Callander Square

SEVEN

Christmas passed with all the trappings of tradition, the decorations, the dances, the rich food and the heavy wine, the flirtations, the presents, the bells and songs, and even, on occasion, the prayers.

For that week Charlotte did not go to Callander Square but devoted herself to her own home. Last year she had been too new to marriage to feel the warm, easy comfort of complete friendship, of belonging without anxiety or the urgency to please. Now she hung the parlor with lanterns and colored chains, purchased a small tree and decorated it, then busied herself making toffee and fudge, marzipan and mints to give to carol singers, and wrapping small gifts for her family.

On January second the matter of Callander Square obtruded into her life again, and when Pitt departed in the morning to the police station, she finished a rather indifferent effort at housework, and took herself back to the Balantynes’ residence to address her attention to learning more about the rest of the square, beginning with the Southerons. After all, if Reggie Southeron really did pester his parlormaids, perhaps not all of them had been as unwilling as Mary Ann professed to be. Indeed, it was by no means certain that Mary Ann herself was paying more than lip service to her indignation, a protest as a matter of form, for her dignity’s sake. It would be a good idea to ascertain how long Mary Ann had been in Callander Square, and something about her predecessor.

To this end Charlotte pursued her very natural liking for Jemima Waggoner, and accepted an invitation for luncheon the day after. Accordingly at noon she excused herself from the general in the library, and scurried through the rain to the area entranceway of the Southerons’. She was let in by the scullery maid with giggles, and guided upstairs to the schoolroom where today Jemima was eating alone, since Faith, Patience, and Chastity were dining at the Campbells’, in honor of Victoria Campbell’s birthday.

Jemima jumped up immediately, her face lighting with a broad smile.

“Oh, Charlotte, do come in. I’m so pleased you were able to accept. General Balantyne did not mind?”

“No, of course not, as long as I am back by about two. After all, he will have to have luncheon himself, and to tell the truth, we are nearly sorted through all the papers, and I think he is not entirely sure what to do next.”

“He is rather an intimidating person, isn’t he?” It was more an expression of opinion than a question. While she was speaking, Jemima laid a small table with cloth and cutlery, and almost the moment she had finished, one of the maids brought in the tray cook had prepared. It was a surprisingly elaborate meal for luncheon, and Charlotte thought, seeing it, that it probably reflected Reggie Southeron’s love of food and comforts.

Charlotte admired the menu, and they fell to discussing food and the general household of the Southerons. Then when the second course was completed and the pudding brought, Jemima returned to the subject of the general.

“Is it confidential?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Charlotte replied, “In fact I believe the more people who know, and are interested, the better he would be pleased. He is very proud of his family, you know. And I admit, so should I be, if my family had distinguished itself so. There has been a Balantyne in almost every great battle since the time of the Duke of Marlborough.”

Jemima similed, looking into the distance, her eyes soft.

“It is a great heritage. It must be quite difficult for a man, born into such a family; so much to live up to. I wonder if young Mr. Balantyne will fight in such battles, and become a general also?”

“Well, there are hardly any wars now,” Charlotte replied, but her thoughts were not on military involvements, but involvements of the heart. The look on Jemima’s face concerned her. It was not like her own, an impersonal interest, an excitement in the power, the courage, and the pain of all the human beings who had lived and died in wars; she rather feared it had more to do with Brandy Balantyne, to do with a smile, a slender back, and dark head.

Jemima had not yet chosen her words for reply, and seemed somewhat confused.

“I rather hope not,” she said, looking at the spoon in her hand. “It is very dreadful to think of the young men who go abroad to fight in battles that have so little to do with us, and then are maimed, or die.”

“I wonder how little they really are to do with us,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “We live in the manner we do, with wealth and safety, with sea trade all over the world, with markets for our goods, and exotic things to buy at home, just because we have an empire that covers nearly every corner of the globe. And many see it as our duty,” she went on, looking now at Jemima’s face, “to spread civilization, Christianity, and good government to the races who do not know of such things.”

“I suppose so,” Jemima agreed reluctantly. “But it seems a terrible price to pay for it. So many who do not come back. Think of all the wives, and families.”

“There is not much that can be purchased without a heavy price,” Charlotte said, thinking back on the few things she knew of real value-of compassion, gratitude, understanding. “What we do not pay for in some way, unfortunately we tend not to regard in its true worth.” She smiled to soften the words a little.

Jemima frowned.

“Do you not think sometimes we value a thing merely because we have paid for it?” she asked. “And perhaps paid too much? And so we cling to it, and go on paying?”

Charlotte thought about it for a moment. She had become bound to a thing, committed to it for no better reason than all that she had already sacrificed for it. Perhaps some of her early infatuation for Dominic held some element of such a habit of emotion. But was Jemima thinking about the price of possessions, of war-or about the fear that Brandy Balantyne might fight somewhere, and be killed? She recalled other small fragments of conversation they had had, gentle, frequent mention of the Balantynes.

“Yes,” she agreed, bringing herself back to the moment. “Oh yes. Men tend to do that with wars and politics, and perhaps women do so with marriages.”

Jemima relaxed with a little rueful sigh.

“Well, for women, where else is there to go? One cannot give up a marriage, however empty it may be; there is nothing to do but work at it. One has no means to leave. Even if one possessed money beforehand, when one marries it becomes the property of one’s husband. If one leaves, one goes without anything. And no one in society will help, because divorce is not acceptable. My elder sister-still, that is an unhappy subject, and I am sure you don’t wish to hear of it. Tell me more about the work you are doing. You told me that General Balantyne actually saw the charge of the Light Brigade, himself! I pray there may never be such a dreadful, useless waste of lives again. How can the women ever forgive for all those deaths, the losses, and all so unnecessary: a little common sense could have-”

“Common sense is excessively rare,” Charlotte interrupted. “I have often seen afterward things which I would permit no one to tell me at the time.” She wondered if she should say something about Brandy Balantyne. It was his relationship with Euphemia Carlton that concerned her, of course. If he could have been her lover, he must be a most unprincipled man, and could bring Jemima nothing but pain. One needed only to have been in love once, to have ached in secret and unfulfilled, to see it clearly in others.

She felt the wound now for Jemima.

No, it was better to say nothing. She would have curled with mortification to have had anyone else know how she had felt, in the past. Now of course she loved Pitt, and it hardly mattered. But for Jemima it was the present, and there was no Pitt.

So she talked instead of other things, of teaching history to children, and heard tales of the schoolroom, some that made her laugh. Presently she took her leave and returned to the library, resolved to deal somehow with the matter herself.

She worried about it all evening, till Pitt asked her what absorbed her so, and of course she was unable to answer, since she felt it was an entirely feminine confidence, and he would not understand. She replied that it was a friend whose romance exercised her, and he seemed satisfied not to press further. And indeed, it was true enough.

Much of the night she lay awake, wrestling with her conscience as to whether she should interfere in the matter, or leave it for fear of causing embarrassment. She finally arose still unsatisfied that she was correct, but having reached a decision to approach Brandy Balantyne in a manner which would have annoyed Pitt, had he known, and have horrified her parents. Only Emily might approve, and even she might well consider it socially unwise.

Her opportunity came in the afternoon. Brandy came in from a bitterly cold and wet day to warm himself by the library fire, knowing it to be the best in the house. The general was out on an errand.

Brandy came in cheerfully, rubbing his hands and shivering. He really was a most charming person; she would prefer to have liked him. She had to keep reminding herself that he was careless of feelings, indifferent to hurt, or she would have warmed to him in spite of herself.

“Hello, still working?” he smiled without a trace of condescension. “Do you like that stuff, honestly?”

“Yes, it’s extremely interesting.” For a moment she was beguiled, and was on the verge of replying with enthusiasm about the glimpses of people coming through the letters, the tendernesses, the vulnerability, the sudden harsh fears and griefs; when she remembered that she had made up her mind to speak to him about Jemima.

“Mr. Balantyne,” she said firmly.

He looked a little surprised.

“Yes?”

She stood up.

“I have a matter of some privacy to discuss with you. Do you mind if I close the door?”

“With me?” He did not yet seem embarrassed, as she had feared he might, and then easily refuse to listen.

She pushed the door and heard it catch. She turned to face him. She must hurry, the general might return at any time. It must not be left half done.

“I have formed a considerable regard for Miss Waggoner,” she began, trying to conceal her nervousness, hearing her voice go dry. “Because of my friendship for her, I do not wish to see her hurt-”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “What makes you think she is in danger of being hurt? She always looks uncommonly well to me.”

“Always?” Charlotte said quickly.

“Well, as often as I see her.” He frowned. “What is it you fear, Miss Ellison?”

There was no point in prevaricating, and she was not good at it. She wished Emily were here to put it more delicately, to be subtle. She took a deep breath.

“You do, Mr. Balantyne.”

His face fell in astonishment. It would be easy to believe he had no idea what she meant.

“I do?” he said incredulously.

She breathed in and out slowly to collect herself.

“I am aware of your relationship with Lady Carlton. If I can prevent it, I shall not let you do the same with Miss Waggoner. And do not say you do not look on servants in such a way. A man who would have an affair with his neighbor’s wife does not scruple about governesses.” She could not look at him, and felt strangely empty for having said all that was inside her.

“For God’s sake don’t-I mean-please-” There was such an urgency in his voice that she found herself lifting her eyes to meet his. His concern looked almost genuine. “Look,” he held up his hands helplessly, and let them fall again as explanation eluded him, “you don’t understand!”

She struggled to remain cold; she wished so much to relent, and like him.

“Is there something more to understand than that you found her attractive, and took advantage of her situation?” she said coolly.

“Yes, there’s everything to understand!”

“It is none of my business, but I cannot understand it if I do not know.”

“And if you don’t know, I suppose you will believe the worst, and spread it about.” There was a mounting hopelessness in his voice now, and in his face.

“Of course I shall not spread it about,” she said crossly. It was a horrible suggestion. “But I wish to make sure you do not hurt Jemima.”

“Why should I? Why Jemima?” he fenced.

“Don’t be naive! Because she finds you attractive, and does not know that you are-” she could think of no word she wished to employ.

“Very well,” he turned away. “Though I doubt you will believe me.”

She waited, looking at his dark head against the winter light of the window.

“Robert Carlton is a nice old boy, but pretty remote, detached-”

“That is no excuse-”

“Don’t interrupt,” he said sharply. “Above all things Euphemia wants a child. She is thirty-six. She has not forever. And if Robert persists in treating her with courtesy and excessive consideration, either because he is abashed by emotion, or because he believes, mistakenly, that it is what she wishes, then she will never have one. She fears that he is uninterested in physical affection, and would find her repellent if he knew she was, so she dares not tell him.

“We have always been friends. I like her; she’s a generous woman, with wit and kindness. I saw she was getting more and more distressed about something. She finally confided it to me. Ours was an arrangement of convenience, only until she conceived a child. Now you can believe that or not, as you choose. But it’s the truth. And whatever you think of me, for Euphemia’s sake-or for Robert Carlton’s-don’t spread it around.” For the first time he turned and looked back at her, his face perfectly serious. “Please?”

It was ridiculous, and yet she did believe him. Without considering, she acknowledged it.

“I believe you. But-do not speak or act without thought toward Miss Waggoner. It can hurt very much to fall in love where you know it cannot be returned.”

He looked at her closely, his hazel eyes clouded with a sudden sensitivity to her.

“Oh, not now,” she said quickly. “But in the past I have done. He was my sister’s husband. I grew out of it, I saw him differently. But it hurt at the time.”

He relaxed.

“Please don’t speak of Euphemia,” he asked again.

She thought of Pitt, the babies in the gardens.

“I promise I shall not speak except in her interest,” she said solemnly.

He was not satisfied, sensing evasion in her words.

“What do you mean?”

There was nothing for it but to be honest.

“I was thinking of the police. They know that Euphemia is with child, and that it is yours. They may hold her under some suspicion for the children in the gardens also, you know.”

His face went so blank with horror it was impossible to imagine that he had thought of such an eventuality before.

“To tell them the truth,” Charlotte said softly, “might be greatly to Euphemia’s advantage, do you not think?”

“They wouldn’t believe it,” his mouth was stiff, still shocked.

“They might.”

“How-how did they know of-of the child-about me-any of it?”

“They are quite clever, you know, and they would be looking for such things.”

“I suppose so. Mother said she thought that fellow Pitt was clever, and she’s usually right. And there are not many people whose intelligence she regards well.”

Charlotte did not wish to tell him of her own relationship to Pitt, and she wondered if the warmth of pride that bubbled inside her now was as obvious to him as it felt to her.

“That is all I meant,” she said carefully. “Now I think it might be advisable for us to finish this discussion before the general returns, do you not?”

“Oh-yes, yes it would. You won’t-?”

“No, of course I won’t! I was concerned only for Jemima.”

His mouth curved upward in a slight smile.

“You know, I like Jemima. She’s a little like you, in some ways. And in other ways, you are a little like Mother-”

Charlotte froze at the thought, although doubtless he intended it as a compliment.

His smile broadened into a grin.

“Don’t look so shocked. Mother has more courage than anyone else I know; she’d knock the stuffing out of all the old generals at Father’s clubs! And she was quite a beauty too. Only trouble was she could never flirt; didn’t know how; had no art of deception.”

Charlotte blushed. She had rather charged in, and certainly she had displayed no finesse. Perhaps she was more like Lady Augusta than she would have cared to admit. She looked up at Brandy to say something to excuse herself, make herself appear softer, when the general came in. His face widened in surprise when he saw Brandy.

“Best fire in the house,” Brandy said quickly. “You always bragged it was.”

“That does not mean I intended you to stand by it all afternoon, distracting Miss Ellison from her work.”

“Pity. Can’t think of a pleasanter thing to do on a filthy winter afternoon. Do you see the gutters, simply running over with water?”

“Then go and change your boots. I must get on with my work. You would be better if you found yourself something to do.”

“Can’t write my memoirs yet, I haven’t got anything to remember.”

Balantyne looked at him with slight suspicion, as if he thought he might be being faintly twitted, but Brandy’s face was bland with innocence. He went to the door.

“Good afternoon, Miss Ellison, thank you for permitting me to stand by your fire,” and he went out.

“Was he disturbing you?” Balantyne asked a little sharply.

“Not at all,” Charlotte replied. “He wasn’t here long. I believe I have sorted those Marlborough letters, would you care to look at them?”

Emily had been several times to Callander Square since her last visit to Charlotte over the matter, and had managed to form quite a friendship with Christina. Therefore she was not surprised when Christina confided in her at the end of the first week in January that she was shortly to be married to Alan Ross.

The confidence itself did not surprise Emily; she had spent their entire acquaintance diligently seeking precisely this. But under any other circumstances, the choice of bridegroom would have surprised her considerably. Alan Ross and Christina Balantyne seemed to her judgment an unnatural partnering. From what she had seen of Ross, he was a serious and rather tense man, possibly even a man of deep feeling: whereas Christina was gay, when she chose, deliriously sophisticated, and essentially shallow. Still, he was of good family, and adequate means, and most important, apparently willing to marry at short notice.

“We are to be married at the end of the month,” Christina said, facing Emily in the morning room where they sat by the fire.

“My congratulations,” Emily replied, her mind considering the possibility that Christina might know by now whether she was actually with child or not. She was careful not to glance downward to a betraying waistline, but she had admired her gown earlier, to give herself an opportunity to look carefully then. There was certainly no sign of it. But it was early yet. In fact Charlotte was over four months, and still looked quite normal. Of course Charlotte was a bigger person than Christina, and all these things had to be taken into account.

“Thank you,” Christina accepted without enthusiasm. “I should like you to be there, if you are able?”

“Of course. It will be charming. Which church do you choose?”

“St. Clement’s. It is all arranged.”

“I hope you have a good dressmaker? It is so nerve-racking to be let down at the last moment. I can give you names, if you are not already suited?”

“Oh, I am, thank you. Miss Harrison is most reliable.”

“I’m so glad.” Emily sensed a certain restraint, something beneath the surface that Christina wished to say to someone, and yet could not decide. “You will make a beautiful bride,” Emily went on. “Mr. Ross is most fortunate.”

“I hope so.”

Emily affected to be mildly surprised.

“Have you some doubt? I think you will make him an excellent wife, if you wish to.”

Christina’s little face hardened.

“I’m not sure that I do wish to. I’m not sure that I wish to give up my freedom.”

“Good gracious, girl, there is no need to give up your freedom, or anything else-except money, of course-but even that can be managed properly, with a little forethought.”

Christina looked up, staring at her.

“What do you mean? I am marrying a man I am not in love with. What greater sacrifice of freedom can there be than that?”

It was time she was taught a little common sense.

“My dear, very few women marry men they are in love with,” Emily said firmly. “And even those who do, frequently find that it was a mistake. The kind of man one falls in love with is usually entertaining, witty, and handsome; but equally often he has no means to support one, is highly unreliable, and as like as not, will in due course fall out of love with you, and in again with someone else. To marry, one requires a man with good character, common sense in business, or else a private income of great proportions; he must be moderately sober and not gamble to excess, and be of gentle manners and acceptable appearance.”

“That sounds desperately dull,” Christina said sourly. “I don’t remember George Ashworth being like that!”

“Possibly not, but then I worked a great deal harder than you were prepared to do. I had not your advantages, so I had to create my own. But Mr. Ross seems pleasantly spoken and courteous; he has means, so I hear; and he is certainly well enough to look at. That is all you can reasonably expect.”

“Perhaps, but it is not all that I want!”

“Well, providing you are discreet, you can always fall in love afterward. But in the meantime you would be well advised to make the best of this. You are hardly the sort of person to be happy running off with some penniless romantic, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can begin to work on what you have. And make no mistake, my dear, you will have to work on it.”

“Work on it? I don’t know what you mean. I have done the work; we are to be married before the end of the month. He could not possibly let me down now. It would make his position impossible.”

Emily sighed. She had not realized any girl could grow up so ignorant. Whatever had Lady Augusta been thinking of? Or perhaps the Balantynes had enough money and social influence, and Christina sufficient looks, that they had considered it unnecessary. Or it was even possible that Lady Augusta had given all this advice, and Christina was merely too arrogant to have believed it.

“Christina,” she said slowly, “if you wish to be happy, you must realize that it depends upon your husband being happy, and upon his being agreeable to your conducting your life in the manner that best pleases you. You must teach him to want what you want, and if possible even to think that it is his idea. If he believes he has suggested a thing, he will never refuse you, even if he changes his mind. You must learn to be courteous to him at all times, or nearly all; never to argue with him, or disobey him, in public, and if you must do it in private, then do it either with a smile, or with tears. Don’t waste your time trying to be reasonable, men do not expect it, and it disconcerts them. Always pay attention to your looks; do not be extravagant beyond your means; and see that your servants keep your home properly. Never let there be domestic upsets, men do not like to have the order of things disturbed, above all by quarrels in the household.

“And if you have an admirer, for heaven’s sake be discreet; always, whatever it costs you, be discreet. No love affair is worth sacrificing your marriage for. And to be honest, my dear, I cannot see you loving anyone enough to lose your head over; your heart, for a little; or your desires, if you cannot contain yourself, although you would be better if you could; but never forget what scandal does to a woman. Your husband will tolerate all sorts of things, if you treat him well, but not scandal.”

She looked at Christina’s pretty, rather sulky face.

“And one last thing,” she finished. “If he should show undue interest in another woman, affect not to notice it. Whatever you do, never make a scene. Men hate scenes. Jealousy is the most unbecoming of all behavior. Never lose your temper, and be careful how often you weep. It can become most boring, and then when you need it, it no longer works.

“I am surprised your mother has not given you the same advice.”

Christina stared at her. “She has, she has done for years. I pay no attention. One’s mother is always giving one good advice.”

Emily waited, staring back, eyes unflinching. It was a time for reality.

At last Christina’s eyes dropped.

“I don’t think I really want to be married,” she spoke quietly. “It sounds like very hard work.”

“Do you have any choice?” Emily was brutal.

Christina’s eyes narrowed and her face tightened.

“What do you mean?” she demanded harshly.

Emily assumed innocence.

“That you must make up your mind,” she replied blandly, “and whatever you do, you must do it well. We can none of us afford to do anything else. In society everyone knows what everyone else does; it is talked about and never totally forgotten. You will have to live with it all your life, so think before you act. That is all I mean.”

Christina took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“What a revoltingly practical creature you are. I don’t believe you have an ounce of romance in your soul.”

“Perhaps not,” Emily agreed. “But do not confuse romance with love. I know how to love.” She stood up. “I fear your romance is largely an indulgence, and indulgence is selfishness and has to be paid for.”

“I do not intend to pay if I do not have to. But I shall remember what you say, whether I follow it or not. You may still attend the wedding, if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Emily said dryly. “I should be delighted.”

Emily decided that with regard to the bodies in the square, Christina was no longer of interest; for one thing, she had not the nerve, the decision, to perform such an act. Lady Augusta most certainly would have had, but then she had also, unless Emily had wildly misjudged her, enough sense never to have permitted such a thing to happen.

Therefore it was time to turn her attention to the other houses. Charlotte had told her that Euphemia Carlton was highly unlikely, although she would not say why, but apparently she had satisfied Pitt. And although Pitt was a peculiar creature, Emily had a great respect for him; purely as a policeman, of course, socially he was impossible. But if he was satisfied regarding Euphemia, then so was she.

So she must look further into the other households, as opportunity could be made. From what Charlotte had learned, Reggie Southeron seemed the most promising, but it might also prove productive to cultivate Sophie Bolsover, and to learn a little more about Helena Doran. She had gone about the time of the death of the first child, just over two years ago. It was possible there was some connection, was it not? Why had she never written? Who was the lover no one had even seen? Had he perhaps loved others also-with different results? The time that the first body had been in the ground, some six months, could it have been longer? Long enough to have been conceived before Helena and her unknown lover disappeared? Could that even be why the child had been killed-a legacy from a love affair that had ended in desertion, and hate? It was certainly a mystery very much worth the solving!

With this in mind she planned to visit Charlotte two days afterward, being obliged to attend to her household on the following morning, a small matter of servants, and be at home to callers in the afternoon. One had certain social obligations to maintain.

However, on the second morning she was free to pursue those things that were really of interest to her.

“Who on earth are you calling on at this hour?” George inquired, still sitting at a late breakfast and flicking through the society pages of the newspaper. He looked very elegant in his silk dressing coat. She thought again how fortunate she was that she had been able to marry a man who could offer her all the social and financial advantages she wished, and whom she could genuinely love. Of course he had many characteristics that, when this fascinating business in Callander Square was over, she would hope to work on. But then if there were nothing to work on, a marriage would quickly become intolerably boring; for a woman, at any rate.

“Charlotte,” she replied. “It doesn’t matter what time I call on her.”

“You’ve become uncommonly fond of Charlotte lately,” he said with a slight frown. “What are you doing, Emily?”

“Doing?” she opened her eyes wide.

“Yes, ‘doing,’ my dear. You are far too pleased with yourself not to be doing something. I want to know what it is.”

She had already foreseen this occasion and had her answer prepared.

“I am introducing Charlotte to a few of my acquaintances, in a range of society that she may enjoy,” she said easily; which was true enough, although not for the reason she implied. Charlotte had no interest in Callander Square, except for the purpose of detection. Neither, for that matter, if she were honest, had Emily.

George squinted at her round the paper.

“You surprise me. I didn’t think Charlotte gave a fig for any part of society. I would say don’t push her into anything she does not wish, just because you enjoy it; only I doubt you would be able to. As I remember Charlotte, she is very unlikely to do anything unless she wishes to herself.” He put the paper down. “But in the event she does wish to look at society, why don’t you ask her here? We’ll give a party and introduce her properly. She’s a handsome enough creature, not traditional perhaps, but very handsome.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Emily said quickly. “It has nothing to do with her looks, it is her tongue. You can’t take Charlotte anywhere, she says whatever comes to her mind. Ask her her opinion of anything, and instead of judging what is appropriate to say, she will tell you what she really thinks. She would not mean to, but she would ruin herself in a month, not to mention us. And of course Pitt is not a gentleman. He is far too intelligent, for a start.”

“There is no reason why a gentleman should not be intelligent, Emily,” he said somewhat tartly.

“Oh, of course not, my dear,” she replied with a smile. “But he should have the good taste not to show it. You know that. It makes other people feel uncomfortable, and it implies effort. One should never appear to make an effort. It is like enthusiasm; have you noticed how ladies are never enthusiastic in public? It makes one look so naive. Still, I suppose there is nothing public to be enthusiastic about. Shall you be in for dinner?”

“We are engaged to dine with Hetty Appleby,” he said, fixing her with a penetrating eye. “I presume you had forgotten that?”

“Completely,” she admitted. “I must go now, I have a lot to say to Charlotte.”

“You could always ask her to dinner here anyway,” he called after her. “I rather like Charlotte. She may not be good for society, but I think she might be rather good for me!”

Emily quite naturally found Charlotte at home at that hour of the day and pleased at the excuse to leave her housework, although her home, she would be the first to admit, had fallen into a rather haphazard state since her assistance to General Balantyne began.

“We can discount Christina,” Emily said immediately, walking in and pulling off her gloves. “I have looked at her carefully, and I don’t believe she would have the nerve.”

Charlotte made an effort to conceal a smile, and failed.

“I’m so glad.”

“Why? You cannot possibly tell me you like her?”

“Oh no, I don’t! But I like the general; and I think I like Brandy too.”

“Indeed?” Emily was surprised. “Why do you like Brandy? I told you about Euphemia Carlton!”

“I know you did. Where do you wish to look next? I think Reggie Southeron. He definitely pays considerable attention to his parlormaids. I don’t imagine it is a newly acquired habit-”

“Certainly not. But as well as that, we should consider the mystery of Helena Doran.”

“Why, for goodness’ sake? She’s been gone for two years.”

“I know that,” Emily said impatiently. “But what about her lover? Who was he? Was she the only one? Why not court her openly, if he were a man of honor? Why does no one know who he was?”

Charlotte understood immediately.

“You mean he may have courted others, and the babies could have been theirs? Thomas said the times of death were only very approximate.” She wrinkled her nose a little. “It depends on the nature of the soil, the wetness, and so forth. It seems horrible to think of human beings like that: but I suppose we must all be buried some time. We are only clay anyway, after the soul has gone. It’s foolish how much we love our bodies. I can ask Jemima a little about it.”

Emily knew her sister well enough to realize without effort that this last sentence referred back again to Helena Doran’s disappearance.

“What is she like, this Jemima?” she inquired.

“Very reliable.” Charlotte viewed her as a witness, rightly guessing that Emily was not interested in her qualities of warmth or humor.

“She wouldn’t be the one, I suppose.” Emily looked at her a little sideways.

“No,” Charlotte said firmly. “At least I would say not, if character is anything at all to judge by.”

Emily considered for a moment.

“It isn’t,” she decided. “Still, we’ll concentrate on Helena first. There is a mystery there, beyond question. You ask Jemima, and for goodness’ sake be a bit more discreet than you usually are. I shall speak to Sophie Bolsover again. She is always only too willing to gossip a little. I must think up what I know to tell her in return.”

Having stayed for a little further discussion, and the quite real pleasure of visiting with her sister, Emily took herself home again and prepared to launch her new offensive. First she would call upon Sophie when she might reasonably find her alone; then she would pursue the acquaintance of the last woman in the square whose establishment she believed a possible refuge for secrets, Mariah Campbell.

She was very put out to discover Sophie not at home, and in a considerable pique left her card and gathered her wits to think of something to say to Mariah Campbell, a fit excuse for calling unasked upon someone she had barely met. Any message could perfectly easily be left with servants, therefore she must inquire after something. What?

She was already at the door. It would appear most odd to remain in a stationary carriage, therefore she must alight, and trust to her wits to think of something, should Mariah Campbell be in and able to receive her.

She inquired of the parlormaid, and was courteously received. Yes, Mrs. Campbell was in, and yes, Mrs. Campbell would be happy to receive her. She was shown into the small family parlor where Mariah was sitting with her daughters. Apparently they had not yet resumed lessons after the celebration of Christmas. They both stood and curtseyed as Emily was announced, then retired obediently.

Mariah Campbell was a pleasant-looking woman, not beautiful, but with a distinction about her that was perhaps longer lasting than mere prettiness. She was becomingly dressed, but with no concession to the trimmings of fashion.

“How very civil of you to call,” she said, also rising to meet Emily, since Emily was a lady of title, and she was not. She did not pretend any false warmth; they were strangers and both knew it. “I hope I may offer you some refreshment; tea, perhaps?”

“I should be delighted,” Emily accepted. She could not possibly give her true reason for having called-curiosity; she must rapidly produce another. “I heard from Lady Anstruther,” she sincerely hoped there was no such person, “that you had stayed in Scotland, with the Taits,” another invention. “My husband is quite set upon our going too-we have been invited, you know. I have heard that the house is quite impossible! As cold as a tomb, and with servants who can never be found when one wants them, and don’t speak English even then. I was hoping you could tell me if that is true. Dear Marjorie does tend to exaggerate, to color a story to make it the more lively!”

Mariah looked totally foxed. Quite naturally, she had even less idea what Emily was talking about than Emily herself.

“I’m afraid I have no knowledge,” she admitted. “Lady Anstruther-did you say? — must have confused me with someone else. Campbell is a Scots name, it is true, but quite a common one. And I have never been to Scotland myself. I’m so sorry, I cannot be of any guidance to you.”

“Oh, never mind,” Emily waved her hand to dismiss it before she got too bogged down, and perhaps contradicted herself, having forgotten what she had first said. “I dare say I can persuade George not to go at all. He isn’t really very fond of shooting anyway.” She had no idea whether it was even the season for shooting; but then with luck Mariah would not know either.

“And of course,” Emily continued with a sudden flash of inspiration, “I must be here for the wedding!”

Mariah blinked.

“Wedding?”

“Christina Balantyne and Mr. Ross!” Emily went on with enthusiasm. “I am so very happy that poor Mr. Ross has entirely recovered from Helena Doran’s leaving so suddenly. It must have been a great shock for him, poor creature.”

“I think it was a shock to everyone,” Mariah answered. “At least a surprise. I certainly had no idea.”

“Did you not know at least that she had another admirer?” Emily raised her eyebrows at the mystery.

“To tell the truth, I am too busy with my family to have been more than slightly acquainted with Miss Doran; or indeed with most of the families in the square, except for Adelina Southeron, of course, because of her children.”

That seemed to close the subject; but Emily was not yet prepared to give up.

“I’m sure if she puts her mind to it, that Christina will make him very content.”

“Content?” Mariah’s voice showed her understanding, and pity, for such a lukewarm emotion.

But Emily meant what she had said.

“I think so. I think that is all that another person can do for one. I think happiness is something one must achieve for oneself. Do you not?”

Mariah looked at her carefully, but before she could frame a reply, the door opened and Garson Campbell came in. Emily had seen him only once before, and did not care for him greatly.

Apparently he had remembered her.

“Good afternoon, Lady Ashworth,” he said. He did not speak to Mariah.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Campbell.” Emily profoundly hoped Mariah would not repeat to him the fiction she had invented to explain her visit. “I trust you are well?”

“Well enough,” he answered. “How courteous of you to call.”

“We were about to have tea,” Mariah said quietly. “Do you care to join us?”

“I don’t think so,” his mouth turned down slightly at the corners. “I doubt I would contribute to your gossip. I prefer something a little more political.”

“Than what?” Emily said instantly, before thinking that it might not be in her interest to irritate him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You prefer something more political than what, Mr. Campbell?”

“I take your point, Lady Ashworth. I have no idea what you were discussing. I was presuming on past experience. I never yet met a woman of good character who had any political sense; only the whores seem to have that kind of acumen.”

“Indeed?” Emily raised her eyebrows as high as she could and invested her voice with a trace of humor. “I’ve never discussed politics with a whore. But I do know Mr. Balfour slightly.”

“I apologize, Lady Ashworth,” he said with a dry smile. “Were you discussing politics when I interrupted you?”

“Not at all. We were discussing Mr. Ross, and who might have been Helena Doran’s mysterious admirer.” She watched his face. Men sometimes confided in each other. It was conceivable he might know. His skin darkened, and tightened for a moment across his temples. She felt a thrill of victory. He knew something!

“It is most courteous of you to offer tea,” she stood up, “but I fear I called uninvited, and I would be most distressed to have put you to inconvenience. It has been a great pleasure to have further made your acquaintance, Mrs. Campbell. I hope we shall meet again.” Now she wished to be out of this room, away from Garson Campbell before he read too much of her intent. He was a man with whom she did not wish to match wits.

Mariah did not appear surprised.

“I shall look forward to it,” she said, reaching at the same time for the bell. “So generous of you to call. I’m sorry I was unable to advise you regarding Scotland.”

“Oh, pray don’t concern yourself,” Emily was already making for the door where she could hear the parlormaid in the hall. “I doubt we shall go anyway, especially if this dismal weather continues.”

“It will continue, Lady Ashworth,” Campbell said from the center of the room. “It always does, from January right through until March, invariably. I have never known it to do otherwise. And the only difference you will find in Scotland is that it will be worse.”

“Then I shall definitely not go,” Emily said, almost backing into the maid. “Thank you for your counsel.” She left him smiling a little contemptuously at her foolishness, and made her escape into the street. She climbed into the carriage with an air of relief, even though it was cold, and there was a loose spring somewhere, from the feel of it. At least she was spared the necessity of extricating herself from an increasingly impossible conversation. What an unpleasant man! If there was anything more oppressive than stupid people, it was those who felt they knew everything-and disliked everything.

The next time she called upon Sophie Bolsover she found Euphemia and Adelina Southeron there, and consequently could say nothing of Helena Doran and hope to learn answers of value. It was several tedious, desperately impatient days before she felt it suitable to call again.

This time she was more fortunate, although fortune was only partly responsible. She had done a little reconnoitering beforehand, and thus discovered Sophie satisfactorily alone.

“Oh, Sophie, what a pleasure to find you unengaged,” she breezed in immediately, making no pretense. “I have such wonderful gossip to tell you. I should have been so disappointed to have been constrained to speak of trivialities.”

Sophie brightened instantly. Nothing pleased her more than gossip, except gossip from a lady of title.

“Come in,” she urged. “Make yourself comfortable, Emily dear, and do tell me. Is it about Lady Tidmarsh? I have been simply dying to discover whether she really did stay with those fearful Joneses! I can hardly bear the suspense.”

This was precisely what Emily had hoped she would ask, for she had taken great pains to provide the answer.

“Of course!” she said triumphantly. “But you must swear not to repeat it!” This added an irresistible spice. Sophie dissembled utterly, her eyes shining with excitement; she almost pulled Emily physically onto the sofa by the fire, curling up immediately like a little cat.

“Tell me!” she pleaded. “Tell me everything!”

Emily obliged, decorating it here and there with detail that might well be true enough, and was certainly no more than harmless color. When she had finished Sophie was ecstatic. It would furnish her with stories to drop hints about and retell to those she wished to impress, one by one, with further swearings to secrecy; and of course, to refuse to tell to those she wished to annoy, with many hints as to how fascinating and exclusive was the information she could not possibly divulge. And it would be only human to imply she knew yet more, which she was bound to keep in the utmost silence. She was beside herself with delight.

Now was the perfect time to ask about Helena Doran. Sophie would tell her everything she knew, or even guessed. Emily made no bones about her interest.

“Oh,” Sophie breathed out happily, “of course.” Then she frowned. “But it is all a little old now! Are you sure you care?”

“Oh yes,” Emily assured her. “I think it is fascinating. Who can he have been?”

Sophie screwed up her face in thought.

“Helena was very pretty, you know, almost a real beauty, one might say; such hair, all the color of winter sunshine, or so poor Mr. Ross used to say. He was quite dreadfully upset, you know?

“I do hope he will be happy with Christina. She is utterly different, as different as could be; to look at, naturally, but in her character as well.”

“What was Helena like?” Emily asked innocently.

“Oh,” Sophie thought again. “Quiet, not terribly fashionable; of course she did not need to be, she was beautiful enough to get away with dressing plainly. And she didn’t need to be witty. She played the piano very well, and she used to sing also. I sometimes wish I could sing. Can you?”

“Not very well. Was she secretive?”

“Quiet, yes; when I come to think of it, she did not have a great many close friends. She was fond of Euphemia Carlton.”

“What sort of men did she admire?”

Sophie contorted her face in an effort to remember.

“Men of substance, not just material, but men who had succeeded at something, who were established. In fact, older men. Perhaps because she had had no father for years, poor child. She did admire General Balantyne, I recall. Such a handsome man, don’t you think? Such an air of authority about him, and such dignity. If I didn’t love Freddie, I would quite care for him myself!”

“Was that why she didn’t marry Mr. Ross; because he was not yet of sufficient substance for her, too young?” Emily asked.

“You know, I had not thought of it, but that could be the reason. She admired confidence in a man. Although she did not care for poor Reggie Southeron at all. But then he is so irresponsible! He has not the kind of-what the Romans used to call gravitas, so Freddie says. So very masculine, gravitas, don’t you agree? Really quite exciting!”

“So she would not have run off with a penniless romantic, then? Or someone of unsuitable social class?” Emily asked. Really, the mystery was deepening! This was fascinating, and increasingly incomprehensible.

Sophie’s eyes widened with her own surprise.

“No! No, she wouldn’t, now that I come to think about it. Oh my dear, do you suppose he was already married to someone else, and they simply ran off? Oh, how dreadful!”

“Where do you suppose she met him?” Emily pursued. “If they had met at parties and so forth, people would know who he was-and nobody does!”

“Oh, it must have been somewhere secret,” Sophie agreed. “Even Laetitia doesn’t know who he was. At least she says she doesn’t, and why should she lie? Unless, of course, he was somebody simply awful! But I cannot see Helena becoming enamored of someone awful. She was far too proud, and fastidious.”

“She was fastidious?”

“Oh very! No, they must quite definitely have met somewhere secretly.”

“Well, it must have been close, must it not?” Emily thought aloud. “Or else she would have had to take a carriage, and then the driver at least would know. And one should never trust coachmen, unless one pays them oneself; and even then they may always be better paid by someone else. No, it is good counsel never to trust servants, especially men; they tend to ally with other men.”

“Where then?” Sophie asked. “Oh! Why, of course! I know. At least I know precisely what I should do!”

“What? What?” Emily’s composure vanished completely.

“Why, the empty house, of course! That house on the opposite side of the square has been empty for years! It belongs to an old lady who will neither sell it nor live in it. I believe she prefers France, or something equally odd. It is quite dreadfully neglected now, but it used to be most attractive, and there is a summer house at the back. Quite the romantic spot to meet. That has to be it! Don’t you think I am most clever to have thought of it?”

Emily thought privately that she was quite foolish not to have thought of it immediately, but naturally it would be unkind and impolitic to say so.

“Oh, indeed!” she agreed enthusiastically. “And I am sure beyond doubt that you are right. And one day, I dare say, we shall find out who he was.”

“Perhaps if we go and look?” Sophie suggested. “We may even find some small thing they may have left behind! What do you think?”

Emily had already resolved to do just such a thing the moment the house was mentioned. She did not wish to take Sophie with her, but there seemed no help for it.

“What an excellent idea,” she agreed. “The first opportunity it is fine. We will be thought most odd and attract unwelcome attention if we go in this rain. Tomorrow, if it is dry, I shall call for you and we will go together.” She fixed Sophie with a frank eye, to let her understand that if she crept in beforehand, Emily would confide no more gossip to her. She saw from Sophie’s expression that she grasped the message perfectly.

Emily stood up.

“My dear, this has been the most exciting visit I have paid in months. I shall look forward to our next meeting.” She moved to the door and Sophie came with her, forgetting to ring for the parlormaid in her anticipation of tomorrow.

Emily turned at the door.

“Oh, you won’t mind if I bring my sister Charlotte, will you? She is a most intelligent creature, and may be of some assistance to us.”

Sophie’s face fell for a moment, then at the mention of assistance, brightened again.

“No, of course not,” she assured. “If she is your sister, no doubt she is most charming.”

Emily would have quarreled with that; Charlotte was charming only when she meant it, and she doubted Sophie would bring out the best in her, but that hardly mattered now. She smiled devastatingly at Sophie, and took her leave, her heart singing in triumph.

Her prayers were answered, and the following day was cold and dry. She duly picked Charlotte up from her house before Charlotte had even finished her luncheon, and proceeded at a great pace to Callander Square, explaining her mission to Charlotte on the way, and the necessity for such precipitate speed. She did not entirely trust Sophie not to creep over on her own, and thus discover whatever there might be to find, before Emily and Charlotte got there. She would not have gone in the morning, because it was still rather wet and icebound, but this afternoon she might well think to slip over without Emily, and trust to not being caught at it.

They arrived at Callander Square and alighted from the carriage, bidding the coachman and footman remain where they were. They announced themselves to Sophie, who was ready waiting with her outdoor boots on and a cloak in the footman’s hands. Within five minutes they were at the garden entrance to the unoccupied house. It took the weight of the three of them to push it open, so long had it lain shut.

They hesitated on the step.

The garden inside was motionless and cold, trees rimed in frost, path stones overgrown with mosses, and slimy. There were dead leaves on the grass and rotting deep on the flower beds. If there was anything alive, it was asleep till spring.

“A garden shouldn’t be like this,” Charlotte said quietly. “Somebody must have laid it out carefully once, and people walked and talked to each other here.”

“Helena Doran and somebody,” Emily said practically. “Let’s go in.”

Feet soundless on the wet leaves, they moved reluctantly inside, Charlotte pulling the door behind them to hide their presence. They followed the path gingerly, afraid of slipping on the greasy stones. It skirted round the house and then disappeared into grass at the back. The lawn was soggy, and again covered with leaves. Halfway down there was a thatched, wooden summer house, roof collapsing. Obviously a multitude of birds had tweaked and stolen from it over the years.

“There,” Emily said triumphantly. “That is where lovers would meet.” And she hurried across the squelching grass toward it, her skirts catching in the twigs and leaves. Charlotte caught up with her, but Sophie stepped more gingerly from stone to stone round the remnants of the path.

Charlotte and Emily rounded the corner of the summer house and peered inside. It was very dilapidated, thatch hanging low across the ceiling, several of the seats rotted and fallen through.

“Oh dear,” Emily said disappointedly. “I wonder if all this could have happened in only two years.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Charlotte said from behind her. “Don’t forget, this is January. In the summer it would all look quite different. The trees would have leaves on them, there might be flowers and birds. It would be more like a secret garden. They wouldn’t care if it were a little neglected.”

“A little!”

“More to the point,” Charlotte stared round, “do you see anything that makes you think it might have been used? She might have dropped a handkerchief, or something, or easily torn a little piece from a dress. There are certainly enough rough pieces around.”

They both began to look, and Sophie joined them. After several minutes they satisfied themselves there was nothing to discover, and Charlotte and Emily went out of the other door toward the back of the garden. Sophie remained behind, not having searched thoroughly herself.

Past the bushes Charlotte stopped stark, and Emily bumped into her.

“What’s the matter with you?” she demanded crossly, then stared over Charlotte’s shoulder, and felt all the warmth drain out of her body.

They were at the side of a small lawn under a great tree. From one of the branches hung a garden swing, and on it, skeletal fingers still round the ropes, were the rag-wisped bones of what had once been a woman. Remnants of her dress hung from the seat of the swing, bleached gray by seasons of rain and sun. Flies and small animals had eaten away her flesh and there was nothing left now but a little dried skin and pale yellow hair, and the fingernails of her hands. Grotesquely, the whalebone stays of her corsets were still whole, though fallen across where her stomach would have been, and on top of them, released from the womb, the tiny, birdlike bones of an unborn child.

“Helena,” Charlotte whispered. “Poor Helena.”