Paragon Walk

Four

Emily spent a miserable evening. George was at home, but she could think of nothing to say to him. She wanted to ask him all sorts of questions, but they would have betrayed her doubts so openly that she dared not. And she was afraid of his answers, even if he kept his patience with her and was neither hurt nor angry. If he told her the truth, would there be something she would wish with all her heart she had never known?

She had no illusions that George was perfect. She had accepted when she had first determined to marry him that he gambled and occasionally drank more than was good for him. She even accepted that from time to time he would flirt with other women, and normally she regarded it as harmless enough, the same sort of game she indulged in herself, just a sort of practice, a refining of one’s skills, so as not to become too domestic and taken for granted. It had been hard at times, even confusing, but she had accommodated to his manner of life with great skill.

It was only that lately she had been most unlike herself, upset over trivialities and even inclined to weep, which was appalling. She had never had patience with weepy women, or those given to fainting, for that matter-and this last month she had done both.

She excused herself and went to bed early, but although she fell asleep straight away, she awoke several times through the night, and in the morning felt miserably sick for over an hour.

She had been most unfair to Charlotte, and she knew it. Charlotte wanted to learn all she could about the Walk because she wished to protect Emily from the very things that gnawed at the back of her mind now. Part of her loved Charlotte for it, and for a hundred other reasons, but there was a loud, strident voice in her just now that hated her, because even in her old-fashioned, dull gray muslin she was secure and comfortable, with no ugly fears at the back of her mind. She knew perfectly well that Thomas was not out flirting with anyone else. No social behavior of Charlotte’s would ever make him wonder if he had been wise to marry beneath him, or if Charlotte could maintain his social position and be a credit to him. There was no pressure to produce a son to carry on the title.

Admittedly Thomas was a policeman, of all things, and quite the oddest creature, as homely as a kitchen pot and wildly untidy. But he knew how to laugh, and Emily had a knowledge inside her she kept unspoken that he was cleverer than George. Perhaps he was clever enough to find out who murdered Fanny Nash before suspicions uncovered all kinds of old guilts and wounds in the Walk, and they could keep up the small, chosen masks no one really wanted to see behind.

She could not stomach any breakfast, and it was luncheon before she saw Aunt Vespasia.

“You look very peaked, Emily,” Vespasia said with a frown. “I hope you are eating sufficiently. In your condition, it is most important.”

“Yes, thank you, Aunt Vespasia.” Indeed she was hungry now and took herself a very liberal portion.

“Hmph!” Vespasia picked up the tongs and helped herself to half the amount. “Then you are worrying. You must not mind Selena Montague.”

Emily looked up at her sharply.

“Selena? Why should you think I am worrying about Selena?”

“Because she is an idle woman who has neither husband nor child to concern herself with,” Vespasia said tartly. “She has set her cap, unsuccessfully so far, at the Frenchman. Selena does not care for failure. She was her father’s favorite child, you know, and she has never got over it.”

“She is perfectly welcome to Monsieur Alaric, as far as I am concerned,” Emily replied. “I have no interest in him.”

Vespasia gave her a sharp look.

“Nonsense, child, every healthy woman has an interest in a man like that. When I look at him, even I can remember what it was like to be young. And believe me, when I was young, I was beautiful. I would have made him look at me.”

Emily felt the laughter inside her.

“I’m sure you would, Aunt Vespasia. I wouldn’t be surprized if he preferred your company even now!”

“Don’t flatter me, child. I’m an old woman, but I haven’t lost my wits.”

Emily remained smiling.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your sister before?” Vespasia demanded.

“I did. I told you about her the day after you came, and later I told you she had married a policeman.”

“You said she was not conventional, I grant you. Her tongue is a disaster, and she walks as though she thought herself a duchess. But you did not say that she was so handsome.”

Emily suppressed a desire to giggle. It would be most unfair to mention the pins or the stays.

“Oh yes,” she agreed. “Charlotte was always striking, for better or worse. But many people find her too striking to be comfortable. Only traditional beauty is admired by most people, you know, and she does not know how to flirt.”

“Unfortunate,” Vespasia agreed. “It is one of the arts that cannot possibly be taught. Either you have it, or you have not.”

“Charlotte hasn’t.”

“I hope she calls again. It should prove most entertaining. I am bored with everyone here. Unless Jessamyn and Selena improve their battle over the Frenchman, we shall have to create some diversion of our own, or the summer will become intolerable. Are you well enough to go to the funeral of that poor child? Have you remembered it is the day after tomorrow?”

Emily had not remembered.

“I expect I shall be fine, but I think I shall ask Charlotte if she will accompany me. It is bound to be trying, and I should like to have her there.” Also it would be an opportunity to apologize to her for yesterday’s unfairness. “I shall write straightaway and ask her.”

“You will have to lend her something black,” Vespasia warned. “Or perhaps you had better find something of mine, I believe we are more of a height. Get Agnes to alter that lavender for her. If she starts now she should have it quite acceptable by then.”

“Thank you, that is very kind of you.”

“Nonsense. I can always have another one made if I wish. You had better find her a black hat and shawl as well. I haven’t got any, can’t bear black.”

“Won’t you wear black to the funeral yourself?”

“Haven’t got any. I shall wear lavender. Then your sister will not be the only one. No one will dare criticize her if I wear lavender also.”

Charlotte received the letter from Emily with surprise, and then when she opened it a wave of relief spread through her. The apology was simple, not a matter of good manners but a genuine expression of regret. She was so happy she nearly missed the part about the funeral, and not to worry about a dress, but would she please come because Emily would greatly value her presence at such a time. A carriage would be sent in the morning to collect her, if she would prepare herself by having someone take care of Jemima.

Of course she would go, not only because Emily wanted her to but also because all the Walk surely would be there, and she could not resist the opportunity of seeing them. She told Pitt about it that evening, as soon as he was through the door.

“Emily asked me to go to the funeral with her,” she said, her arms still round him in welcome. “It’s the day after tomorrow, and I shall leave Jemima with Mrs. Smith-she won’t mind-and Emily will send a carriage, and she has a dress organized for me!”

Pitt did not question how one “organized” a dress, and, as she was wriggling to free herself in order the better to explain, he let her go with a wry smile.

“Are you sure you want to?” he asked. “It will be a grim affair.”

“Emily wants me to be there,” she said it as if it were a complete answer.

He knew immediately from the luminous rationality in her eyes that she was evading the issue. She wanted to go, out of curiosity.

She saw his wide smile and knew she had not fooled him in the least. She shrugged and relaxed into a smile herself.

“All right, I want to see them. But I promise I shall do no more than look. I shan’t interfere. What have you discovered? I have a right to ask, because it involves Emily.”

His face closed over, and he sat down at the table, leaning his elbows on it. He looked tired and rumpled. Suddenly she realized her selfishness in ignoring his feelings and thinking only of Emily. She had just learned how to make good lemonade without all the quantity of expensive fresh fruit that she would have used before her marriage. She kept it in a bucket of cold water on the stones near the back door. Quickly she poured him some and put the glass in front of him. She did not ask the question again.

He drank the whole glassful and then answered her.

“I’ve been trying to check where everyone was. I’m afraid no one remembers whether George was at his club on that evening or not. I pressed as hard as I dared, but they don’t recall one evening from another. In fact, I’m not honestly sure how much they recall one person from another. A lot of them look and sound much the same to me.” He smiled slowly. “Silly, isn’t it-I suppose most of us look the same to them?”

She sat silent. It was the one thing she had been praying for, that George would be cleared beyond question, quickly, completely.

“I’m sorry,” he reached out and touched her hand. She closed her fingers over his hand.

“I’m sure you tried. Did you clear anyone else?”

“Not really. Everyone can account for themselves, but it can’t be proved.”

“Surely some can!”

“Not proved,” he looked up, his eyes clouded. “Afton and Fulbert Nash were at home and together most of the time, but not all-”

“But they were her brothers,” she said with a shudder. “Surely you don’t think they could possibly be so depraved, do you?”

“No, but I suppose it isn’t impossible. Diggory Nash was gambling, but his friends are peculiarly reticent about exactly who was where, and when. Algernon Burnon implies he was on a matter of honor, which he won’t divulge. I imagine that means he was having an affair, and in the circumstances he dares not say so. Hallam Cayley was at the Dilbridges’ party and had a row. He went for a walk to cool off. Again, it’s not likely he left the garden and somehow found Fanny, but it is possible. The Frenchman, Paul Alaric, says he was at home alone, and that’s probably true, but again we can’t prove it.”

“How about the servants? After all, they are far more likely.” She must keep it in proportion, not let Fulbert’s words warp her thinking. “Or the footmen and coachmen from the party?” she added.

He smiled slightly, understanding her thoughts.

“We’re working on them. But nearly all of them stayed together in groups, swapping gossip and bragging, or else were inside, getting something to eat. And servants are too busy to have much time unaccounted for.”

She knew that was true. She could remember from the days when she had lived in Cater Street that footmen and butlers did not have spare time in the evenings to go wandering outside. A bell might summon them at any moment to open the door or bring a tray of port or perform any other of a dozen tasks.

“But there must be something!” she protested aloud. “It’s all so-nebulous. Nobody’s guilty, and nobody’s really innocent. Something must be provable!”

“Not yet, except for most of the servants. They can account.”

She did not argue anymore. She stood up and began to serve his meal, placing it carefully, trying to make it look delicate and cool. It was nothing like Emily’s, but then she had made it for a twentieth of the price, all except for the fruit-she had been a little extravagant to buy that.

The funeral was the most magnificently somber affair Charlotte had ever been to. The day was overcast and sultry hot. She was collected by Emily’s carriage before nine in the morning and taken straight to Paragon Walk. She was welcomed quickly, Emily’s eyes warm with relief to see her and to know that the outburst of the other day was forgotten.

There was no time for refreshments or gossip. Emily rushed her upstairs and presented her with an exquisite deep-lavender dress, far more elaborate and formal than anything she had seen Emily wear. There was a sort of grand dame effect to it she could not reconcile with Emily as she knew her. She held it up and stared over its regal neckline.

“Oh,” Emily sighed with a faint smile. “It’s Aunt Vespasia’s. But I think you will look wonderful in it, very stately.” Her smile widened, then she flushed with guilt, remembering the occasion. “I think you are very like Aunt Vespasia, in some ways-or you might be, in fifty years.”

Charlotte remembered that Pitt had said much the same thing and found herself rather flattered.

“Thank you.” She put the dress down and turned for Emily to unbutton her own dress so that she might change. She was all prepared to reach for pins again, but was amazed to find that none were necessary. It fitted her almost as well as any of her own; it could have done with an inch more across the shoulder, but other than that it was perfect. She surveyed herself in the cheval glass. The effect was quite startling, and really very handsome.

“Come on!” Emily said sharply. “There isn’t time to stand there admiring yourself. You must put black over it, or it will hardly be decent. I know lavender is mourning as well, but you look like a duchess about to receive. There’s this black shawl. Don’t fidget! It’s not in the least hot, and it darkens the whole thing. And black gloves, of course. And I’ve found a black hat for you.”

Charlotte did not dare ask where she had “found” it. Perhaps she would be happier not to know. Still, it was church, so it was necessary to wear a hat, apart from the obligations of fashion.

When the hat came it was extravagant, broad brimmed, feathered and veiled. She set it on her head at rather a rakish angle and started Emily giggling.

“Oh, this is awful! Please, Charlotte, do watch what you say. I’m so nervous about it you make me laugh when I don’t mean it at all. Inside I am doing everything I can not to think of that poor girl. I’m occupying my mind with all sorts of other things, even silly things, just to keep the thought of her away.”

Charlotte put her arm around her.

“I know. I know you’re not heartless. We all laugh sometimes when we really want to cry. Tell me, do I look ridiculous in this hat?”

Emily put out both her hands and altered the angle a little. She was already in the soberest black herself.

“No, no, it looks very well. Jessamyn will be furious, because afterward everyone will look at you and wonder who you are. Bring the veil down a little, and then they will have to come closer to see. There, that’s perfect! Don’t fiddle with it!”

The cortege was awe-inspiring in the deadest black: black horses pulling a black hearse, black-crepe-ribboned coachmen and black-plumed harness. The chief mourners followed immediately behind in another black, fluttering carriage, and then the rest of the attendants. Everything moved at the most august walk.

Charlotte sat with Emily, George, and Aunt Vespasia in their carriage and wondered why a people who profess a total belief in resurrection should make a melodrama out of death. It was rather like bad theater. It was a question she frequently had considered, but had never found anyone appropriate to ask. She had hoped one day to meet a bishop, although there seemed little chance of it now. She had mentioned it to Papa once and received a very stiff reply, which silenced her completely but in no way provided an answer-except that Papa obviously did not know either and found the whole matter grossly distasteful.

Now she climbed out of the carriage, taking George’s hand to alight gracefully, without tipping the black hat to an even more rakish angle, then, side by side with Aunt Vespasia, followed Emily and George through the gate of the churchyard and up the path to the door. Inside, the organ was playing the death march, with rather more exuberance than was entirely fitting and with several notes so wrong that even Charlotte winced to hear them. She wondered if the organist were the regular one, or an enthusiastic amateur drafted in ignorance for the occasion.

The service itself was very dull, but mercifully short. Possibly the vicar did not wish to mention the manner of death, in all its worldly reality, in such an unworldly place. It did not belong with stained-glass windows, organ music, and little sniffles into lace handkerchiefs. Death was pain and sickness, and terror of the long, blind, last step. And there had been nothing resigned or dignified in it for Fanny. It was not that Charlotte did not believe in God, or the resurrection; it was the attempt to soothe away the ugly truths with ritual that she hated. All this elaborate, expensive mourning was for the conscience of the living, so that they might feel they had paid due tribute and now could decently forget Fanny and continue with the Season. It had little to do with the girl and whether they had cared for her or not.

Afterward they all went out to the graveyard for the interment. The air was hot and heavy, as if it had already been breathed, and tasted faintly stale. The soil was dry from long weeks without rain, and the gravediggers had had to hack at it to break it. The only damp spot anywhere was under the yew trees, settling lower and lower to the earth, and it smelled old and sour, as if the roots had fed on too many bodies.

“Ridiculous things, funerals,” Aunt Vespasia whispered sharply from beside her. “Greatest fit of self-indulgence in society; it’s worse than Ascot. Everyone seeing who can mourn the most conspicuously. Some women look very well in black and know it, and you’ll see them at all the fashionable funerals, whether they were acquainted with the deceased or not. Maria Clerkenwell was always doing that. Met her first husband at the funeral of his cousin. He was the chief mourner because he inherited the title. Maria had never heard of the dead man before she read it in the society pages and decided to go.”

Secretly Charlotte admired her enterprise; it was something Emily might have done. She stared across the open grave past the pallbearers, red-faced and glistening with sweat, to Jessamyn Nash standing erect and pale at the far side. The man closest to her was less then handsome, but there was something pleasing in his face, a readiness to smile.

“Is that her husband?” Charlotte asked softly.

Vespasia followed her eye.

“Diggory,” she agreed. “Bit of a rake, but always was the best of the Nashes. Not that that is granting him much.”

From what Charlotte had heard of Afton and seen of Fulbert, she could not disagree. She continued to stare, trusting to her veil to disguise the fact. Really, veils were of very practical convenience. She had never tried one before, but she must remember it for the future. Diggory and Jessamyn were standing a little apart; he made no effort to touch her or support her. In fact his attention seemed to be turned rather toward Afton’s wife Phoebe, who looked perfectly awful. Her hair seemed to have slipped to one side and her hat to the other, and although she made one or two feeble gestures to readjust it, each time she made it worse. Like everyone else, she was in black, but on her it seemed dusty, the black of the sweep, rather than the glossy, raven’s-wing black of Jessamyn’s gown. Afton stood to attention by her side, his face expressionless. Whatever he felt, it was beneath his dignity to display it here.

The vicar held up his hand for attention. The faint whisperings stopped. He intoned the familiar words. Charlotte wondered why they intoned. It always sounded so much less sincere than to speak in a normal voice. She had never heard people who were really emotionally moved speak in such a fashion. They were too much consumed in the content to take such pains with the manner. Surely God was the last person to be swayed by dressing up and affecting airs.

She looked up through her veil and wondered if anyone else was thinking the same things, or were they all properly impressed? Jessamyn had her head down; she was stiff, pale and beautiful as a lily, a little rigid, but very appropriate. Phoebe was weeping. Selena Montague was becomingly pale, although to judge from her lips she had not altogether left nature unaided, and her eyes were as bright as fever. She was standing beside the most singularly elegant man Charlotte had ever seen. He was tall and slender, but there was a litheness to him as if his body were hard, far from the foppish, rather feminine grace of so many fashionable people. He was bareheaded, as were all the other men, and his black hair was thick and smooth. She could see when he turned how perfectly it grew in the nape of his neck. She did not need to ask Vespasia who he was. With a little tingle of excitement she knew-that was the beautiful Frenchman-the one Selena and Jessamyn were fighting over!

She could not tell who was winning at the moment, but he was standing next to Selena. Or perhaps she was standing next to him? But it was Jessamyn who was the center of attention. At least half the heads in the congregation were turned toward her. The Frenchman was one of the few who was looking at the coffin as it was lowered clumsily into the open grave. Two men with shovels stood respectfully back, accustomed enough to such rituals to fall into the right attitude without conscious thought.

One of the few others who seemed to be genuinely caught in the turmoil of some emotion was a man on the same side of the grave as Charlotte and Vespasia. She only noticed him at first because of the angle of his shoulders, which had a tightness to them, as if all his muscles were clenched inside. Without thinking, she moved a little forward to catch sight of his face, should he turn when the earth was thrown in.

The vicar’s sing-song voice went through the old words about earth to earth and dust to dust. The man swiveled to watch the hard clay rattle on the lid, and Charlotte saw his profile and then his full features. It was a strong face with skin marred by smallpox and at the moment was in the grip of some deep and twisting pain. Was it for Fanny? Or for death in general? Or was it even grief for the living, because he knew or guessed something of the “whited sepulchers” Fulbert had spoken of? Or was it fear?

Charlotte stepped back and touched Vespasia’s arm.

“Who is he?”

“Hallam Cayley,” Vespasia replied. “Widower. His wife was one of the Cardews. She died about two years ago. Pretty woman, lot of money, but not much sense.”

“Oh.” So that explained his tight body and the confusion of pain in his face. Perhaps she herself was staring around at all these people, occupying her mind with questions to keep it from the memory of other funerals, personal ones that hurt too much to bear recalling?

The ceremony was over. Slowly, with extreme decorum, they all turned as if on a single pivot and began the walk back to the road and the carriages. They would meet at Paragon Walk again at Afton Nash’s for the obligatory baked meats. Then the ritual could be considered accomplished.

“I see you remarked the Frenchman,” Vespasia observed under her breath.

Charlotte considered feigning innocence, and decided it would not work.

“Next to Selena?”

“Naturally.”

They walked, or rather processed, down the narrow path, through the gateway, and out onto the footpath. Afton, as the eldest brother, embarked into his carriage first, then Jessamyn, with Diggory a few moments behind her. He had been talking to George, and Jessamyn was obliged to wait for him. Charlotte saw the flicker of irritation pass across her face. Fulbert had come in a separate carriage for the occasion and had offered a ride to the Misses Horbury, dressed in ornate and antique black. It took them several moments to seat themselves satisfactorily.

George and Emily were next, and Charlotte found herself moving before she was really ready to leave. She looked across at Emily. Emily caught her eye and smiled wearily in return. Charlotte was happy to see that she had slipped her hand into George’s and he was holding it protectively.

The funeral breakfast was very splendid, as she had expected it to be. There was nothing ostentatious-one did not draw attention to a death that had come about in such an appalling manner-but there was enough to feed half of Society on the great table, and Charlotte thought at a quick estimation that every man, woman, and child on her own street could have lived on it for a month, with care.

People split into little groups, whispering together, no one wishing to be the first to begin.

“Why do we always eat after funerals?” Charlotte asked, unconsciously frowning. “I’ve never felt less like it.”

“Convention,” George replied, looking at her. He had the finest eyes she had ever seen. “It’s the only sort of hospitality everyone understands. Anyway, what else could one do? We can’t simply stand here, and we can hardly dance!”

Charlotte suppressed a desire to giggle. It was as formal and ridiculous as an old-fashioned dance.

She glanced around the room. He was right; everyone was a little awkward, and eating eased the tension. It would be vulgar to show emotion, at least for men. Women were expected to be frail, though weeping was frowned upon, because it was embarrassing and no one knew what to do about it. But one could always faint; that was quite acceptable and gave one the perfect excuse to retire. Eating was an occupation that covered the hiatus between obvious mourning and the time when one could decently go and leave the whole matter of death behind.

Emily put out her hand to claim Charlotte’s attention. She turned, to find herself facing a woman in extremely expensive black with a rather heavyset man beside her. “May I present my sister, Mrs. Pitt? Lord and Lady Dilbridge.”

Charlotte responded with the usual courtesies.

“Such a dreadful affair,” Grace Dilbridge said with a sigh. “And such a shock! One would never have expected it of the Nashes.”

“Surely one cannot expect such a thing of anyone,” Charlotte rejoined, “except the most wretched and desperate of people.” She was thinking of the slums and rookeries Pitt had spoken of, but even he had told her little of the real horror. She had only guessed, as much from the hollow look of his face and his long silences as from anything he had said.

“I always thought poor Fanny such an innocent child,” Frederick Dilbridge went on, as if in answer to her. “Poor Jessamyn. All this is going to be very hard for her.”

“And for Algernon,” Grace added, looking out of the corner of her eye to where Algernon Burnon was turning away a baked pie and helping himself to another glass of port from the footman. “Poor boy. Thank God he was not yet married to her.”

Charlotte could not entirely see the relevance.

“He must be very grieved,” she said slowly. “I cannot imagine a worse way to lose one’s fiancee.”

“Better than a wife,” Grace insisted. “At least he is now free-after a decent interval, of course-to find himself someone more suitable.”

“And the Nashes had no other daughter,” Frederick also took a glass as the footman hovered. “That’s something to be thankful for.”

“Thankful?” Charlotte could hardly believe it.

“Of course,” Grace looked at her with raised eyebrows. “You must be aware, Mrs. Pitt, how hard it is to get one’s daughters married well as it is. To have a scandal such as this in the family would make it well nigh impossible! I should not wish any son of mine to marry a girl whose sister was-well-” She coughed delicately and glared at Charlotte for obliging her to put into words something so crass. “All I can say is, I am vastly relieved my son is already married. A daughter of the Marchioness of Weybridge, a delightful girl. Do you know the Weybridges?”

“No,” Charlotte shook her head, and, mistaking her meaning, the footman whisked the tray away and she was left with an empty hand outstretched. No one took any notice, and she withdrew it. “No, I don’t.”

There was no polite reply to this, so Grace returned to the original subject.

“Daughters are such an anxiety, until one has them married. My dear,” she turned to Emily, reaching out her hand, “I do so hope that you have only sons-so much less vulnerable. The world accepts the weaknesses of men, and we have learned to put up with them. But when a woman is weak, all Society completely abhors her. Poor Fanny, may she rest in peace. Now, my dear, I must go and see Phoebe. She looks quite ill! I must see what I can do to comfort her.”

“That’s monstrous!” Charlotte said as soon as they were gone. “Anyone would think from the way she speaks that Fanny went out whoring!”

“Charlotte!” Emily said sharply. “For goodness’ sake don’t use words like that here! Anyway, only men go out whoring.”

“You know what I mean! It’s unforgivable. That girl is dead, abused and murdered here in her own street, and they are all talking about marriage opportunities and what Society will think. It’s disgusting!”

“Sh!” Emily’s hand gripped her hand, her fingers digging in painfully. “People will hear you, and they wouldn’t understand.” She smiled with rather more force than charm, as Selena approached them. By her side George breathed in deeply and let it out in a sigh.

“Hello, Emily,” Selena said brightly. “I must compliment you. It must be a most trying experience, and looking at you one could hardly tell. I do admire your fortitude.” She was a smaller woman than Charlotte had realized, fully eight or ten inches shorter than George. She looked up at him through her eyelashes.

George passed some trivial remark. There was a faint flush on the bones of his cheeks.

Charlotte glanced at Emily and saw her face tighten. For once Emily seemed to think of nothing to say.

“We must also admire you,” Charlotte stared at Selena pointedly. “You carry it so well. Indeed, if I did not know you must naturally be distressed, I would swear you were positively gay!”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Emily, but Charlotte ignored her. George shifted from one foot to the other.

Color rushed up Selena’s face, but she chose her words carefully.

“Oh, Mrs. Pitt, if you knew me better, you could not imagine me callous. I am a most warmhearted person! Am I not, George?” again she looked at him with her enormous eyes. “Please do not let Mrs. Pitt think I am cold. You know it is not so!”

“I–I am sure she does not believe it,” George was palpably uncomfortable. “She only meant that-er-that you comport yourself admirably.”

Selena smiled at Emily, who stood frozen.

“I should not care for anyone to think I was unfeeling,” she added the last little touch.

Charlotte moved closer to Emily, wanting to protect her, guessing vividly what the threat was, feeling it in Selena’s dazzling eyes.

“I am flattered you care so much what I should think of you,” Charlotte said coolly. She would like to have forced a smile, but she had never been good at acting. “I promise you I shall not make any hasty judgments. I am sure you are capable of great-” She looked directly at Selena, allowing her to see she picked the word intentionally with all its shades of meaning. “-generosity!”

“I see your husband is not with you!” Selena’s reply was vicious and unhesitating.

Charlotte was able to smile this time. She was proud of what Thomas was doing, even though she knew they would have held it in contempt.

“No, he is otherwise engaged. He has a great deal to do.”

“How unfortunate,” Selena murmured, but without conviction. The satisfaction was gone out of her.

It was not long after that that Charlotte got her opportunity to meet Algernon Burnon. She was introduced by Phoebe Nash, whose hat was now straight, though her hair still looked uncomfortable. Charlotte knew the sensation all too well: a pin or two in the wrong place, and it could feel as if all the weight of one’s hair were attached to one’s head with nails.

Algernon bowed very slightly, a courteous gesture Charlotte found a little discomposing. He seemed more concerned for her comfort than his own. She had prepared herself for grief, and he was asking her about her health, and if she found the heat trying.

She swallowed the sympathy she had had on the edge of her tongue and made as sensible a reply as she could. Perhaps he found it all too painful to dwell on and was glad of the chance to speak to someone who had not known Fanny. How little one could really tell from faces.

She was floundering, too conscious that he had been close to Fanny and too busy with her own confusion, wondering whether he had loved her, or if it had been a very much arranged affair, or if perhaps he even was relieved to be free of it. She hardly noticed his conversation, though part of her brain was telling her it was both literate and easy.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. She had no idea what he had just said.

“Perhaps Mrs. Pitt finds our baked meats a little diverse-as I do?”

Charlotte turned sharply to find the Frenchman only a few feet away from her, his fine, intelligent eyes carefully hiding a smile.

She was not quite sure what he meant. He could not possibly have known the wanderings of her mind-or was he thinking the same things, perhaps even knowing them? Honesty was the only safe retreat.

“I am not experienced in them,” she replied. “I have no idea what they usually are.”

If Algernon had any understanding of the ambiguity in her words, he did not betray it.

“Mrs. Pitt, may I present Monsieur Paul Alaric,” he said easily. “I don’t believe you have met? Mrs. Pitt is Lady Ashworth’s sister,” he added by way of explanation.

Alaric bowed very slightly.

“I am well aware who Mrs. Pitt is.” His smile removed any discourtesy from his words. “Did you imagine such a person could visit the Walk and not be talked of? I’m sorry it is a tragic occasion that has afforded us the opportunity to meet you.”

It was ridiculous, but she found herself coloring under his calm gaze. For all his grace, he was unusually direct, as if his intelligence could penetrate the polite, rather empty mask of her face and see all the confused feelings behind. There was nothing unkind in his stare, only curiosity and faint amusement.

She pulled herself together sharply. She must be very tired from the heat and all this mourning to be so stupid.

“How do you do, Monsieur Alaric,” she said stiffly. Then, because that did not seem enough. “Yes, it is unfortunate that it frequently takes tragedy to rearrange our lives.”

His mouth curled in the slightest, most delicate smile.

“Are you going to rearrange my life, Mrs. Pitt?”

The heat scorched up her face. Please heaven, the veil would hide it.

“You-you misunderstand me, monsieur, I meant the tragedy. Our meeting can hardly be of importance.”

“How modest of you, Mrs. Pitt,” Selena drifted up, wafting black chiffon behind her, her face bright. “I judged from your marvelous gown that you had imagined otherwise. Do they always wear lavender for mourning where you come from? Of course, it is easier to wear than black!”

“Why, thank you,” Charlotte forced a smile and feared it might be more like bared teeth. She looked Selena up and down. “Yes, I imagine it is. I’m sure you would find it flattering, too.”

“I do not go around from funeral to funeral, Mrs. Pitt, only to those of people I know,” Selena snapped back with tart meaning. “I don’t imagine I shall be requiring it again before this style has gone quite out of fashion.”

“Sort of ‘one funeral per Season,’” Charlotte murmured. Why did she dislike this woman so much? Was it only an identification with Emily’s fears, or some instinct of her own?

Jessamyn moved toward them, pale but entirely composed. Alaric turned toward her, and a look of venom momentarily hardened Selena’s face before she mastered it and ironed it out. She spoke quickly, preempting Alaric.

“Dear Jessamyn, what a terrible ordeal for you. You must be devastated, and you have comported yourself so well. The whole affair has been so dignified.”

“Thank you,” Jessamyn took the glass Alaric handed her from a waiting footman’s tray and sipped at it delicately. “Poor Fanny is at rest. But I find it hard to accept it as I suppose one should. It seems so monstrously unjust. She was such a child, so innocent. She did not even know how to flirt! Why her, of all people?” Her eyelids lowered slightly over her wide, cool eyes, and she did not quite look at Selena, but some minute gesture of her shoulder, an arch in her body, seemed addressed to her. “There are other people so-so much more-likely!”

Charlotte stared at her. The hatred between the two women was so tangible she could not believe Paul Alaric was unaware of it. He stood elegantly, with a slight smile, and made some innocuous answer, but surely he must feel as uncomfortable as she did? Or did he enjoy it? Was he flattered, excited to be fought over? The thought hurt her; she wanted him to be above such a demeaning vanity, to be embarrassed by it, as she was.

Then another thought occurred to her as Jessamyn’s words sank in, “… other people so much more likely.” That was a dig at Selena, of course, but could it have been precisely Fanny’s innocence that had attracted the rapist? Perhaps he was tired and bored with sophisticated women who were only too available. He wanted a virgin, frightened and unwilling, so he could dominate her. Maybe that was what excited, sent his blood racing, the touch and the smell of terror!

It was an ugly thought, but then the intimate violence in the dark, the humiliation, the symbolic, stabbing knife, the blood, the pain, life gushing away-they were all ugly. She shut her eyes. Please, dear God, it had nothing to do with Emily! Don’t let George be anything worse than easygoing, a little foolish, a little vain!

They were talking across her, and she had not heard them. She was conscious only of the prickling hostility and of Alaric’s elegant black head as he half listened to one, then the other. Somehow it seemed to Charlotte as if his eyes were on her, and there was an understanding in them which was uncomfortable and at the same time stirring.

Emily found her again. She was looking very tired, and Charlotte thought she had already been standing too long. She was about to make some suggestion of returning home when she saw, behind Emily, Hallam Cayley, the only man she had observed to be moved by Fanny’s death beyond the usual trappings of observance. He was facing toward Jessamyn, but his expression was vacant, as if he were unaware of her. Indeed, the whole room, with its shafts of sunlight under the half drawn blinds, its glittering table spread with the debris of food, its clusters of murmuring figures in black, seemed to make no impression on his senses at all.

Jessamyn caught sight of him. Her face changed, the full lower lip came forward and the skin tightened fractionally across her cheeks. For a moment it was frozen. Then Selena spoke to Alaric, smiling, and Jessamyn turned back.

Charlotte looked at Emily.

“Haven’t we paid all respects necessary now? I mean, surely we could decently go home? The heat in here is oppressive, and you must be tired.”

“Do I look it?” Emily asked.

Charlotte lied immediately and without thought.

“Not at all, but surely better to leave before we do. I know I feel it!”

“I expected you would be enjoying yourself, trying to solve the mystery.” There was a faint cutting edge in Emily’s voice. Indeed, she was tired. The skin under her eyes looked papery.

Charlotte pretended not to notice.

“I don’t think I have learned a thing, except what you had already told me-that Jessamyn and Selena hate each other over Monsieur Alaric, that Lord Dilbridge has very liberal tastes, and Lady Dilbridge enjoys being put upon because of them. And that none of the Nashes are very pleasant. Oh, and that Algernon is behaving himself with great dignity.”

“Did I tell you all that?” Emily smiled faintly. “I thought it was Aunt Vespasia. But I suppose we may as well go home. I admit, I have had enough. I find myself much more affected by it than I had thought to be. I didn’t care much for Fanny when she was alive, but now I can’t help thinking of her. This is her funeral, and do you know, hardly anybody has really spoken of her!”

It was a sad and pathetic observation; yet it was true. They had spoken of the effect of her death, its manner and their own feelings, but no one had spoken of Fanny herself. Lost, and a little sick, Charlotte followed Emily to where George was half waiting for them. He, too, seemed eager to leave. Aunt Vespasia was deep in conversation with a man about her own age, and since it was only a few hundred yards, they left her to come when she chose.

They found Afton and Phoebe in desultory expression of mutual sympathies with Algernon. They all three stopped as George approached.

“Leaving?” Afton enquired. His eyes flickered over Emily and then Charlotte.

Charlotte felt her stomach curl up and instantly longed to be outside. She must control herself and leave with courtesy. After all, the man must be under great strain.

George was muttering something to Phoebe, a ritual politeness about the hospitality.

“How kind of you,” she replied automatically, her voice high and tight. Charlotte saw that her hands were clenched across the billows of her skirt.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Afton snapped. “A few are here out of courtesy, but most are no more than inquisitive. Rape is a better scandal than mere adultery any day. Besides, adultery has become so common that, unless there is something ludicrous attached to it, it is hardly worth recounting anymore.”

Phoebe colored uncomfortably, but she seemed incapable of finding an answer.

“I came out of affection for Fanny.” Emily looked up at him coldly. “And for Phoebe!”

Afton inclined his head a little.

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it. If you are able to call upon her some afternoon, she will no doubt regale you with her feelings in the matter. She is quite convinced there is some madman lurking around, just waiting for the chance to leap upon her and ravish her next.”

“Please!” Phoebe tugged at his sleeve, her face painfully red. “I do not think so at all.”

“Did I misunderstand you?” he inquired, not lowering his voice, but staring at George. “I thought from the way you disported yourself that you suspected his presence on the upstairs landing last night. You had your gown so wrapped around you I feared you might strangle yourself if you were to turn carelessly. What on earth did you call the footman for, my dear? Or should I not ask you such a thing in front of others?”

“I didn’t call the footman. I–I merely-well, the curtain blew in the wind. I was startled, and I suppose-,” her face was scarlet now, and Charlotte could imagine the foolishness she was feeling, almost as if the whole company could see her frightened and disheveled in her nightclothes. She burned to think of something crushing to say for her, to cut at Afton with equally lacerating words, but nothing came.

It was Fulbert who spoke, lazily, a slow smile on his face. He put his arm around Phoebe, but his eyes were on Afton.

“There’s no need for you to be afraid, my dear. What you were doing is quite your own affair.” His face softened into amusement, some secret laughter inside him. “I really doubt it is one of your footmen, but, if it were, he would hardly be reckless enough to attack you in your own house. And you are more fortunate than any other woman in the Walk-at least you know perfectly well it wasn’t Afton. We all do!” He smiled across at George. “Would God the rest of us could be as far beyond suspicion?”

George blinked, unsure of his meaning, but knowing it held cruelty somewhere.

Charlotte instinctively turned to Afton. She had no idea what occasioned it, but cold, irrevocable hatred flared up in his eyes, and the shock of it rippled through her, leaving her feeling sick. She wanted to grip hold of Emily’s arm, touch something warm, human, and then run out of the glittering black-crepe room into the air, into the green summer, and keep on running until she was home in her own narrow, dusty little street with its whited steps, shoulder-to-shoulder houses, and women who worked all day.