Paragon Walk

Eight

Pitt was called, of course, and he left home immediately in the same cab that had brought the message, but by the time he reached Paragon Walk, Selena was dressed in a discreet gown of Emily’s and sitting on the big sofa in the withdrawing room. She was now much more composed. Her face was flushed, her hands white and knotted in her lap, but she told him quite coolly what had happened.

She had been returning from a brief visit to Grace Dilbridge, hurrying a little to be home before dark, when she had been attacked from behind by a man of above average height and quite phenomenal strength. She had been thrown to the ground on the grass by the rose bed, as near as she could judge. The next part was too appalling, and surely Pitt, as a delicate man, would not expect her to describe it? Sufficient to say she had been violated! By whom she did not know. She had not seen his face, nor could she describe anything else about him, except his enormous strength and the fierceness of his animal behavior.

He questioned her as to anything at all she might have noticed without realizing it: his clothing, was it of good texture or harsh; did he have a shirt beneath his jacket, white or dark? Were his hands rough?

She considered for only a moment.

“Oh,” she said, with a little flutter of surprise. “Yes, you are right! His clothes were good. He must have been a gentleman. I recall white shirt cuffs. And his hands were smooth, but”-she lowered her eyes-“very strong!”

He pressed her further, but she could tell him nothing more. He had not spoken, and presently she grew distressed and became unable to say anything more.

He was obliged to give up and fall back on the ordinary routine chasing of details. In a long and exhausting night, he and Forbes questioned every man on the Walk, obliging them to leave their beds angry and frightened. As previously, everyone could account in a perfectly reasonable way for his whereabouts, but none had complete proof that they could not have been outside for those few, vital moments.

Afton Nash had been in his study, but it opened onto the garden and, there was no reason why he could not have slipped out without being seen. Jessamyn Nash had been playing the piano and could not say whether Diggory was in the room all evening or not. Freddie Dilbridge had been alone in his garden room; he had said that he was considering some decorating changes. Grace was not with him. Hallam Cayley and Paul Alaric lived alone. The only bright aspect was that George had been in town, and it really did seem wildly improbable that he could have returned unseen to the Walk.

All the servants were questioned, and all the answers compared. A few had been occupied in activities they would have preferred to keep secret; there were three separate affairs and a card game where money of quite a high order had changed hands. Possibly there would be dismissals in the morning! But most either could account for themselves or were precisely where one would expect them to be.

At the end of it all, in a still, warm dawn, eyes gritting with sleep, his throat dry, Pitt knew nothing more of any worth.

It was two days after that that Pitt at last received his answer from Paris regarding Paul Alaric. He stood in the middle of the police station with it in his hands, more confused than ever. The Paris police could find no trace of him and apologized for the delay in their reply, explaining that they had sent to every major center in France inquiring, but still they could find no definite news. There were, of course, one or two families of that name, but none of their members fitted the description as to age, appearance, or anything else. And their whereabouts were already accounted for. Most certainly they had no records of such a person accused, much less convicted, of any indecent assaults upon women.

Pitt wondered why Alaric should lie as to his origin?

Then he recalled that Alaric had never said anything about his origin. Everyone else had said he was French, but Alaric himself had said nothing at all, and Pitt had never seen reason to ask. Freddie Dilbridge’s accusation was probably exactly what Grace had said it was-a desire to attract attention away from his own friends. Who easier to accuse than the only foreigner?

Pitt dismissed the Paris reply and went back to the practical investigation.

The investigation proceeded through the long, hot days, tedious question after question, and gradually Pitt was obliged to turn his attention to other crimes. The rest of London did not suddenly cease from robbery, deceit, and violence, and he could not spend all his hours on one mystery, however tragic or dangerous.

Life slowly resumed a more normal pattern in the Walk. Of course, Selena’s ordeal was not forgotten. Reactions to it varied. Oddly enough, Jessamyn was the most sympathetic. It was as if the old enmity between them had been entirely swept away. It fascinated Emily, because not only did they show a new friendship toward each other, there seemed to be a glow of satisfaction about it in both of them, as if each felt in her own way she had won a signal victory.

Jessamyn was all solicitude for Selena’s appalling experience and coddled her on every reasonable occasion, even prompting other people to the same concern. Of course, it did have the byproduct of allowing no one to forget the incident, a fact which Emily noted with some amusement and passed on to Charlotte when visiting her.

And curiously, Selena herself did not seem to mind. She colored deeply and her eyes were bright when it was referred to, always obliquely, of course-no one could wish to be vulgar enough to use unpleasant words-but she seemed to take no offense at its mention.

Naturally there were others who regarded it quite differently. George studiously avoided the subject altogether, and Emily permitted him to do so for some time. She had originally decided to dismiss her knowledge of his involvement with Selena, provided it never happened again. Then one morning an opportunity presented itself which was too good to miss, and almost without being conscious of it, she found herself taking advantage.

George looked up over the breakfast table. Aunt Vespasia was down early this morning and had helped herself delicately to apricot preserve with walnuts in, and a little very thin toast.

“What are you going to do today, Aunt Vespasia?” George inquired politely.

“I shall endeavor to avoid Grace Dilbridge,” she replied, “which will not be easy, since I have certain calls to make, as a matter of duty, and no doubt she will have the same ones. It will require some forethought to see that we do not come across each other at every step and turn.”

George said the automatic thing, partially because he was not really listening.

“Why do you wish to avoid her? She’s harmless enough.”

“She is excessively tedious,” Aunt Vespasia said smartly, finishing her toast. “I used to think that her suffering and the continuous, eyes-upturned expression of it was the nadir of boredom. But that was easy to take compared with her views on the subject of women who are molested, the general bestiality of men, and certain woman who contribute to everyone’s misfortune by encouraging them. That is more than I can bear.”

Emily spoke, for once, a fraction before she thought, her natural feelings for Selena stronger than her usual caution.

“I would have thought you might agree with her, at least in some respects?” she said, turning to Vespasia, a little edge to her voice.

Vespasia’s gray eyes widened.

“To disagree with Grace Dilbridge and yet have to listen to her with civility is part of the normal trials of Society, my dear,” she replied. “To be obliged by honesty, to agree with her, and to say so, is more than should be asked of anyone! It is the first and only time we have agreed about anything of moment, and it is intolerable. Of course Selena is no better than she should be! Even a fool knows that!” She stood up and dusted an imaginary crumb off her skirt.

Emily lowered her eyes for a long moment; then looked up at George. He turned from Aunt Vespasia, going out of the door, and back at Emily.

“Poor Aunt Vespasia,” Emily said carefully. “It is most trying. Grace is so very self-righteous, but one has to admit that on this occasion she is right. I dislike speaking ill of my own sex, especially of a friend, but Selena has behaved in the past in a way to-not quite invite.” She hesitated. “Misunderstanding as to her-” She stopped, her eyes holding George’s, staring across at him. His face was pale, stiff with apprehension.

“What?” He asked in the silence.

“Well-” She smiled very brightly, a cool, wise little smile. “Well, she has been a little-free-with herself, hasn’t she, my dear? And that sort of person attracts-” She let it go. She knew from his face that he had understood perfectly. There were no more secrets,

“Emily,” he began, knocking his teacup with his sleeve.

She did not wish to discuss it. Excuses were painful. And she did not want to hear him make them. She affected to suppose he was going to criticize her.

“Oh, I don’t doubt you are going to say I should not speak of her in that way when she has had such a dreadful experience.” She reached for the teapot to have something to do, but her hand was not as steady as he would have wished. “But I promise you what Aunt Vespasia says is quite true, and I know it for myself. Still-I’m sure after this it will not happen again. Everything will be quite changed for her from now on, poor creature!” She composed her face sufficiently to smile across at him and hold the teapot with hardly a quiver. “Would you care for some more tea, George?”

He stared at her, a mixture of incredulity and awe in his eyes.

She viewed it with a warm, delicious tingle of satisfaction.

For a moment they stayed motionless, understanding working through, completing itself.

“Tea?” she repeated at last.

He held out his cup.

“I expect you are right,” he agreed slowly. “In fact I’m sure you are. It will definitely be quite different from now on.”

Her whole body relaxed, she smiled at him dazzlingly and let the tea pour right up the cup, far too full for good taste.

He looked at it with a slight surprise, then smiled as well, a wide, intense smile, like one who has been delightfully amazed.

Miss Laetitia said nothing about the affair of Selena, but Miss Lucinda more than made up for it, spilling opinions out like shopping from a burst basket, every color and shape, but all adding weight to her conviction that there was something incredibly wicked going on in the Walk, and she would devote every ounce of courage she possessed to discovering what it was. Lady Tamworth reinforced her volubly, but took no action.

Afton Nash was also of the opinion that the only women who get molested are those who invite such things and therefore deserve little sympathy. Phoebe wrung her hands and grew even more terrified.

Hallam Cayley continued to drink.

Immediately after the next event, Emily called her carriage in the morning and rushed around unannounced to regale Charlotte with the news. She almost tumbled out of the door onto the pavement, ignoring the footman’s help in her excitement, and forgot to give him any instructions. She thumped on Charlotte’s door.

Charlotte, apron up to her chin, dustpan in hand, answered it, her face blank with surprise.

Emily burst in past her, leaving the door open.

“Are you all right?” Charlotte pushed it shut and followed after her as Emily swept into the kitchen and planted herself on one of the kitchen chairs.

“I’m marvelous!” Emily replied. “You’ll never imagine what has happened! Miss Lucinda has seen an apparition!”

“A what?” Charlotte stared at her in disbelief.

“Sit down,” Emily commanded. “Make me some tea. I’m dying of thirst. Miss Lucinda saw an apparition! Last night. She has taken to the chaise lounge in the withdrawing room in a state of complete collapse, and everyone is rushing around to call on her, simply aching to know what happened. She will be holding court. I would love to be there, but I had to come and tell you. Isn’t it ridiculous?”

Charlotte had put on the kettle; the tea things were already prepared, as she had intended to have a cup herself in an hour or two. She sat down opposite Emily and gazed at her flushed face.

“An apparition? What do you mean? A ghost of Fanny, or something? She’s mad. Does she drink, do you think?”

“Miss Lucinda? Good gracious, no! You should hear what she says about people who drink!”

“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t do it herself.”

“Well, she doesn’t. And no, not a ghost of anybody, but something hideous and evil, staring at her through her window, its face pressed against the glass. She said it was pale green, with red eyes, and had horns out the top of its head!”

“Oh Emily!” Charlotte burst out laughing. “She can’t have! There isn’t any such thing!”

Emily leaned forward.

“But that’s not all,” she said urgently. “One of the maids saw something running away, sort of loping, and it jumped clear over the hedge. And Hallam Cayley’s dog howled half the night!”

“Maybe it was Hallam Cayley’s dog in the first place?” Charlotte suggested. “And it howled because it was shut up again, and maybe beaten for running away.”

“Rubbish! It’s quite a small dog, and it isn’t green!”

“She could have thought its ears were horns,” Charlotte was not going to give up. Then she collapsed in laughter. “But I would love to have seen Miss Lucinda’s face. I’ll wager that was as green as anything at the window!”

Emily burst into giggles, too. The kettle was spouting steam all over the kitchen, but neither of them took any notice.

“It really isn’t funny,” Emily said at last, wiping away her tears.

Charlotte saw the kettle and stood up to make the tea, sniffing and dabbing at her cheeks with the end of her apron.

“I know,” she agreed. “And I am sorry, but it’s so silly I can’t listen to it and keep a straight face. I suppose poor Phoebe will be even more terrified now.”

“I haven’t heard, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she took to her bed as well. She wears a crucifix the size of a teaspoon all the time. I can’t imagine a man who would attack and molest you in the dark being warded off by that!”

“Poor creature.” Charlotte brought the teapot to the table and sat down again. “I wonder if they’ll send for Thomas?”

“For apparitions? More like the vicar.”

“An exorcism?” Charlotte said with delight. “I should love to see that! Do you think they really will?”

Emily raised her eyebrows and began to giggle again. “How else do you get rid of green monsters with horns?”

“A little more water and a little less imagination,” Charlotte said tartly. Then her face softened. “Poor thing. I suppose she has little else to do. The only events of any meaning in her life are those she dreams up. Nobody really needs her. At least after this she’ll be famous for a few days.”

Emily reached over and poured the tea, but she did not reply. It was a pathetic and sobering thought.

At the end of August there was a dinner party at the Dilbridges’ to which Emily and George were invited, along with the rest of the Walk. Surprisingly, the invitation also included Charlotte, if she would care to come.

It was only ten days since Miss Lucinda’s apparition, and Charlotte’s interest was still very much alive. She was not even concerned as to how she would present a suitable appearance. If Emily passed on the invitation she would no doubt also have in mind some gown Charlotte could wear. As usual curiosity won over pride, and without hesitation she accepted yet another of Aunt Vespasia’s gowns, considerably made over by Emily’s lady’s maid. It was a rich oyster shaded satin with a little lace on it, though much had been taken off and replaced with chiffon to make it appear younger. Altogether, turning slowly in front of the cheval glass, Charlotte was very pleased with it. And it was marvelous to have someone else to do her hair. It was extremely difficult to wind hair elegantly at the back of one’s own head. Her hands always seemed to be at the wrong angle.

“That’s fine,” Emily said tartly. “Stop admiring yourself. You’re becoming vain, and it doesn’t suit you!”

Charlotte smiled broadly.

“It might not, but it feels wonderful!” She picked up her skirts, swishing them a little, and followed Emily down to where George was waiting for them in the hallway. It was an event Aunt Vespasia had chosen not to attend, although as a matter of course the invitation had included her.

It was a long time since Charlotte had been to a party at all, and in the past she had not enjoyed them much. But she felt quite differently about this. It was not a case of accompanying Mama so that she might be paraded before suitable potential husbands. This time she was secure in Pitt’s love, not anxious what Society should think of her, and not especially concerned to impress. She could go and be quite naturally herself, and there was no effort required since she was essentially a spectator. The dramas in Paragon Walk did not affect her, because the main tragedy did not touch Emily, and if Emily wished to become involved in the minor farces, that was her own affair.

It was quite a small dinner by the Dilbridges’ usual standards, not more than two or three faces that Charlotte did not already know. Simeon Isaacs was there, with Albertine Dilbridge, much to Lady Tamworth’s obvious disapproval. The Misses Horbury were dressed in pink, and it looked surprisingly well on Miss Laetitia.

Jessamyn Nash floated in in silver gray, looking quite marvelous. Only she could have contrived at once to warm the color with life, and at the same time leave untarnished its wraithlike essence. For a moment Charlotte envied her.

Then she saw Paul Alaric, standing next to Selena, his head bent a little to listen to her, elegant and faintly humorous.

Charlotte raised her chin a little higher and approached them with a dazzling smile.

“Mrs. Montague,” she said brightly, “I’m so glad to see you looking so well.” She did not want to be obvious, above all not in front of Alaric. Waspishness might amuse him, but he would not admire it.

Selena looked slightly surprised. Apparently it was not what she had expected.

“I am in excellent health, thank you,” she said, with eyebrows raised.

They swapped polite nothings, but, as Charlotte looked more closely at Selena, she realized that her initial words had been perfectly true. Selena did appear in excellent health. She looked nothing like a woman who had recently suffered the violence and obscenity of rape. Her eyes were brilliant, and there was a flush on her cheeks that was so high and yet so delicate Charlotte was convinced it owed nothing to art. She moved a little quickly, small gestures of her hands, eyes glancing round the room. If this was a display of courage, a defiance of the tacit consensus that a women ravished was somehow justly despoiled and must remember it all her life, then, for all her dislike, Charlotte could only admire it.

She did not allude to the incident again, and the conversation passed to other things, small items in the news, trivia of fashion. Presently she drifted away, leaving Selena still with Alaric.

“She looks remarkably well, don’t you think?” Grace Dilbridge observed with a small shake of her head. “I don’t know how the poor creature bears it!”

“It must take a great deal of courage,” Charlotte replied. It did not come easily to her to praise Selena, but honesty obliged it. “One cannot help admiring her.”

“Admire!” Miss Lucinda spun round, her face flushed with anger. “You must admire whom you choose, Mrs. Pitt, but I call it brazen! She is disgracing the whole of womanhood! I really think next Season I must go somewhere else. It will be extremely hard for me, but the Walk has become defiled beyond endurance.”

Charlotte was too surprised to answer immediately, and Grace Dilbridge did not seem to know what to say either.

“Brazen,” Miss Lucinda repeated, staring at Selena, now walking on Alaric’s arm across the floor toward the open French doors. Alaric was smiling, but there was something in the angle of his head that betrayed courtesy rather than interest. He seemed even faintly amused.

Miss Lucinda snorted.

Charlotte found her tongue at last.

“I think that is a most unkind thing to say, Miss Horbury, and quite unjust! Mrs. Montague was the victim, not the perpetrator, of the crime.”

“What utter nonsense!” It was Afton Nash, pale-faced, eyes glittering. “I find it hard to imagine you can really be so naive, Mrs. Pitt. Feminine charms may be considerable-to some.” He raked her up and down with a contempt that seemed to strip her of her gorgeous satins and leave her naked to the prying and derision of everyone. “But if you imagine they are such as to drive men to force themselves upon the unwilling, you overrate your own sex.” He smiled icily. “There are enough willing, positively eager, for titillation, who even find a perverse pleasure in violence and submission to it. No man need risk his reputation by assaulting the unwilling, whatever any given woman may choose to say afterward.”

“That’s a disgusting thing to say!” Algernon Burnon had been close enough to overhear. Now he stepped forward, ashen faced, his slight body shaking. “I demand that you withdraw it, and apologize!”

“Or you will-what?” Afton’s smile did not alter. “Request me to choose between pistols and swords? Don’t be ridiculous, man! Nurse your offense, by all means, if you must. Believe whatever you want to about women; but don’t try to make me believe it too!”

“A decent man,” Algernon said stiffly, “would not speak ill of the dead, nor insult another man’s grief. And whatever anyone’s most private weaknesses or shame, he would not make public mock of it!”

To Charlotte’s amazement Afton did not reply. His face drained of all blood, and he stared at Algernon as if no one else existed in the room. Seconds ticked by, and even Algernon seemed frightened by the intensity of Afton’s frozen hatred. Then Afton turned on his heel and strode away.

Charlotte breathed out slowly; she did not even know why she was frightened. She did not understand what had happened. Neither, apparently, did Algernon himself. He blinked and turned to Charlotte.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pitt. I’m sure we must have embarrassed you. It is not a subject we should have discussed in front of ladies. But,” he took in a deep breath and let it out. “I am grateful to you for defending Selena-for Fanny’s sake-you-”

Charlotte smiled.

“I understand. And no person who is worth counting a friend would think otherwise.”

His face relaxed a little.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

A moment later she found Emily at her elbow.

“What happened?” Emily demanded anxiously. “It looked dreadful!”

“It was unpleasant,” Charlotte agreed. “But I don’t really know exactly what it meant.”

“Well, what did you do?” Emily snapped.

“I praised Selena for her courage,” Charlotte replied, looking at Emily very directly. She had no intention of going back on it, and Emily might as well know.

Emily’s brows wrinkled, her mood changed in the instant from anger to puzzlement.

“Yes, isn’t it extraordinary. She seems almost-elated! It is as if she had won some secret victory that none of the rest of us know about. She is even nice to Jessamyn. And Jessamyn is nice to her, too. It’s ridiculous!”

“Well, I don’t like Selena either,” Charlotte admitted. “But I am obliged to admire her courage. She is defying all the bigoted little people who say she is somehow to blame for what happened to her. Whoever had the fire to do that would have my regard.”

Emily stood staring across the enormous room to where Selena was talking to Albertine Dilbridge and Mr. Isaacs. A few feet away from them, Jessamyn stood with a champagne glass in her hand, watching Hallam Cayley take what must have been his third or fourth rum punch since his arrival. Her expression was unreadable. It could have been pity or contempt, or it might have had nothing to do with Hallam at all. But when her eyes moved to Selena, there was nothing in them but pure, delicious laughter.

Emily shook her head.

“I wish I understood,” she said slowly. “Perhaps I’m mean-spirited, but I really don’t think it’s just courage. I’ve never seen Selena in that way. Maybe it’s my fault, but I don’t know. That’s not defiance; she’s pleased with herself. I swear it. You know she’s set her cap at Monsieur Alaric?”

Charlotte gave her a withering look.

“Of course I know it! Do you think I’m blind and deaf, too?”

Emily ignored the barb.

“Promise you won’t tell Thomas, or I shan’t tell you!”

Charlotte promised immediately. She could not possibly forego the secret, whatever conflicts followed afterward.

Emily pulled a face.

“On the night it happened I was the first person there, as you know-”

Charlotte nodded.

“Well, I asked her straightaway who it was. Do you know what she told me?”

“Of course, I don’t!”

“She made me swear not to accuse him, but she said it was Paul Alaric!” She stood back and waited for Charlotte’s amazement.

Charlotte’s first feeling was one of disgust, not for Selena, but for Alaric. Then she rejected the whole idea, thrusting it away.

“That’s ridiculous! Why on earth should he attack her? She is chasing him so hard, all he would need to do is stop running away, and he would have her for the asking!” She knew she was being cruel, and she intended it.

“Exactly,” Emily agreed. “Which only makes the mystery greater! And why does Jessamyn not care? If Monsieur Alaric is really so passionate about Selena that he ravished her in the Walk, surely Jessamyn would be beside herself with rage-wouldn’t she? But she isn’t; she is laughing, I can see it in her eyes every time she looks at Selena.”

“So she doesn’t know,” Charlotte reasoned. Then she thought more deeply. “But rape is not a matter of love, Emily. It is violence, possession. A strong man, a man who is capable of caring, does not force a woman. He takes love as it is offered, knowing that that which is demanded has no meaning. The essence of strength is not in overpowering others, but in mastering oneself. Love is giving, as well as receiving, and when one has once known love, one sees conquest as the act of a weak and selfish person, the momentary satisfaction of an appetite. And then it is no longer attractive, merely rather sad.”

Emily frowned, and her eyes were clouded.

“You are talking about love, Charlotte. I was only thinking of physical things. They can be quite different, without any love at all. Perhaps there is even a little hate in them. Maybe Selena did secretly rather enjoy it. To have lain with Monsieur Alaric willingly would be a sin. And even if Society did not particularly care, her friends and family would. But to be the victim excuses her, at least in her own mind. But if it was not so dreadful, and she was excited by it when she knew she should have been revolted, then she has had it both ways! She is innocent of the guilt, and yet she has had the pleasure!”

Charlotte thought about it for a few moments, then discarded it, perhaps not with reason but because she did not wish it to be true.

“I don’t think it can be a pleasure. And why is Jessamyn so amused then?”

“I don’t know,” Emily gave up. “But it is not as simple as it seems.” She moved away, going over toward George, who was trying unsuccessfully to reassure Phoebe, muttering something soothing to her and obviously highly embarrassed. Phoebe had taken to speaking much about religion and was never without a crucifix. He had no idea what to say to her and was overwhelmed with relief when Emily took over, determined to turn the conversation away from salvation to something more trivial, such as how to train a good parlormaid. Charlotte watched in admiration at the skill with which it was done. Emily had learned a lot since Cater Street.

“The play amuses you?” It was a soft voice, very beautiful, just behind her.

Charlotte spun round a little too quickly for grace. Paul Alaric raised his eyebrows very slightly.

“It hovers between tragedy and farce, doesn’t it?” he said with a slow smile. “I fear Mr. Cayley is destined for tragedy. There is a pervading darkness in him that will engulf him altogether before long. And poor Phoebe-she is so terrified, and she has no need.”

Charlotte was confused. She was unprepared to discuss reality with him. In fact she was not sure even now whether he was speaking seriously, or merely playing verbal games. She searched for an answer that would not commit her.

He waited, his eyes soft, Latin dark, but without the overt sensuality she always associated in her mind with Italy. They seemed to look inside her without effort, to read her.

“How do you know she has no need?” she asked.

His smile broadened.

“My dear Charlotte, I know what she is afraid of-and it does not exist-at least not here in Paragon Walk.”

“Then, why don’t you tell her so?” She was angry, feeling for Phoebe’s panic.

He looked at her with patience.

“Because she would not believe me. Like Miss Lucinda Horbury, she has convinced herself.”

“Oh, you mean Miss Lucinda’s apparition?” Suddenly, she was weak with relief.

He laughed outright.

“Oh, I don’t doubt she saw something. After all, if she will go poking her virtuous nose into other people’s affairs, it is too much temptation for someone to resist putting something there for her to sniff at. I imagine it was very real, her green monster-at least for the occasion.”

She wanted to disapprove, but even more than that she wanted to believe him.

“That’s quite irresponsible,” she said, in what she imagined to be a stiff voice. “The poor woman might have had a seizure with fright.”

He was not fooled for an instant.

“I doubt it. I think she is a remarkably durable old lady. Her indignation will keep her alive, even if only to find out what is going on.”

“Do you know who it was?” she asked.

His eyes widened.

“I don’t even know that it happened at all. I have only deduced it.”

She did not know what else to say. She was very aware of him standing close to her. He did not need to touch her or to speak for her to be conscious of him above and beyond everyone else in the room. Had he attacked Fanny, and then Selena? Or had it been someone else, and Selena had merely wished herself into believing it was he? She could understand that. It removed the assault from the realm of the sordid and humiliating to something dangerous but not without thrill.

To pretend, even to herself, that his company was not without deep and rather disturbing undertones of excitement, a kind of dominance, would be dishonest. Was it unconscious perception of violence in him that fascinated her? Was it true that women in some primitive depth they must deny, actually longed for rape? Did they all, even herself, secretly hunger for him?

“Woman wailing for her demon lover”-a line of verse, ugly and appropriate, intruded into her mind. She shook it away, forcing herself to smile, although it felt artificial and grotesque.

“I can’t imagine anyone dressing up in such a ludicrous fashion,” she said, trying to be light. “I think it was more likely to have been a stray animal, or even the branches of some shrub or other in the gaslight.”

“Perhaps,” he said gently. “I won’t argue with you.”

Indeed, they were prevented from continuing with the subject any further by the arrival of the Misses Horbury themselves and Lady Tamworth.

“Good evening, Miss Horbury,” Charlotte said politely. “Lady Tamworth.”

“How resolute of you to come,” Alaric added, and Charlotte could have kicked him.

Miss Lucinda’s face flushed for a moment. She disapproved of him, and therefore disliked him, but she could not refuse praise.

“I knew it to be my duty,” she replied soberly. “And I shall not return home alone.” She looked at him pointedly, her pale blue eyes wide. “I would not be foolish enough to go unaccompanied in Paragon Walk!”

Charlotte saw Alaric’s fine brows rise very slightly and knew precisely what he was thinking. She felt a desperate desire to giggle. The idea of any man, least of all Paul Alaric, willfully accosting Miss Lucinda was preposterous.

“Very wise,” Alaric agreed, meeting her challenging look squarely. “I doubt anything at all would have the temerity to attack three of you.”

The faintest suspicion crossed her face that he was somehow amused by her, but, since she saw nothing funny herself, she dismissed it as a foreign joke and not worthy of attention.

“Certainly not,” Lady Tamworth agreed enthusiastically. “There is no limit to what can be accomplished if we band together. And there is so much to be done, if we are to preserve our Society.” She glanced balefully across at Simeon Isaacs, head bent to Albertine Dilbridge, his face alight. “And we must act quickly, if we are to succeed! At least that abominable Mr. Darwin is dead and can do no more harm.”

“Once an idea is published, Lady Tamworth, its originator does not need to survive,” Alaric pointed out. “Anymore than the seed need the sower in order to flourish.”

She looked at him with distaste.

“Of course you are not English, Monsieur Alaric. You could not be expected to understand the English people. We will not take seriously such blasphemies.”

Alaric affected innocence.

“Was not Mr. Darwin an Englishman, then?”

Lady Tamworth shrugged her shoulder sharply.

“I know nothing about him, nor do I wish to. Such men are not a fit subject for the interest of decent people.”

Alaric followed the line of her eye.

“I’m sure Mr. Isaacs would agree with you,” he said with a faint smile, and Charlotte was forced to stifle a giggle by pretending to sneeze. “Being a Jew,” Alaric continued, avoiding her eye, “he would not countenance Mr. Darwin’s revolutionary theories.”

Hallem Cayley drifted up, his face heavy, another glass in his hand.

“No,” he looked at Alaric with dislike. “The poor sod believes man is made in the image of God. I think the ape far more likely, myself.”

“You are surely not saying now that Mr. Isaacs is a Christian?” Lady Tamworth bridled.

“A Jew,” Hallam answered carefully and distinctly, then took another drink. “The Creation belongs to the Old Testament. Or haven’t you read it?”

“I am of the Church of England,” she said stiffly. “I don’t read foreign teachings. That is primarily what is wrong with society these days: a great deal of new foreign blood. These are names now that I never heard of when I was a girl! No breeding. Heaven only knows where they come from!”

“Hardly new, ma’am.” Alaric was standing so close to Charlotte, she fancied she could feel the warmth of him through the thick satin of her gown. “Mr. Isaacs can trace his ancestry back to Abraham, and he back to Noah, and so back to Adam.”

“And so back to God!” Hallam drained his glass and dropped it on the floor. “Impeccable!” He glared triumphantly at Lady Tamworth. “Makes the rest of us look like yesterday’s bastards, doesn’t it?” He grinned broadly and turned away.

Lady Tamworth shook with rage. Her teeth clicked quite audibly. Charlotte felt a pity for her, because her world was changing, and she did not understand it; it had no place for her. She was like one of Mr. Darwin’s dinosaurs, dangerous and ridiculous, beyond its time.

“I think he has had too much to drink,” she said to her. “You must excuse him. I don’t suppose he meant to be so offensive.”

But Lady Tamworth was not mollified. She could not forgive.

“He is appalling! It must have been associating with men like that that gave Mr. Darwin his ideas. If he does not leave, then I shall.”

“Would you care for me to escort you home?” Alaric asked instantly. “I doubt Mr. Cayley will leave.”

She looked at him with loathing, but forced herself to refuse civilly.

Charlotte burst into giggles, covering her face with her hands.

“You were quite dreadful!” she said to him, furious with herself for laughing. She knew it was the pressure of fear and excitement as much as humor, and she was ashamed. “You do not have the sole prerogative to be outrageous, Charlotte,” he said quietly. “You must allow me a little fun as well.’

A few days later Charlotte received a note from Emily, written in haste and some excitement. From something that Phoebe had said, Emily was now perfectly convinced that, in spite of her self-righteous prying, Miss Lucinda was right, and there was something going on in the Walk. She herself had certain more practical ideas as to how its nature could be uncovered, especially if it had something to do with Fanny and with Fulbert’s disappearance. And it was hard to believe it had not.

Of course, Charlotte made immediate arrangements for Jemima, and by eleven o’clock in the morning she was at Emily’s door. Emily was there as soon as the maid. She almost scurried Charlotte into the morning room.

“Lucinda’s right,” she said urgently. “She is dreadful, of course, and all she wants is to discover some piece of scandal she can tell everyone else and feel thoroughly superior about. She’ll dine out on it for the rest of the Season. But she won’t find out anything, because she’s going about it all the wrong way!”

“Emily!” Charlotte took hold of her, gripping her arm. She could only think of Fulbert. “For heaven’s sake, don’t! Look what happened to Fulbert!”

“We don’t know what happened to Fulbert,” Emily said reasonably. She shook Charlotte’s arm off with impatience. “But I want to find out-don’t you?”

Charlotte wavered.

“How?”

Emily scented victory. She did not push. She tried a little honest flattery.

“Your suggestion-I suddenly realized that was the way. Thomas can’t do it. It would have to be casual-”

“Who?” Charlotte demanded. “Explain yourself, Emily, before I explode!”

“Maids!” Emily was leaning forward now, her face shining. “Maids notice everything, between them. Maybe they don’t know what all the different pieces mean, but we might!”

“But Thomas-” Charlotte started, although she knew Emily was right.

“Nonsense!” Emily brushed it aside. “No maid is going to talk to the police.”

“But we can’t just go questioning other people’s maids!”

Emily was exasperated.

“For goodness’ sake, I shan’t be so obvious! I shall go for some quite different reason, a recipe I admire, or I could take some old dresses I have for Jessamyn’s maid-”

“You can’t do that!” Charlotte said in horror. “Jessamyn will give her her own old things. She must have dozens! You couldn’t explain any reason-”

“Yes, I could. Jessamyn never gives her old dresses away. She never gives anything away. Once it has been hers, she keeps it or burns it. She doesn’t allow anyone else to have her things. Besides, her lady’s maid is about the same size as I am. I have looked out a muslin from last year that will be perfect. She can wear it on her afternoon off. We shall go when I know that Jessamyn is out.”

Charlotte was very dubious about the idea and feared it might prove embarrassing, but since Emily patently intended going regardless, her curiosity obliged her to go as well.

She had misjudged Emily. They learned nothing that seemed of any value at Jessamyn’s, but the maid was delighted with the dress and the whole interview appeared as natural as a chance conversation with no purpose at all but pleasantry.

They proceeded to Phoebe’s, arriving at the only time of the day when she was to be absent, and learned of an excellent mixture for making furniture wax with a most pleasing smell. It seemed Phoebe had taken to visiting the local church at odd hours, lately as often as every other day.

“Poor creature,” Emily said as they left. “I think all these tragedies have quite turned her mind. I don’t know whether she is praying for Fanny’s soul, or what.”

Charlotte did not understand the idea of praying for the dead, but there was nothing difficult in sympathizing with the need for comfort, a quiet place where faith and simplicity had found refuge over the generations. She was glad that Phoebe had discovered it, and, if it gave her calm, helped hold at bay the terrors that crowded in on her, so much the better.

“I’m going to see Hallam Cayley’s cook,” Emily announced. “You know the weather is quite different today. I am thoroughly cold, even though I put on a warmer dress. I do hope we aren’t going to have a wretched spell, the Season isn’t nearly over!”

It was true, here was an east wind, and it was definitely chill, but Charlotte was not interested in the weather. She pulled her shawl tighter and kept up with Emily.

“You can’t just walk in and ask to speak to his cook! What on earth excuse have you? You’ll make him suspicious, or else he will just think you ill-mannered.”

“He won’t be in!” Emily said impatiently. “I told you, I have chosen my times with great care. She cannot cook pastry to save herself; you could shoe horses with it. That’s why Hallam always eats pastry when he is out. But she is a genius with sauces. I shall beg her for a recipe to impress Aunt Vespasia. That will flatter her, and then I can pass on to general conversation. I am convinced Hallam knows about what is going on. He has behaved like a man haunted for the last month or more. I think, in his own way, he is as frightened as Phoebe!”

They were almost to the door. She stopped to let her shawl fall a little more gracefully, adjusted her hat, and then pulled the bell.

The footman opened the door immediately; his face fell with surprise when he saw two unaccompanied women.

“Lady-Lady Ashworth! I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Cayley is not at home.” He ignored Charlotte. He was not sure who she was and had more than enough to deal with without her.

Emily smiled disarmingly.

“How unfortunate. I was wondering if he might be kind enough to permit me to speak with your cook. Mrs. Heath, isn’t it?”

“Mrs. Heath? Yes, m’lady-”

Emily favored him with a dazzling look.

“Her sauces are quite famous, and, as I have my husband’s aunt, Lady Cumming-Gould, staying for the Season, I wanted to impress her with something special now and then. My cook is excellent, but-I know it is an impertinence, but I wondered if Mrs. Heath would be generous enough to share a recipe? Of course, it would not be the same, not made by her, but it would still be remarkable!” She smiled hopefully.

He thawed. This was his realm and understandable.

“If you care to wait in the withdrawing room, m’lady, I’ll ask Mrs. Heath to come up and see you.”

“Thank you, I’m obliged.” Emily swept in, and Charlotte followed behind her.

“You see!” Emily said triumphantly when they were seated and the footman had disappeared. “All it needs is a little forethought.”

When Mrs. Heath arrived, it was immediately apparent that she had decided to revel in her moment of glory. Negotiations were going to be protracted, and she would require every possible compliment before parting with the secret of her creations. It was equally obvious that she would share them; the fame already glittered in her eyes.

They were about at the point of accomplishment, when a small, very smutty maid came clattering down the stairs and burst into the withdrawing room, mobcap askew and hands black.

Mrs. Heath was outraged. She drew breath to deliver a blast of rebuke, but the girl spoke before her.

“Mrs. Heath, please, mum! The chimney’s on fire in the green room, mum. I lit the fire to get rid of that smell like you told me to, and now it’s all smoke everywhere, and I can’t put it out!”

Mrs. Heath and Emily looked at each other in consternation.

“It’s probably a birdnest in the chimney,” Charlotte said practically. Since her marriage, she had had to learn about such things. She had called the sweep more than once for her own house. “Don’t open the windows, or you’ll make the draught worse, and it’ll really burn. Get a long handled broom, and we’ll see if we can dislodge it.”

The maid stood, unsure whether to obey a strange woman or not.

“Well, go on, girl!” Mrs. Heath decided she would have given the same advice, if good manners had not prevented her from speaking first. “I don’t know why you had to ask me!”

Emily seized the chance to reinforce her advantage, rather than risk being cut short before her real purpose by an inopportune domestic emergency.

“It may be quite far up. Perhaps we had better see if we can help. If it is not done properly there may be a real fire.” And without waiting for agreement, she marched out of the door and followed the scuttering maid up the stairs. Charlotte went as well, curious to see more of the house, and to hear anything that might be said, not that she shared Emily’s expectation of any useful information regarding Fulbert or Fanny.

The green bedroom was indeed full of smoke, and the fumes caught in their throats as soon as they opened the door.

“Oh!” Emily coughed and stepped back. “Oh, that’s awful. It must be a very big nest.”

“Perhaps you’d better get a bucket of water and put the fire out,” Charlotte said sharply to the maid. “Can you fetch a pitcher from the bathroom, and be quick. Then when it is out we can open all the windows.”

“Yes, mum.” The girl scurried away, now thoroughly frightened, in case she should be blamed for the whole affair.

Emily and Mrs. Heath stood coughing, happy for Charlotte to take command.

The girl came back and offered the pitcher to Charlotte, eyes wide and alarmed. Mrs. Heath opened the door, then, when she saw no flames, decided to reassert herself. She took the pitcher and strode in, hurling the contents on the billowing fireplace. There was a belch of steam and soot flew out, covering her white apron. She leapt back, furious. The girl stifled a giggle and turned it into a choke.

But the fireplace was dead and black, running trickles of sooty water into the hearth.

“Now!” Mrs. Heath said with determination. She had a personal vendetta with the thing, and it was not going to beat her, especially not in front of visitors and her own upstairs maid. She seized the broom the girl had been using to sweep the floor and advanced on the chimney. She launched a brisk swipe up the cavernous hold and struck something unyielding. Her face fell in surprise.

“It’s an awful big nest! I shouldn’t wonder if the bird’s still there, by the feel. You were right, miss.” She poked fiercely at it again and was rewarded with a fall of soot. She momentarily forgot her language and abused it roundly.

“Try poking to one side, and see if you can unbalance it,” Charlotte suggested.

Emily was watching closely, her nose wrinkled.

“It doesn’t smell very pleasant,” she said unhappily. “I’d no idea wet fires were so-so sickly!”

Mrs. Heath put the broom in slightly sideways and jabbed hard. There was another trickle of soot, a scraping noise, and then, quite slowly, the body of Fulbert Nash slithered down the chimney and fell spreadeagled across the wet fireplace. It was blackened with soot and smoke, and maggots had infested the flesh. The smell was unspeakable.