Silence in Hanover Close

7

EMILY WAS APPALLED when she came into the library in answer to Albert’s summons and saw Pitt standing there. Thank heaven the circumstances had given him little time to express his outrage or to press his demand that she leave. When Veronica returned to consciousness, Pitt had been obliged to remain silent, except for the few remarks to excuse himself, leaving Emily alone with her mistress propped up against the cushions, looking like death warmed over.

Emily felt so intense a pity for her it was like a new wound, but she also knew that she would probably never have a better chance than now, when Veronica was shocked and off balance, to draw some unguarded word from her as to what had frightened her so profoundly.

She bent down beside her and touched her hand. “Ma’am, you do look ill,” she said gently. “Whatever did he say to you? He ought not have been allowed!” She stared so intently at Veronica’s ashen face that some sort of answer was unavoidable.

“I—I think I fainted,” Veronica whispered at last.

Mentally Emily apologized to Pitt for the injustice she was about to do him; then with all the skill she could muster, she let genuine compassion fill her eyes. “Did he threaten you, ma’am? What did he say? He has no right! You should report him: What was it?”

“No,” Veronica said quickly, then bit her lip, struggling with the lie. “No—he—he was really quite civil. I. . .” For a moment her eyes met Emily’s and she hesitated on the brink of speech, the temptation to trust so vivid that Emily could trace every thread of it, the wavering, the rival fears.

Emily held her breath.

But the moment passed. Veronica turned away and the tears spilled and ran down her cheeks. She lay back and closed her eyes.

Emily longed to put her arms round her and tell her she understood, she knew what it was like to lose your husband suddenly, violently, in the horror of murder, with the knowledge that someone must hate so much that only death could satisfy them. And she also knew the fear that grew day by day, fear of confusion, of a whole world become incomprehensible and full of secrets, some of them hideous; and the fear that the truth might be worse than you could bear. And there was the fear that with knowledge you, too, might become a victim—and at the back of every other fear, the one that you might be guilty of some stupidity, or some neglect that had contributed to it all, a permanent rising, whispering guilt!

And for Emily, too, there had been the fear that the police would suspect her. Her motive had looked to be so obvious!

Was that what Veronica was afraid of now? Did she feel Pitt treading closer? Was it terror for herself that had made her faint?

Or was she afraid for someone she was protecting— someone like Julian Danver? It was more like Pitt to be oblique, to go for the weakest link in the chain of events: not the murderer himself but the person most likely to yield to pressure.

Or was Veronica afraid, as Emily had been, of the people in her husband’s family who believed she was guilty, or who wanted her to be—not only of errors of judgment, of the occasional selfishness, but literally physically guilty of murder? Was that the passion between Loretta and Veronica—that Loretta believed her daughter-in-law had killed her son? Was taking her revenge in her own way, slowly, day by day, turning the knife, collecting one word after another until she had proof? It was a far more delicate torture than the simple hangman’s noose, and Loretta could administer it herself—and watch.

Or was it Cerise she was afraid of?

Or in spite of the fear now, was she Cerise herself? And was it her paymasters of whom she was terrified, now that the net was closing in?

Whatever the truth, there was no point in pursuing it at present. The moment when she might have spoken was gone, and Emily knew it would be foolish to betray her curiosity. She felt a little sick. She did not want it to be Veronica. She could not help liking her, even feeling a kind of identity. But Emily was angry also, because of her own inability to judge. Her emotions were strong, she wanted to protect the victims and attack the offenders, of all sorts, whether guilty of murder, or only of hatred and meanness of soul; but she could not discern who they were.

“Would you like to go upstairs, ma’am?” she said, perhaps less tactfully man she might have. “Before anyone comes and—” She realized how far she was committing herself and stopped.

But Veronica understood. She swung her legs down from the sofa and sat up very slowly, still dizzy.

“Yes—yes, I would rather.” There was no need to add Loretta’s name; all the implications hung in the air between them, perfectly understood, but it would not do to speak them aloud.

Slowly, side by side, they left the library, crossed the hall to the stairs, and went up.

That evening Edith had another one of her “spells,” and Emily was asked to lay out the dinner gowns for both Veronica and Loretta.

“Poor Edith. She should see a doctor,” she said with cloying sweetness. “Shall I ask Mrs. York to call one for her? I’m sure she would; she thinks so highly of Edith.”

Fanny tittered and then stopped abruptly when the housekeeper glared at her.

“There’s no need for you to tell us what to do and what not to, miss!” Mrs. Crawford snapped at Emily. “We’ll call a doctor if it’s necessary! You’re a sight too ready with your advice!”

Emily affected innocence and a slight air of having been hurt.

“I’m sure I was only trying to help, Mrs. Crawford, being that I shall see Mrs. York in the line of duty. To save you going out of your way.”

“I’ll go where I please, miss, and none of your business!”

“The girl was only trying to help,” the butler said reasonably. “And maybe we should get a doctor to Edith. She has more turns than a hurdy-gurdy!”

Libby burst into a fit of giggles and half slid under the table.

“Oh, you are so witty, Mr. Redditch,” Bertha said admiringly.

Nora snorted. She had observed Bertha’s eye for Redditch and, having tried her own hand there and failed, regarded it with scorn. Anyway, she had every intention of doing better than a butler—Bertha could have him and welcome! She wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life living in someone else’s house! She was going to have one of her own, with nice linen and crockery, and a maid of all work.

Redditch smirked slightly; admiration was very pleasant.

“Control yourself, Libby,” he said sententiously. “No call for all that. Yes, Mrs. Crawford, I think Amelia might mention it to Mrs. York.”

“Yes, Amelia,” Nora agreed with a little sniff. “Why don’t you do that?”

Joan opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind. But she stared at Emily and shook her head so slightly it might have been an illusion of the gaslight, except for the expression of warning in her eyes.

“Scorch any slips today?” Nora asked sarcastically.

Emily smiled back. “No, thank you. Did you spill any soup?”

“I never spill soup! I know my job!”

“You used to,” Albert said with satisfaction. In his opinion Nora was a step above herself. He had tried to be friendly with her, and she thought herself too good for a junior footman. And she had ticked him off in front of the tweeny. “I remember when you dropped a potato in the French ambassador’s lap.”

“And I remember a few of your mistakes, too!” Nora said fiercely. “Do you want me to begin?”

“Do as you please, I’m sure,” Albert said airily, but his face was bright pink.

“I will! How about the day you stood on Lady Wortley’s train? I can still hear the taffeta rip!”

Redditch decided to take control. “That’ll do!” The butler straightened himself in his chair and fixed them with a stern eye. “I won’t have name-calling and interfering with other people’s jobs. Nora, what you said was uncalled for!”

Nora made a face behind his back.

Emily stood up. “The wind’ll change and you’ll get stuck like that!” she said simply, betraying to everyone what Nora had done. “Anyway, it’s time I went upstairs.”

“It’s more than time!” the housekeeper added. “Seeing as you have both ladies to care for. Should have gone quarter of an hour since.”

“I didn’t know Edith would be taken with one of her spells again,” Emily answered back. “Although I suppose I might have guessed, seeing how often they happen.”

“I’ll have none of your impertinence!” the housekeeper snapped. “Watch your tongue, miss, or you’ll be out on the street without a character!”

“And there’s only one way to make your living then,” Nora added spitefully. “We all know what ’appened to Daisy. Not that you’d be much good at that either. You’re too thin, and you’ve no color at all.”

“And I should imagine you’d be perfect!” Emily returned instantly. “You’ve just the face for it. You’re wasted here— at least, I suppose you are.”

“Oh!” Nora flushed scarlet. “I’ve never been so insulted!” She stood up and flounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Albert started to giggle and Libby slid down under the table again, burying her face in her apron. Only Fanny stared in horror; she understood the power of jealousy instinctively, and she had seen enough to be frightened of it.

Emily left the room on the crest of her victory, but she had only got as far as the doorway when she heard the whispers start behind her.

“She’s a bad lot, that one!” the housekeeper said sharply. “She’ll have to go! Mark my words. Airs above herself—trying to talk with a fancy voice!”

“Nonsense!” The butler was very quick. “She’s got a bit of spirit, that’s all. Nora’s been queening around here too long; time someone matched up to her. She’s just not used to having another girl as handsome as Amelia is.”

“Handsome! Amelia?” Mrs. Crawford snorted. “Thin as a tuppenny rabbit, she is, and all that pale hair, and skin like a dish of whey. If you ask me, she’s not healthy!”

“She’s a sight healthier than Edith!” Redditch said with evident satisfaction.

Emily closed the door on Mrs. Crawford’s gasp of temper, and went along to the green baize door and up the main stairs.

By the time Emily had laid out Veronica’s clothes and gone to Loretta’s room, Loretta was already waiting for her. For several minutes she merely gave instructions, almost absent-mindedly, then at last she seemed to make up her mind to speak.

“Amelia?”

“Yes, ma’am?” Emily heard the difference in her tone, something peremptory in it. Or perhaps she was anxious?

“Is Miss Veronica unwell this evening?”

Emily considered her answer for a moment. If only she knew more about Loretta and her relationship with her son. Had the marriage been arranged? Had Loretta selected Veronica? Or had she and Robert fallen in love, against Loretta’s wishes? Perhaps she had been one of those possessive mothers for whom no woman could have been good enough to marry her son.

“Yes ma’am, I think she was.” She must be careful. If Veronica herself said otherwise she would create trouble by betraying her to her mother-in-law and at the same time destroy the trust she needed in order to learn anything. “I didn’t like to ask her, in case I intruded.”

Loretta was sitting on the stool in front of the dressing table. Her face was grave, her blue eyes wide. Cascades of deep, wavy hair framed her perfect pink and white skin.

“Amelia, I must confide in you.” Her eyes met Emily’s in the glass. “Veronica is not very strong, and her health needs care, at times perhaps more than she realizes. I hope you will help me to protect her. Her happiness is very important to me, you understand. Not only was she my son’s wife, but in the time she has lived here we have grown very close.”

Emily was startled into attention. She had been mesmerized for a moment by the steady, almost unblinking gaze in the glass.

“Yes, ma’am,” she agreed hesitantly. Surely it was a lie—wasn’t it? Or could the violent emotion between them be a form of love, of dependence and resentment? How should she answer this? She must behave like a maid and yet not lose the chance to learn. Did Loretta already know about Pitt’s visit? Emily must not be caught in a lie, or she’d be thrown out and would fail completely. “Of course I will do whatever I can,” she said, smiling back nervously. “The poor lady does seem ...” What word should she use? Frightened—terrified was the truth—but of what? Loretta was watching her, waiting. “Delicate,” Emily finished desperately.

“Do you think so?” Loretta’s perfect eyebrows rose. “What makes you say that, Amelia?”

Emily felt ridiculous. She could not possibly respond with the truth; she was left with fatuous answers. Was she being tested for loyalty, to see if she would recount Veronica’s fainting that afternoon, which Albert had seen and might have reported? There was no time for judgment. She answered instinctively.

“She was overcome with a faint this afternoon, ma’am. It passed quickly, and she seemed quite well again afterwards.” That would not be so remarkable. Ladies did faint; tight stays, waists pulled into a handspan often made one ill.

Loretta stopped fiddling with the pins in the silver tray on her dressing table. “Indeed? I didn’t know. Thank you for telling me, Amelia. You have done the right thing. In the future you will tell me anything else concerning Miss Veronica’s health and inform me if she is distressed or seems nervous, so I may give her all the assistance I can. This is a most important time in her life. She is shortly to become engaged to marry a very fine man. I am deeply concerned that nothing whatsoever should jeopardize her happiness. You understand me, Amelia?”

“Oh yes, ma’am,” Emily said with a sickly smile. “I’ll do everything I can to help.”

“Good. Now you may dress my hair, and you had better hurry because you have Miss Veronica’s to do as well.”

“Yes ma’am. It seems Edith is poorly again.”

Emily met Loretta’s eyes in the glass, and there was a dry humor in them, startling and unexpected; it indicated a sharpness of perception that was unnerving.

“She’ll be completely better tomorrow,” Loretta said with conviction. “I promise you.”

Edith was indeed up with the lark the next morning, but she was in a vile temper. Whatever had been said to her, she blamed Emily for it and held a bitter grudge. She followed Emily around, overseeing her work—especially the ironing, which she knew was her weakest point—criticizing the slightest error, until Emily lost her temper and told her she was a fat, idle, mischief-making slut, and if she put half as much effort into doing her own job as she did into meddling in other people’s, then no one else would need to cover for her.

Edith threw a bucket of cold water at her. Emily’s first thought was to retaliate by hitting Edith as hard as she could across her stupid face. But that would undoubtedly get her dismissed, and then she would discover nothing. She took the opposite course and stood in the middle of the laundry room floor, shivering and dripping. Joan, who had heard Edith shriek in fury, appeared in the doorway and saw Edith with the empty bucket in her hand and Emily’s pathetic state.

Emily thought for a moment what she must look like, how furious her mother would be and how absurd the whole situation was, and was terrified she would burst into giggles. To smother the slight hysteria she felt rising inside her she pulled her apron up to cover her face and stifled her laughter in its ample folds.

Joan disappeared, and two minutes later the butler came in, his face pink, his sideburns bristling.

“Edith! Whatever’s come over you, girl? You can stay here till Mrs. York wants you, and iron all the rest of the sheets.”

“That’s not my job!” Edith protested with outrage.

“Hold your tongue, and do as you’re told! And there’ll be no dinner for you today, or tomorrow either, if you give me any impertinence!” He turned to Emily gently and put his arm round her, holding her far more firmly than necessary. “Come now, get out of those wet things and then Mary’ll get you a hot cup of tea. You haven’t been hurt. You’ll be all right soon. Come, come. Stop crying, you’ll make yourself ill.”

Emily did not know if she could; her laughter was too close to tears to stop easily. After the loneliness, the cold, the tension and the strangeness it was a relief to let go and pour her feelings out. She felt Redditch’s arm around her, warm, surprisingly strong. It was really quite pleasant and she relaxed into it—then the appalling thought struck her that he might well misread her compliance. She had already noticed he seemed to like her a great deal, and had championed her more than once. That would be all she needed to lose control of this altogether!

She sniffed fiercely, commanded herself to behave, dropped her apron from her eyes and straightened up.

“Thank you, Mr. Redditch. You are quite right; it is nothing but shock because the water was cold.” She must not forget she was supposed to be a maid. She could hardly afford arrogance, or the kind of distance a lady might affect. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

His arm fell away reluctantly. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes—yes, thank you!” She moved away slowly, keeping her eyes averted. This was preposterous! She was thinking of him as a man, not a butler! Or on second thought, he was a man! All men were men! Perhaps it was Society that was preposterous?

“Thank you, Mr. Redditch,” she said again. “Yes, I’ll go and get changed. I’m frozen, and a hot cup of tea would be lovely.” She turned and all but ran out of the room and along the corridor to the stairs.

By the time she came down into the kitchen again everyone had heard of the affair, and she was met with wide-eyed stares, whispers, and a snigger or two.

“Ignore them!” Mary said softly, bringing her a steaming cup and sitting down beside her. Her voice dropped till it was barely audible. “Did you really call her names? What did you say?”

Emily took the tea carefully, her hands still shaking. “I told her she was a fat, lazy slut,” she whispered back. “But don’t repeat that: Mrs. Crawford would have me out! I expect Edith’s been here for years and Mrs. Crawford’s always known her.”

“No, she hasn’t.” Mary moved a little closer. “She’s only bin ’ere two year, and Mrs. Crawford fer three.”

“Everyone seems new,” Emily said artlessly. “Why? It’s a good place; lovely house, fair wages, and Miss Veronica’s not hard.”

“Dunno. I suppose it must be the murder. I didn’t ’ear no one say as they would leave; all the same, everyone did.”

“That’s silly.” Emily kept her voice down, but she was excited. Perhaps she was on the verge of some real detecting. “Did they think the murderer would kill someone else—oh!” She affected amazement and horror, swinging round on her wooden seat to look at Mary directly. “You don’t think Dulcie was murdered, do you?”

Mary’s eyes, blue as the rings on the kitchen china, stared at her in disbelief. Then gradually the possibility took hold, and Emily was afraid she had gone too far. A second maid in hysterics in one day would certainly get her thrown out without any excuses. Even Redditch could not save her. She could have bitten her tongue for being so hasty.

“You mean pushed ’er outa the window?” Mary’s voice was almost inaudible. But she was made of sterner stuff than Edith; she did not hold with hysterics. They usually made people cross, and men hated them. And her mind was quite sharp; she could read, and had a pile of penny dreadfuls under her pillow upstairs. She knew all about crime. “Well, Dulcie was ’ere when poor Mr. Robert was killed,” she said with a tiny nod. “Mebbe she saw summink.”

“So were you, weren’t you?” Emily sipped her tea gratefully. “Well, you’d better be careful. Don’t speak to anyone about anything that happened then! Did you see anything?”

Mary was apparently unaware of the contradiction in Emily’s instructions. “No, I never did,” she said regretfully. “Important people never come into the kitchen, and I ’ardly never got out of it. I was only scullery maid then.”

“You didn’t see any strange people upstairs ever? People who shouldn’t have been?”

“No, I never.”

“What was Mr. Robert like? The others must have talked.”

Mary’s brow puckered in thought. “Well, Dulcie said ’e was very partic’lar, never untidy like, an’ always polite—least, as polite as Quality ever is. But then old Mr. York is always polite, too, although ’e’s terrible untidy. Leaves ’is things all over the place, and forgets summink awful! I know ’e was out a lot. James as was footman then, ’e was always sayin’ Mr. Robert was out again, but that was Mr. Robert’s job. ’E was summink very important in the Foreign Service.”

“What happened to James?”

“Mrs. York got rid of ’im. Said as since Mr. Robert was dead there wasn’t no need. Sent ’im off the very next day, she did, on account of Lord somebody-or-other was lookin’ for a valet, and she spoke for ’im.”

“Mrs. Loretta?”

“Oh yes o’ course. Poor Miss Veronica weren’t in no state to do anything. Terrible grieved, she were; in an awful state, poor soul. Mr. Robert were ’er ’ole world. Adored ’im, she did. Not that Mrs. Loretta weren’t terrible upset, too, o’ course. White as a ghost, Dulcie said.” Mary leaned so close her hair tickled Emily’s cheek. “Dulcie told the she ’eard ’er crying summink wicked in the night, but she didn’t dare go in, ’cause she couldn’t do nuffink! People ’as to cry; it’s natural.”

“Of course it is.” Suddenly Emily felt like an intruder. What on earth was she doing here in some unfortunate woman’s house, deceiving everyone, pretending to be a maid? No wonder Pitt was furious! He probably despised her as well.

“Come on,” Mrs. Melrose interrupted briskly, breaking her train of thought. “Drink up your tea, Amelia. Mary’s got work to do, even if you ’aven’t! An’ I’d watch your tongue, if I were you, my girl. Don’t do to be too smart! Edith’s a lazy baggage, an’ you got away with it this time—but you made enemies! Now drink that up an’ get along with you!”

It was excellent advice and Emily thanked her for it meekly and obeyed with an alacrity that surprised them both.

The next two days were uncomfortable. Edith was nursing a resentment which she did not dare exercise, but it was the bitterer for that, and Emily knew she was only biding her time. Mrs. Crawford felt she had somehow been bested, and constantly found tiny faults with Emily, which provoked Redditch into criticizing the housekeeper until everyone was on edge. The laundry room became her only sanctuary, since once again Edith had contrived to get out of the ironing. She had bruised her wrist and the flatiron was too heavy for her. Mrs. Crawford let her get away with that, but she could not overrule Redditch on the matter of dinner, and two delicious midday meals went by without Edith’s presence. Mrs. Melrose seemed to have made a special effort. As was customary, the servants shared the fine wine in the family cellars. In the evening, after supper, they drank hot cocoa and played games in which Edith did not join.

Emily’s only immediate problem was how to fend off Redditch’s friendship without hurting his feelings and thus forfeiting his protection. She had never had to be so diplomatic in her life, and it was a considerable strain. She sought refuge in unnaturally diligent attendance upon Veronica. That was how she came to be in the boudoir in the middle of the afternoon when Nora announced that a Mr. Radley had called, and would Miss Veronica see him?

Emily suddenly felt flushed; the book she had been reading aloud slid off her lap onto the floor. All this had begun as an adventure, but she was not sure she wanted Jack to actually see her as a maid. Her hair was back in a style far less flattering than usual, and there was no color in her face—as a servant it was not allowed unless it was natural, of course—and because she was inside all the time, sleeping in that cold bed, up too early, there were shadows under her eyes, and she was sure she was thinner. Perhaps she did look like a tuppenny rabbit! Veronica was thin, but in her gorgeous clothes she merely looked delicate, not bloodless.

“Oh, yes please,” Veronica said with a smile. “How nice of him to call. Is Miss Barnaby with him, too?”

“No ma’am. Shall I bring him in here?” Nora glanced quickly at Emily, implying that she should leave.

“Yes, do. And have Mrs. Melrose prepare some tea and sandwiches, and cakes.”

“Yes ma’am,” Nora turned on her heel and went out, her skirts swishing round the door before she closed it. In her opinion lady’s maids had no business being where they could meet gentlemen callers. That was a parlormaid’s privilege.

Jack came in a moment later, smiling easily, graceful and full of life. He did not even glance at Emily, but his face lit with pleasure when he saw Veronica, and she held out her hand to him. Emily felt a shock of rejection, almost as if she had been slapped. It was idiotic. Had he spoken to her it would have spoilt everything, and she would have been angry with him. And yet she felt crushed inside because he had carried out his part perfectly. He had treated her like a servant, not a woman at all.

“How kind of you to see me,” he said warmly, as if it was more than just a social ritual. “I should have sent my card, but it was a spur-of-the-moment call. How are you? I heard you had a misfortune in the house. I do hope you are beginning to recover?”

Veronica clung to his hand. “Oh Jack, it really was dreadful. Poor Dulcie fell out of the window, and she was crushed on the stone beneath. I can’t think how it happened. No one saw anything!”

Jack! She had called him by his Christian name so naturally that it must be how she thought of him, even after all this time. Why had she not married him when they knew each other before? Money? Her parents? They might well have refused someone like Jack, who had no prospects. They had picked Robert York instead, an only son who had both money and ambition. But would she have preferred Jack? And infinitely more important, would he have preferred her?

They were talking as if Emily were not there; she could have been another cushion on the chair. Veronica was looking up at Jack, her cheeks flushed, looking happier than Emily had ever seen her. The light shone on that hair like black silk, and her eyes were wide. She was more than beautiful— there was individuality and passion in her face. Emily was caught in a turmoil of feelings that tightened her throat so she thought she might choke. As Amelia she liked Veronica, and pitied her because she realized she was desperately unhappy over something. It came to Emily with clarity, as she sat there like a fool watching Jack, that Veronica was wound up like an old-fashioned thumbscrew inside, hurting a little more each day. Was it still grief over Robert? Or was it fear? Was it because she knew something—or because she did not know, and her sense of uncertainty warped everything?

And at the same time, Emily was burningly jealous. And jealousy brought back the agony of watching George become infatuated with Sybilla, of knowing the man she loved preferred, in fact adored someone else. It was a pain like no other, and the fact that George had woken up from his affair before he died did not wash away her knowledge of what it was like to be rejected. There had been no time for the wound to heal fully.

Emily could not help seeing Veronica as a rival. Jack had started as an amusement, a graceful and charming toy to be played with; then he had become a friend, far more comfortable to be with than almost anyone except Charlotte. But now he was a part of her life she could not lose without profound loneliness. Now he was laughing and talking with Veronica, and Emily was powerless even to speak, let alone to fight for his attention. It was a kind of pain she had never experienced before. Some other time she would give thought to what it must be like always to be a maid, condemned only to watch. Now she was full of her own anger and hurt and had no time for anyone else.

And she should slip away. Maids had no business remaining in the room as if they were guests. She did not excuse herself; that too was unnecessary, an interruption. She simply stood up and tiptoed out. Jack did not even turn his head. At the door she looked over her shoulder at him, but he was smiling at Veronica, and Emily might not have existed.

Charlotte was frightened when Pitt described Emily’s danger with such clarity, but she was helpless to save her sister. Even if Charlotte went to the Yorks’ as often as she could, she could hardly rescue Emily over the teacups and cucumber sandwiches. The only comfort was that she did not actually believe Veronica was Cerise; from what Pitt had said, she had not the nerve to be a spy.

She raised the subject again the next day, hoping to ease the rift between them. “If she is a spy, don’t we have to discover her, for the nation’s sake?”

“No, we do not,” he said pointedly. “I do.”

“But we can help! Nobody in Hanover Close is going to talk to you because you are police, whereas they take no notice of us. They don’t think we have enough brains for them to have to lie!”

Pitt grunted and raised his eyebrows. He looked at her pointedly, and she decided to ignore him. It might be wiser to let the subject drop, in case he forbade her going to the Yorks’: she really did not want to have to disobey him. She wanted very much to avoid another quarrel. She could not possibly allow Emily to face whatever danger there was alone, but there was nothing she could say that Pitt would believe. If she were too docile he would become suspicious, so she merely resumed eating her supper and presently spoke of something else.

The following morning, as soon as Pitt was out of the house, she wrote a letter to Jack Radley and had Gracie put it in the ten o’clock post. While she was ironing Pitt’s shirts, Charlotte laid her plans.

It was Saturday, two days later, when they came to fruition, by which time she had been visited by Jack with an account of his call upon Veronica York. Emily had been in the room on his arrival, but had left shortly afterwards. He had been concerned that she looked very pale and rather unhappy, although he had not dared to do more than glance at her. The news of Emily was not good, but Charlotte was quite elated that he seemed so anxious for her. Looking at his face, which usually revealed nothing but charm and the superficial pleasure Society expected, she saw something of the man beneath, and found she liked it. Perhaps for Emily to be in danger was precisely what he needed, to show her that he had in him the depth she wanted for Emily.

Consequently it was with a high heart and some exhilaration that she set out alone from Emily’s house in the early afternoon, dressed in one of her sister’s older gowns, let out judiciously here and there because she was a couple of inches taller, and handsomer of bust than Emily, even before the tragedy of George’s death. It was golden brown, the color of old sherry, and extremely becoming to her warm-toned complexion and her hair with its auburn lights. She chose a hat trimmed with black fur, and a muff to match. Altogether she had never looked so well in a winter outfit in her life.

She had sent a letter and received one in return from Veronica, so she was expected. She drew up in Emily’s carriage, hoping no one would notice. If asked, she was going to explain that it had been lent for convenience, since Lady Ashworth was out of town.

Veronica was awaiting her in the withdrawing room and her face lit with pleasure as Charlotte was shown in. She rose immediately.

“How nice to see you. I’m so glad you came. Do sit down. I wish it were not so terribly cold, but all the same I thought we might go for a ride, just to be away from the same surroundings all the time. Unless you would like to see the winter exhibition again?”

Charlotte saw the urgency in her eyes as she waited for an answer.

“Not at all—a carriage ride is an excellent idea,” Charlotte responded with a smile. It was not what she had planned, but it might serve, and she must court Veronica’s friendship. If they were alone together in a carriage, secure from interruption, she might elicit some confidence. “I should enjoy that very much,” she added for good measure.

Veronica relaxed, some of the tension easing out of her slender body. She smiled. “I’m so glad. I wish you would call me Veronica, and may I call you Elisabeth?”

For a moment Charlotte was startled; she had almost forgotten her alias. “Of course!” she said after a moment’s hesitation, then in case Veronica thought she disapproved, “That is most kind of you. Where do you care to drive?”

“I. . .” Veronica’s pale cheeks colored very slightly, and instantly Charlotte understood; she was not yet ready to commit herself to such trust.

“Why not let us see where the wish takes us?” Charlotte suggested tactfully. “No doubt something agreeable will occur to us once we are started.”

Veronica was visibly relieved. “How sympathetic you are.” The moment had passed without the need for explanation, and she was grateful. “Have you had a pleasant time since we visited the exhibition?” she asked.

Charlotte had to invent a reply on the spot. “If you wish for a frank answer, I am afraid nothing worthy of repeating.”

Veronica’s smile expressed her comprehension completely. She had endured years of being a model widow, a decorous wife, and before that a demure young lady seeking a suitable marriage. She had an intimate acquaintance with boredom.

Charlotte was about to introduce another topic when Loretta came in, her face registering good-mannered surprise.

“Good afternoon, Miss Barnaby,” she said. “How pleasant of you to call. I hope you are well, and enjoying your stay in London?”

Before she could fumble for an appropriate response Veronica helped her by announcing their plans. “We are going to take a drive.”

Loretta’s eyes opened wide. “In this weather? My dear, it is bitterly cold and looks as if it might well snow again.”

“Very bracing,” Veronica said immediately. “And I am longing to get a little air.”

The corners of Loretta’s full-lipped mouth curved upward minutely. “Are you going to call upon anyone?”

This time Veronica was slower, and her eyes slid away from her mother-in-law’s. “I . . . er—”

“We have not decided,” Charlotte interrupted for her, smiling at Loretta. “We thought we could go wherever the whim took us.”

“I beg your pardon?” Loretta was put off her stride by such an unexpected answer.

“We have not decided,” Veronica repeated, seizing on the escape. “We shall drive for pleasure. I have been inside too much lately. I am sure fresh air would do me good. I feel peaked.”

“And what about Miss Barnaby?” Loretta inquired. “She is not in the least peaked. In fact she appears in the most robust good health.”

Charlotte knew she had anything but the pale and languid look of fashion, but she did not care. “I am perfectly happy to take a ride,” she insisted. “Perhaps we should see some sights.”

“You are too amiable,” Loretta said coolly. “I thought perhaps you might have considered visiting Harriet Danver.”

They all knew she meant Julian, but they kept up the fiction.

With Charlotte’s moral support Veronica had gathered courage. This time she met Loretta’s eyes. “No,” she said blandly. “We had merely said it would be nice to take a ride. I thought I might show Elisabeth some of the fashionable places in London that she has not seen.”

“In this weather?” Loretta said again. “There is no sun whatever and it will be dark by four. Really, my dear, you are being a trifle impractical.”

“Then we had better hurry.” Veronica was not to be dissuaded. Her will was growing stronger; Charlotte could see it in the angle of her head and the increasing quickness of her answers.

Loretta smiled sweetly, taking them both by surprise. “In that case I shall come with you. Then if you do decide to call upon the Danvers you will not be unchaperoned, which would be most unsuitable. After all, it is Saturday, and Mr. Danver may well be at home. We must not be ill thought of.”

Suddenly Veronica seemed seized by panic, as if she were enmeshed in a net and every new twist to free herself only bound her more tightly. Charlotte could see the rise and fall of her bosom as she fought for bream, and her hands clenched at her sides as if she would tear at her skirt.

“I shall have Elisabeth with me!” Her voice rose sharply, almost out of control. “I know the rules! I—”

Loretta stared at her, eyes careful, steady, almost warning, a tight smile on her lips. “My dear girl—”

“How generous of you.” Charlotte immediately wished she had not stepped in: it might have been more productive to let the scene play itself out. She should have thought more of detection and less of friendship. But it was too late now. “I am sure we should enjoy your company, especially if we take a walk in the park.” She thought of the raw wind slicing in off the open grass and whining through the wet, leafless trees.

But Loretta was not to be deterred so easily. “I think, Miss Barnaby, that when you step outside you will change your mind, but if that is what you wish then I shall wait in the carriage for you.”

“You’ll freeze!” Veronica said desperately.

“I am much stronger than you think, my dear,” Loretta replied levelly, and as Veronica turned away Charlotte was startled to see tears in her eyes. What was this emotion between these two women? Veronica was afraid; Charlotte had seen fear often enough to know. And yet Veronica was not naturally submissive, and now that Robert was dead she ought to have no need to cater to his feelings for his mother. Financially she was secure, and she was all but engaged to marry again. Why was she so afraid? Everything Loretta had done, at least on the surface, had been in her interest.

If only Charlotte could learn what sort of a marriage it had been, how it had begun. Had Loretta adored her only son, and had she been too demanding of her daughter-in-law? Had she interfered, criticized, been open in her disappointment because there had been no grandchildren? There could be a dozen passions or griefs behind the driving emotion that bound these two women.

The tense silence in the room was broken when the door opened and Piers York came in. Charlotte had not met him before, but she knew him immediately from Pitt’s description: elegant, a trifle stooping, face wry with self-deprecatory good humor.

“Ah!” he said with slight surprise on seeing Charlotte.

Veronica forced a smile; it was ghastly, a travesty of pleasure.

“Papa-in-law, this is Miss Barnaby, a new friend of mine who has been good enough to call. We were going to take a short drive.”

“What an excellent idea,” he agreed. “Rather cold, but better than sitting inside all day. How do you do, Miss Barnaby.”

“How do you do, Mr. York,” Charlotte replied warmly. He was the sort of man she liked without needing to think about it. “I’m so glad you approve. Mrs. York”—she glanced at Loretta—“was afraid we should not enjoy it because it is so chill outside, but I feel exactly as you do, that whatever the weather it is better to go out for a little while, even if only to better appreciate the fire when we return.”

“What a sensible young woman.” He smiled. “I have no idea why fashion so admires the drooping young creatures who lie about being bored with everything. They have no idea how tedious they are. I pity the man who is naïve enough to marry one of them. Still, I suppose they are all taking a pig in a poke anyway!”

“Piers!” Loretta said tartly. “Please keep that sort of unfortunate language for your club! It has no place here. You will offend Miss Barnaby.”

He looked surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Barnaby, did I offend you? I assure you I only meant that one can get very little idea of a person’s true nature from the sort of social twitterings that are all one is allowed before marriage.”

Charlotte smiled broadly. “I am not in the least offended. I know precisely what you mean. And then when you do discover, of course it is too late. Mrs. York was just saying that if we come to call upon the Danvers it would be necessary for Veronica to be chaperoned. But I would be quite happy to make sure nothing is done that could be remarked upon, I give you my word.”

“I am sure you mean well, Miss Barnaby, but that is not sufficient for Society,” Loretta said firmly.

“Nonsense,” Piers contradicted her. “Perfectly all right. Anyway, who would know about it? Harriet certainly isn’t going to say anything.”

“It would be as well if I were to go with you,” she insisted, taking a step towards the door. “This is a most delicate time.”

“For heaven’s sake stop fussing, Loretta!” he said with unusual sharpness. “You worry over Veronica far too much. Danver’s a decent enough fellow, and no stick-in-the-mud. Miss Barnaby is perfectly adequate as a chaperone, and it’s good of her to oblige.”

“Piers, you don’t understand.” Loretta’s voice grated with the power of her emotion. “I wish you would accept my judgment. There is far more to this than you realize.”

“About a carriage ride?” His disbelief was tinged with annoyance.

Her face was white. “There are delicacies, things that. . .”

“Indeed? What, for example?”

She was angry, but she had no answer that she was prepared to give him.

Charlotte looked at Veronica, wondering whether the brief escape would be worth the unpleasantness which would undoubtedly follow.

“Come, Elisabeth,” Veronica said without looking at Loretta. “We shall not be long, but it will be good for us to go out.”

Charlotte excused herself and followed Veronica out into the hallway. She waited a few moments while the footman was dispatched to fetch Veronica’s cloak and muff, and Veronica herself went to change her boots.

The withdrawing room door was ajar.

“You know nothing whatever about that young woman!” Loretta’s voice rose angrily. “Most unsuitable. Brash. Totally unsophisticated!”

“She seemed very pleasant to me,” Piers answered. “In fact, altogether attractive.”

“For heaven’s sake, Piers! Just because she has a handsome face. Really, you are so naïve sometimes.”

“And you, my dear, see complications where there are none.”

“I anticipate, which is not the same thing.”

“It is very often exactly the same thing.”

Charlotte was prevented from overhearing any more by Veronica’s return. Emily came downstairs, too, with a cloak over her arm. At first Charlotte hardly recognized her; she looked so different with her hair under a cap, wearing a blue stuff dress with no bustle and a plain apron over it. She looked thinner than before, although it was probably the clothes, and terribly pale. Their eyes met only for a moment, Emily’s wide and very blue, then Veronica put on the cloak. Emily smoothed it over her shoulders, and Charlotte and Veronica went out of the front door as Albert held it open for them.

The drive was chilly, even with rugs over their knees, but it was exhilarating to be bowling along at a good pace with fashionable streets, wide avenues, and squares passing their windows. For a moment Veronica turned, her eyes almost black in the carriage interior, her lips parted, but Charlotte knew where Veronica wanted to go before she could ask.

“Of course,” she said quickly.

Veronica clasped her hand inside the muff. “Thank you.”

They were received without surprise at the Danver house and shown into the withdrawing room. Since Charlotte had written to Veronica two days ago, it was possible Veronica had written to Julian, and they were expected. Julian Danver himself was there and greeted them, taking Veronica’s hands and holding them warmly for a moment before turning to Charlotte.

“How charming to see you again, Miss Barnaby.” He smiled at her. His gaze was very direct, and Charlotte remembered how much she had liked him. “I am sure you remember my aunt, Miss Danver? And my sister Harriet?”

“Of course,” she said quickly, looking first at Aunt Adeline, whose thin, intelligent face regarded her with interest, and then at Harriet. This afternoon she seemed paler than before; there was a deep shadow of unhappiness behind her answering look. “I hope you are well.”

“Very well, thank you, and you?”

All the usual greetings were exchanged and the polite, meaningless topics of conversation touched upon. It was the sort of formal ritual Charlotte had been used to as a girl but had been able to cast aside after her marriage. Indeed with the dramatic fall in her social standing, the opportunity had been removed from her, a loss she had been grateful for. She had never been skilled at it, her own opinions far too ready on her tongue. No one wanted them: it was unseemly for a woman to be opinionated, and a great deal of feminine charm lay in listening and admiring, and making perhaps an occasional remark of optimism and good nature. Of course, it was almost always acceptable to laugh, if one’s laughter was musical and not too loud; it should never be the rich mirth of one who understood the absurd or the farcical. Charlotte had lost the polish she had cultivated when her mother had tried so hard to marry her successfully. Now she sat primly on the edge of her chair with her hands folded in her lap and watched, speaking only when civility demanded.

Veronica had practiced the feminine graces so long it was second nature to her to find the words to courteously say nothing. But watching her face, which on the surface seemed so fragile until one looked at the balance of the bones and the strength of passion in the mouth, Charlotte could see her mind was occupied with other, more distressing thoughts. Her smile was brittle, and although she appeared to be listening to whomever was speaking at the moment, her eyes frequently flickered to Julian Danver’s face. More than once Charlotte had the feeling Veronica was uncertain of his attention to her. It seemed foolish to wonder whether such a lovely woman, already experienced in marriage and the object of sympathy for her bereavement, but never of the kind of pity reserved for the unmarried like Harriet or Aunt Adeline, could be unsure of herself. Julian Danver’s intentions were plain; all his actions, the way he conducted himself in front of others, made it obvious. No man would behave in such a manner unless he had promised marriage. To withdraw without the most drastic of reasons would open him to ruin. Such a promise once given was unforgivable to break.

So why did Veronica twine her fingers in her lap and keep glancing first at Julian, then at Charlotte? Why did she talk just a little too much, and with a fine, almost indiscernible edge to her voice, cutting Charlotte off in the middle of a remark and then smiling at her so frankly it was an apology? Charlotte thought she understood Harriet’s pain perfectly. It was very simple to explain: if she really loved Felix Asherson, whether he returned it or not, there was nothing she could do about it, nor would there ever be, unless Sonia Asherson died. And why should she die? Sonia was an almost offensively healthy young woman, buxom and serene as a good country cow. She would probably live to be ninety. She was far too well versed in the arts of survival, not to mention contented with her lot, to abandon all sense and give Felix cause to divorce her, and it was quite impossible she should divorce him, even if she discovered he loved Harriet. Yes, Harriet’s colorless face and quiet voice took no leap of the imagination to understand, and Charlotte grieved for her without being able to do anything at all; even compassion would only have been like vinegar to the wound, robbing her of the sole comfort of supposing her pain to be private.

Finally Charlotte could bear the tension no longer. She remembered seeing a doorway to the conservatory when they were shown in, and she turned to Julian.

“I believe I noticed your conservatory as we passed through the hall. I love conservatories so much. Perhaps you would be kind enough to show me? It would be like stepping in a moment from London’s winter into a foreign land full of flowers.”

Veronica drew in her breath with a sharp sound.

“How well you describe it. You have added instantly to my pleasure,” Julian said quickly. “I should be delighted to take you. We have some very fine lilies—at least, that is what I believe they are. I’m not good at names, but I can find you the most beautiful, and those with the richest perfume.” He stood up as he spoke.

Charlotte rose also. Veronica’s back was to Julian, so he could not see her face; Charlotte smiled directly at her, meeting her hot gaze steadily. It was full of anger and dark, wounded bitterness. Charlotte extended her hand, palm upward in invitation.

At last, and quite suddenly, Veronica grasped her meaning; she came quickly to her feet, her face first pale, then a deep pink. “Oh—oh yes,” she said awkwardly. “Yes.”

“If you will be kind enough to excuse us?” Charlotte asked Aunt Adeline and Harriet.

“Of course,” they murmured. “Yes, of course.”

It was successful immediately. The conservatory was quite large, and there were elegant ferns and vines hiding one walk from another, and a small green pool with flawless lotuses, which Charlotte stopped to admire without needing to feign delight. Julian then pointed out the fragrant lilies he had mentioned. After making all the right comments Charlotte at last caught Veronica’s eye, and with the tiniest smile, she turned and walked back to the lotus pool. After enough time had passed, she tiptoed back out into the hall again.

She could not return to the withdrawing room or she would betray the whole fabric of the excuse—not that anyone was deceived, but forcing the others to acknowledge it was another thing entirely. She felt foolish standing there in the hall, doing nothing. She walked over to a large painting of a landscape with cows and stopped in front of it as if she were regarding it closely. Actually it was very agreeable, of the Dutch school, but her mind was busy with all she knew of Veronica and the Danvers.

She stood for some time with her eyes on the peaceful scene. She could hear in her mind the chewing of the cud, and almost see the jaws’ gentle rhythm. They were beautiful creatures, oddly angular and yet graceful, the curve of their horns ancient as civilized man.

She turned away from the painting suddenly. She was not there to indulge her taste for art, nor even her friendship for Veronica. Veronica might be Cerise; she and Julian Danver might have murdered Robert York. Duty demanded that Charlotte creep back and attempt to overhear their conversation, distasteful as that was.

Just inside the conservatory door she stopped and solemnly regarded a red canna lily as if it held her interest. Then she sidled further in, glancing from the lilies on the ground up to the vines overhead and back again. She was several yards along the path and had nearly collided with a potted palm when she saw Veronica and Julian Danver in an embrace of such passion she blushed for having seen them. It was an intrusion which at any other time would have been inexcusable, and she could not possibly explain without betraying herself completely, and everything she hoped to achieve, even perhaps putting Emily in a position of the greatest embarrassment, culminating in social ruin.

Quickly she stepped back into the arms of a vine—and almost fainted with horror at the first instinctive thought that the clinging touch was human. She swallowed a shriek, realizing the truth, and with an effort pulled herself together and stepped out smartly, only to come face to face with Aunt Adeline. She swore under her breath, feeling idiotic and knowing her hair was disheveled, her cheeks scarlet.

“Are you all right, Miss Barnaby?” Adeline raised her eyebrows. “You look a little distressed.”

Charlotte took a deep breath. Only a really good lie would serve.

“I feel such a fool,” she began with what she hoped was a disarming smile. “I was trying to see a flower overhead, and I overbalanced. I do beg your pardon.” She put her hand to the trailing strands of her hair. “And then I got caught in a vine and I couldn’t get loose. But I haven’t hurt the plant.”

“My dear, of course you haven’t.” Adeline smiled bleakly, her eyes like brown velvet boot buttons. Charlotte had no idea whether the woman believed a word of what she had said. “I think perhaps it is time we had some tea. Shall I call Julian and Veronica, or will you?”

“I, er . . .” Without thinking Charlotte moved to block the path. “I’m sure they’ll come in a few moments.”

Adeline’s gaze was steady and skeptical.

“I wondered if it was bougainvillea,” Charlotte said abruptly. “Such a wonderful shade of cerise. Is that not the color you said you saw Veronica wearing one night?”

Adeline looked startled. “That was not Veronica.” For once she dropped her usually clear, fine voice, perhaps her most attractive feature. “I’m perfectly sure of that.”

“Oh, I must have misunderstood you. I assumed ...” Her words trailed away; she did not know how to finish. She had been trying to surprise something out of Adeline, while preventing her from going into the conservatory and seeing that wildly immodest embrace. And it was not only for Veronica she wished it, but for Adeline herself. Perhaps no one had ever held her so, or would do now.

“Oh no,” Adeline said with a tiny shake of her head. “Her walk was quite unlike Veronica’s. You can tell a great deal about a woman by the way she walks, and her walk was unique. There was a grace in it, a daring. She was a woman who had power and knew it—and yet, I think, she had much to be afraid of. If she were to allow herself to be afraid.”

“Oh,” Charlotte faltered. “Then—who?”

Adeline’s face reflected wisdom, pain, and the merest shadow of humor. “I do not know, Miss Barnaby, and I do not ask. There are many old loves, and old hates, that are better left unspoken.”

“You surprise me!” Charlotte’s words were suddenly sharp, almost accusatory. “I had thought you were more candid than that.”

Adeline’s plain, sensitive mouth tightened. “The time for candor is past. You have no idea what pain may lie behind these things. A little blindness can allow them to ease, where to speak may make answer inevitable.” She inclined her head towards the interior of the conservatory. “Now you have done your good turn for the day, Miss Barnaby. Either you will call Veronica, or I shall.”

“I will,” Charlotte said obediently, her mind in a whirl. Had Cerise been a lover of Julian’s? Did Veronica know, or guess; was that the ghost she was fighting—an old mistress? Was that why she allowed herself such abandon before an engagement was even announced, let alone a marriage?

If so, then who had killed Robert York, and why?

They were back to treason. Could it possibly be that Veronica herself was hunting her husband’s murderer? Could it be Julian who had killed Robert, and did she know it? Was that the terror consuming her—and what lay between her and Loretta?

“Veronica!” Charlotte said aloud. “Miss Danver says that tea will be served in a few minutes. Veronica!”