ellison,” he smiled without thinking. She was a pleasing creature, not conventionally beautiful, and yet there was a richness about her, the wealth of mahogany-colored hair, the clear skin, and the intelligence in her eyes. For a woman, she talked remarkably little nonsense; funny, she was probably not more than four or five years older than Christina, who seldom spoke of anything but gossip or fashion, and who might marry whom.

He realized with a start that she was waiting for him to instruct her as to what he wished her to do.

“I have a box of letters here,” he fished it out, “from my grandfather. Would you please sort them out, those that refer to military matters from those that are purely personal.”

“Certainly,” she took the box. “Would you like them categorized?”

“Categorized?” he was still not concentrating.

“Yes. Those from the Peninsular War, those written before Quatre Bras and after Waterloo, and those from the military hospital and during the hundred days? Do you not think they would be interesting also?”

“Yes. Yes, please, that would be excellent.” He watched her remove them and go to sit at the far side of the room, by the fire, her head bent over the old paper and the faded, youthful handwriting. He saw in her, for a moment, his grandmother as she must have read those letters, sitting in an England at war with the Emperor, a young wife with infant children. He had no idea what she had looked like. Had she the same long curve of cheek, slender throat, so very feminine, and the tiny wisps of hair soft on the nape of the neck?

He shook himself strongly. The thought was ridiculous: she was merely a young woman who had an interest in old letters, and was competent to sort them.

Charlotte, on the other hand, was quite unconscious of the general. She forgot him as soon as she read the first sentence in the round, faded writing. Her imagination took her to lands she had never seen, and she tried to feel with the young soldier the emotions he described, his terror of the pressed men in the ranks, which he knew he must hide, his friendship for the surgeon, his awe at meeting the Iron Duke himself. There was humor in them, and unconscious pathos sometimes, and a lot of things he did not say about cold and hunger, aching legs, wounds, and fear, long monotony and sudden confusion of action.

She went down to luncheon in a dream, and the afternoon slipped by before she thought of time. It was dark when she got home, and less than a half hour later Emily arrived at the door, her coach horses stamping in the frost outside, their breath adding to the early fog.

“Well?” she demanded as soon as she was through the door.

Charlotte was still in Spain and the Peninsular War. She stared at Emily blankly.

Emily shut the door behind her and took a deep breath.

“What have you found out at the Balantynes’?” she said patiently. “You have been there, I presume?”

“Oh yes, of course,” Charlotte realized with a wave of guilt that she had done nothing to justify Emily’s trust in her, over the six days she had already been in Callander Square. “Many times,” she added. “I am coming to know some of the servants quite well.”

“Never mind the servants!” Emily said quickly. “What about Christina? Is she with child? And whether she is or not, why does she think that she is? Who is the father? And why does she not marry him, instead of allowing this ridiculous situation? Is he already married, or promised to someone else?” Her eyes widened. “Oh! Of course, he is unsuitable! It is a love match!” Then her face fell again. “No, it isn’t. Not Christina.” She sighed. “Oh Charlotte! Haven’t you found out anything at all?” Her expression crumpled in disappointment till Charlotte felt genuinely sorry for her, and even more strongly that she had let her down.

“I really will try tomorrow. But Christina has been in bed ever since I got there. They say she has a chill, but they haven’t called the doctor-”

“Who are ‘they’?” Emily asked, her interest quickening again.

“The servants, of course. Good gracious, Lady Augusta doesn’t speak to me, except to be civil, and the general never talks of anything but his papers. But servants are very inquisitive, you know. They would not do anything they would be obliged to admit to as gossip, but if it can be disguised as anything else, they will tell you everything they know, and most of what they merely surmise.”

“Well?” Emily said eagerly. “What do they surmise? For pity’s sake, tell me, before I explode!”

“They think that the police will never discover the truth, and will not really exert themselves greatly to try, because whoever is guilty, it will doubtless involve a gentleman, and therefore they will not be able to prosecute anyway! Which I would like to think is nonsense, but I fear they may speak with a bitterness of experience.”

“Which gentleman?” Emily could hardly contain herself, and her words came out in exasperation between closed teeth.

“There are as many ideas on that as there are servants to propose them,” Charlotte replied honestly. “Indeed, there have been some most heated exchanges. One of the housemaids is sure it cannot be young Brandon Balantyne, because he has never made an advance toward her, although the cook tells me he has assuredly been given the opportunity! Another housemaid is perfectly certain that it is him, for precisely the same reason! He has not made an advance toward her either, therefore he must have some dreadful secret-”

“Of course! Euphemia Carlton!” But Emily’s answer lacked any satisfaction. “Somehow I am reluctant to think that it is she, perhaps because I liked her. I fear I am not cut out for detection. But it will soon be appropriate for me to call again, without appearing to be too pushy in the acquaintance.” She sighed again. “But Charlotte, you really will have to do better! You are not trying! How can you possibly consider a war that was over in 1814 to be more interesting than a murder that is going on this very minute?”

“1815,” Charlotte corrected automatically, “and we don’t know that it is murder.”

“Oh, don’t be so pernickety! What does it matter as to the niceties? It is certainly the most terrific scandal! Which is more than you can say for your wretched wars! Do pull yourself together, please, and apply your mind properly!”

“I will, I promise. I will do my very best to see Christina myself, and if possible at least to begin to discover why she does not marry her lover, and who he is, if I can.”

“Thank you,” Emily assumed an air of patient generosity, as one who has decided to overlook an offense. “You might even get the opportunity to speak with other servants in the square. Of course, if you do, you will avail yourself of it!”

It was on Charlotte’s tongue to tell her younger sister not to be bossy, when she took into account Emily’s passion for the matter, and the possibility of her boredom with the pointlessness of her own social round, and instead merely agreed to do her best, and leave no chance unexplored.

When Pitt arrived a moment later, Emily was just leaving, a broad, anticipatory smile on her face.

“She looks like a cat who has spied the canary out of its cage,” Pitt observed when the door was closed.

“She is very well,” Charlotte said noncommittally.

“Beyond doubt,” he agreed. “A cat in excellent health. Who is to be the unfortunate canary this time?”

“That is unfair.” She was very reluctant to let him know anything about it, because as yet he knew only that she was assisting General Balantyne in some clerical work, in which she herself had a longstanding interest that her father had not let her indulge. He had no idea that she was, or planned to be, concerning herself in the Callander Square affair; still less that Emily had ignored her promise to let the matter drop. “She was only indulging in a little speculative gossip,” she finished. That should satisfy him as likely enough, without in any way giving him to believe an untruth.

“About whom?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“Come, Charlotte,” he put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. The warmth and the strength of him still thrilled her. She raised her eyes to look at him, in part quite genuinely because she loved him, and wished him to know it, and only in small part to distract him from his question.

A moment or two later he let go of her.

“Charlotte, what is Emily doing in Callander Square?” he repeated. “And even more important, what are you doing-apart from sorting papers for General Balantyne?”

She considered lying, but as Emily had said, she was no good at it. Instead she made a strategic withdrawal.

“Emily has not been calling at Callander Square lately. To do so too often would be obvious, and so defeat the purpose. She asked me if I had learned anything about Christina Balantyne. Of course I have not. She is in bed with a chill, and I haven’t even met her. Emily persuaded me that I should endeavor at least to find out who her lover is, and why she does not marry him, instead of taking to her bed.”

“Charlotte?” he frowned, and there was a mixture of amusement and apprehension in his eyes.

She felt totally innocent.

“Yes?”

“What makes you suppose Christina has a lover?”

“Oh,” she realized she had given herself away. Pitt was waiting and there was no evading him now without lying, which she could not do. “Emily found out,” she admitted. “and she told me; Christina is afraid she may be with child. That naturally must mean that she has a lover.”

He stared at her, and she had no idea what thoughts were in his mind. His eyes grew wider and his eyebrows climbed higher. He had the clearest, most penetrating eyes she had ever seen; she felt as if the very inside of his mind reached out into her. Then just as suddenly his mood changed.

“How very enterprising of Emily!” There was a lift of admiration in his voice, and she thought of amusement, also. “That explains why Lady Augusta would not let me see her,” he went on. “That is a most interesting question; why not simply marry, albeit a little hastily?” The interest faded from his expression. “Charlotte, you must tell General Balantyne you cannot assist him any more.”

She was horrified.

“Oh no! I can’t possibly do that! I am less than halfway through-”

“Charlotte. If they have something to hide-”

“There’s no danger!” she said quickly. “I haven’t asked any questions! I merely listen to the servants at meal times. I’m not like Emily, I shall be very discreet-”

He laughed outright.

“My dear, you are nothing like Emily; she is a model of discretion compared with you. You are to make your apologies, say you are unwell, or your mother is-”

“No! What can they do to me? I have no social position to lose: and they don’t even think of me as a person! They won’t suspect anything! I’ll just listen, I promise.” Another thought flashed into her mind, and she played her trump card. “If I leave now, they may indeed wonder why, and take the trouble to discover who I am!” She knew enough not to remind him of any danger to his own career; it would be the last way to deter him. “The best way,” she went on, “is to continue normally, and then they will think nothing of it.” She smiled sweetly, in the last moment, sure of herself.

He hesitated, weighing his decision.

“Will you give me your promise you will not ask questions?” he said finally.

She wondered whether she could keep it. She plunged.

“Yes. I’ll only listen. I give you my word,” she reached up and kissed him, but he still regarded her carefully, assuring himself that she indeed intended her promise.

It was a promise that was increasingly difficult for Charlotte to keep, as the very next day presented her with boundless opportunities to ask questions, discreetly and without seeming anything more than normally sympathetic. And of course she had her promise to Emily to keep as well. The chance to do something about the latter arose at luncheon when the lady’s maid was harassed beyond endurance by a multitude of tasks and Charlotte offered to take up Christina’s tray, to save the poor woman from at least one small chore.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, miss,” but the girl’s face brightened hopefully.

“Nonsense,” Charlotte swooped in and took the tray from under her nose. “It will be no trouble, and my luncheon is too hot to eat at the minute.”

“Oh, thank you, miss. Don’t let her ladyship catch you!”

“Don’t fear,” the bootboy said cheerfully, “She’s at luncheon ’erself. Won’t leave the table, till the general ’as eaten ’is pudding ’ot. Gives ’im indigestion wicked it does, if ’e eats it cold, then ’is temper’s something awful.”

Charlotte thanked him and hastened upstairs before anything could dissuade them, and had to stop a tweeny on the landing to ask her where Christina’s bedroom was.

She knocked on Christina’s door, and a moment later was inside. It was not so very unlike what her own room at Cater Street had been; a little larger, a little more expensively furnished perhaps. For a moment her girlhood came back to her; it was a sweet memory, but she was content that it was only a memory. She had a happiness now quite different from anything she had dreamed of then, but also it was deeper, with dimensions she had not guessed. She looked at Christina sitting up in the bed, her dark hair piled round her shoulders, her pretty little face now wide with surprise. What kind of happiness did she dream of, and with whom? A girl’s dreams could be so innocent, and so ignorant.

“Who are you?” Christina said a little petulantly.

“Charlotte Ellison,” she only just remembered the “Ellison” in time. “I’m helping General Balantyne with some clerical work, and as your lady’s maid was trying to do three jobs at once, I brought your luncheon for you. I do hope you are feeling better.” She looked at her as she said it, trying to disguise the careful assessment in her eyes as simple courtesy. Christina looked perfectly well, to all outward appearances. Certainly she had a fine color, her eyes were clear, and there was no puffiness in her nose and cheeks, such as one gets with a chill.

“Yes, thank you,” Christina replied coolly, then recollected herself and her situation. “I feel better today, but unfortunately it comes and goes.”

“I am sorry,” Charlotte set the tray down gently. “I daresay it is the weather.”

“I daresay. It was good of you to bring the tray up. There is nothing more I need, thank you, you may leave.”

Charlotte felt her face tighten; to be patronized had always woken her temper faster than anything else. She had to make a considerable effort to control herself.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I do hope you will be recovered soon. It is wretched to be in bed, one misses so much. It is quite distressing in society how quickly one gets left behind!” And with the satisfaction of her parting shot, she sailed out, closing the door with a final click.

Downstairs she cooled, realizing Emily would have charmed, dissimulated, controlled herself, and kept a friend. Instead Charlotte had now assuredly made an enemy. But then she was perfectly sure she could never like Christina, so perhaps she had merely accomplished at once what she would inevitably have achieved in time.

In the midafternoon it was totally different. She was asked as a favor, because the parlormaid was a little faint, if she would run an errand next door to the Southerons’. She accepted with alacrity, another excellent opportunity, and no sooner was she in the Southerons’ kitchen than she met Jemima Waggoner, the governess. She took an immediate liking to her, sensing in her a frankness like her own, and even perhaps feelings that propriety and her dependent situation forbade her expressing. She imagined such things in the wide gray eyes, and a touch of humor in the mouth.

“Would you care for tea, Miss Ellison?” Jemima offered. “It is about that time, and we were preparing to have ours. You would be most welcome.”

“Thank you, indeed it would be refreshing,” Charlotte accepted instantly. The general would have to wait. No doubt he would also stop for tea. If he offered her more on her return, she would have to accept it, even if she were virtually awash. But it was unlikely, he seldom thought of such things; he was singleminded and too absorbed in the dust of battle to think of cups of tea.

A few moments later she found herself alone in the governess’s room with Jemima, sipping tea and eating sandwiches.

“Are you really helping General Balantyne with his war histories?” Jemima asked. “I can never be sure if gossip is true or not.”

“No one can,” Charlotte agreed quickly. “Unless one had begun it oneself, and even then one cannot recognize it after a week! But this is perfectly true.”

“Do you enjoy it?” Jemima asked as if she expected an affirmative answer.

“Oh yes, I do. It is most interesting, especially the old letters. The letters from the soldiers are so different. We can hardly imagine! But the letters from wives and sweethearts-how little we have changed, all the same concerns, loves, illnesses, children, a little scandal.” She was stretching the truth a little, but she wanted to get back to Callander Square, and she felt that Jemima was not one to gossip easily.

“I suppose scandal doesn’t change,” Jemima said thoughtfully, looking down at the tea swirling gently in her cup where she had stirred it. “It is always speculation about someone else’s follies, or misdemeanors.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to press the point, to say something about Callander Square, and found she did not wish to. Jemima had framed her own thoughts; it was all other people’s sins and misfortunes perpetuated, exaggerated, and relished.

She said as much, and saw the quick sympathy in the other girl’s eyes, and felt a warmth toward her. She found herself smiling back.

“How many children do you teach?” she asked instead.

“Most of the time, just the three girls here, but three times a week Victoria and Mary Campbell come over. Do you know the Campbells? They live over on the other corner of the square.” She pulled a little face with wry humor. “I don’t care for Mr. Campbell very much. He’s very witty sometimes, but there always seems to be a sort of hopelessness underneath it, as if he is only pretending to be amused and he knows the whole thing is futile in the end. I find it depressing, and a little frightening,” she looked at Charlotte to see if she understood.

“Cynicism frightens me too,” Charlotte agreed. “One can fight against so many things, but one cannot argue people into hope. What about Mrs. Campbell, is she like that also?”

“Oh no, she is quite different: quiet and competent. Actually she is about the best mother I have worked for, she neither spoils the children nor is she indifferent or overly strict. I think she is a very strong woman.” This last opinion was given with some thought.

They spoke for a few more minutes about other people in the square, a little about the Balantynes and Charlotte’s work. Charlotte discovered that Jemima had met young Brandon Balantyne on two or three occasions, and from the very delicate color in her fair skin, gathered that she found him attractive, although of course she would not say so. It was not for governesses to have opinions about the sons of generals and the grandsons of dukes.

They had finished their tea when the door burst open and quite the handsomest parlormaid Charlotte had seen came in, her face bright with anger, her uniform disarrayed.

“One day I’m going to slap him good and proper, so help me I am!” she said furiously. “I shall forget myself, I swear!” Then she realized Charlotte was not of the household. “Oh, I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t see you there. Beg your pardon.”

“That’s quite all right,” Charlotte said easily. She forgot her promise to Pitt. “Has someone been taking liberties?”

“Liberties! I should say.”

“Mary Ann,” Jemima broke the slight awkwardness. “This is Miss Ellison, who is helping General Balantyne next door with his papers.”

Mary Ann inclined her head politely; as an employee Charlotte did not rate a curtsey. “I suppose you’ve had your tea,” she said with a glance at the pot. “I expect they’ll have some in the kitchen,” she went out again, twitching her skirt behind her, still not satisfied with its replacement.

“Perhaps it would be a good idea if she did slap him, nice and hard,” Charlotte said when the door was closed again. “One cannot make one’s position too clear.”

“Slap him?” Jemima laughed, turning down the corners of her mouth with a little gesture. “Mr. Southeron is very good-natured, but he would not take kindly to a parlormaid who slapped his face.”

“Mr. Southeron!” Charlotte tried to hide her surprise, and triumph. Now she had really pertinent news to tell Emily, and she had asked no questions; at least only one, and that had been accidental.

She could see that Jemima regretted having spoken so freely.

“I should not have said that,” she was a little abashed. “I only surmise, from what I have overheard. I should not leap to conclusions. Perhaps Mary Ann is exaggerating?”

“She is certainly angry about something,” Charlotte said carefully. “But perhaps we should not speculate too far as to what it might be. I trust you have never been-?” she left it hanging delicately.

To her surprise Jemima suppressed a laugh.

“Well, once or twice I’ve thought he was about to, but I moved out of the way. He did look a bit annoyed. But once you allow any familiarity, you cannot go back, you have abandoned your position, so to speak.” She lifted her eyebrows slightly, to question Charlotte if she understood what she meant.

“Oh yes,” Charlotte agreed; and although she was only guessing, she felt a sharp sympathy with this girl who was obliged to work and to live in other people’s houses, and dare not risk offending them.

She remained a little longer, and then excused herself and returned to General Balantyne, who surprised her by pacing the library floor waiting for her. At first she thought he was going to berate her for her absence, but his temper evaporated and he seemed content to resume work with no more than a short complaint.

Pitt was late home that evening and Charlotte had no chance to tell him what she had learned, and the following morning he was out early. She arrived at Callander Square ready for her duties. Again an opportunity presented itself for an errand elsewhere in the square, and she seized it eagerly. Thus at quarter to two she found herself standing in the Dorans’ crowded withdrawing room with a bunch of dry winter flowers in her hand, facing Miss Georgiana.

Georgiana was swathed in smoke-gray chiffon and artificial flowers. She lay on the chaise longue with one arm resting on the back. She was so bony and pale that, but for the brilliant eyes, she would have reminded Charlotte of an artistic corpse laid out in shroud and flowers, the Lady of Shallott, perhaps, twenty years after! The thought made her want to giggle, and she maintained her composure only with the greatest effort. She could feel the laughter boiling up inside her: her sense of the ludicrous had always been unreliable.

Georgiana looked at her narrowly.

”Who did you say you were?”

“Charlotte Ellison, Mrs. Duff. Lady Augusta wished me to bring you these. I believe they are said to be excellent for the house, a very delicate perfume,” she proffered them to the clawlike little hand, winking with jewels.

“Nonsense,” Georgiana put them to her nose. “They smell like dust. Still, it was civil of Augusta to send them; no doubt she thinks they will suit Laetitia, and I daresay she is right.”

Charlotte could not help glancing at the velvet and plush roses that decorated the couch, the cushions, and Georgiana herself.

Georgiana’s diamond-sharp little eyes caught her.

“Quite different,” she said simply. “I love beauty. I am very sensitive. I suffer, you know, and it helps to have flowers.”

“I’m sure it must,” Charlotte could think of nothing sensible to say to such a remark. She stood awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure whether to remain, or to excuse herself.

Georgiana was regarding her with curiosity.

“You don’t look like a maid. What did you say you were?”

“I am helping General Balantyne with his war memoirs.”

“Disgusting. What does a young woman like you want with war memoirs? Money, I suppose?”

“I find them very interesting,” Charlotte did not feel obliged to prevaricate or hide her feelings. “I think it becomes us all to know the history of our country, and the nature of the sacrifices that have been made.”

Georgiana’s eyes narrowed.

“What a quaint creature you are. Please either take your leave, or sit down. You are tall, and peering up at you makes my neck ache. I am very delicate.”

Charlotte was tempted to stay, but she was aware that the general would be waiting for her, and of her duty to him, both as a matter of honor and because she might lose her position and its opportunities if she were to stretch his patience too far.

“Thank you, Mrs. Duff,” she said demurely, “but I must return. It has been most pleasant to meet you.”

“Come again. You are quite entertaining,” Georgiana lay back, the better to survey her frankly. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to. Give Augusta my thanks. Don’t tell her I do not care for the flowers, or that they smell like unlived-in houses.”

“Of course not,” and Charlotte left her still gazing at the door.

Back in the library Balantyne was waiting for her.

“Georgiana hold you in conversation?” he said, looking at her with a smile, the first she could remember on his face. “Poor old creature. It can’t be easy living there with Laetitia. I sometimes think Helena’s leaving turned her mind a little.”

“Helena?” Charlotte could not place the name, although she thought Emily had mentioned it.

“Laetitia’s daughter,” Balantyne explained. “Wretched girl eloped with someone about two years ago. Never found out who. Poor Laetitia was quite deranged by it. Never mentioned Helena’s name since, pretends she had no children. Husband’s been dead for years and she had no one else, so Georgiana came to live with her.”

“How very sad.” Charlotte saw the waste and her imagination tried to visualize the loneliness, Helena’s love-or temptation-all the regret since. She wondered if the marriage was happy. “Has she never written to her mother since?”

“Not so far as I know. Of course Laetitia admired Ross as well, which made it all the harder.”

“Who is Ross?”

“Alan Ross. He was in love with Helena. We all thought it was only a matter of time before they married. Shows what nonsense we talk!” He sat down behind the desk again, and she found his eyes on her faintly disturbing. “He has never got over it,” he added.

She could think of no expression that was not unbearably trite.

“We so seldom really know what another person feels,” she said, picking up the papers again. “There are your uncle’s diaries. Do you wish me to number the pages that refer specifically to military matters?”

“What?”

She repeated her question, holding up the books for him to see.

“Oh yes, yes, please. You are most helpful-” he hesitated, “Miss Ellison.”

She smiled quickly and looked away.

“I’m glad. I assure you I find it very interesting,” and immediately she opened the book in her hand and bent her head to read. As soon as it was five o’clock she closed it and bade him good night, and had Max call her a hansom cab. She gave the driver Emily’s address, and went clattering through the darkness, news bursting on her lips.