Brunswick Gardens (29 page)

Several times Charlotte looked at Dominic and saw the same surprise in his eyes, and also a growing respect for Clarice which apparently he had not hitherto felt.

It was after five when the door flew open and Vita stood in the entrance, her hair disheveled, most of it actually out of its pins and falling over one shoulder. Her face was cut across the cheek and her left eye was swollen and fast showing fearful bruising.

Mallory was aghast.

Dominic rose to his feet immediately, face white.

“What happened? What is it?” he demanded, going over to her.

She shrank back, her eyes wide with horror. She was shaking and looked on the verge of hysteria. She swayed as if she might fall at any moment.

Charlotte got up quickly, skirting around the tea table to avoid knocking it over.

“Come and sit down,” she ordered, taking Vita by the shoulders and with an arm around her for support, guiding her to the nearest chair. “Pour some more tea and a little brandy,” she said to Dominic. “And you’d better find her maid and tell her.”

Dominic hesitated a moment, swinging around to look at Mallory.

“What happened?” Tryphena demanded. “Mama? You look as if somebody hit you. Did you fall?”

“Of course she fell!” Clarice snapped. “Don’t be absurd! Who would hit her? Anyway, we’re all here.”

Tryphena looked around, her eyes wide, and suddenly everyone was aware that the only member of the family not present was Ramsay. One by one they looked back to Vita.

She was trembling violently now, sitting huddled up, her face ashen except for the darkening bruises around her eye and the scarlet slash oozing blood on her cheek. Charlotte held the cup for her; she was shaking too badly to hold it herself.

“What happened?” Mallory asked, his voice rising sharply.

Dominic stood by the door, waiting to hear before he would leave.

Vita drew in her breath and tried to speak, but gulped back a sob.

Charlotte put her arms around her very gently, not to hurt what else must surely be damaged in such an injury. “Perhaps you had better send for your doctor?” She turned to Clarice as being the most likely to be in command of herself and the situation.

Clarice stared back at her without moving.

Tryphena swiveled from one to the other of them, her eyes accusing.

Mallory made as if to move, and then froze.

“Please!” Charlotte urged.

Vita raised her head. “No …” she said hoarsely. “No … don’t do that! I … it is only … a little cut …”

“It is more than that,” Charlotte said seriously. “That bruising may be pretty unpleasant, and one cannot tell how widespread it may be. I am sure a little arnica will help, but I think you should call your doctor all the same.”

“No.” Vita was resolute. She was struggling fiercely to regain control of herself. Tears spilled over her cheeks and she ignored them. Her face was probably too sore to touch. Her whole body still shuddered. “No … I do not want the doctor to be informed.”

“Mama, you must!” Clarice insisted, coming forward for the first time and standing only five or six feet away. “Why ever should you not? He won’t think you foolish, if that is what you are worrying about. People do fall … accidentally. It is easy enough.”

Vita closed her eyes, wincing as the pain struck her. “I did not fall,” she whispered. “The doctor may know that if he comes. I … couldn’t bear it … especially now. We must …” She took a deep breath and almost choked. “We must show … loyalty …”

“Loyalty!” Tryphena exploded. “To what? To whom? When you say loyalty, you mean lie! Cover up the truth …”

Vita started to weep quietly, retreating into herself in misery.

“Stop it!” Dominic was back from the doorway, glancing at Tryphena. “Words like that are not helping anyone.” He knelt down in front of Vita, staring at her earnestly. “Mrs. Parmenter, I think you had better tell us the truth. We can then decide what is best to do about it. But while it is all imagination or suspicion, we are likely to make mistakes. You did not fall … What
did
happen?”

Slowly Vita raised her head again. “I quarreled with Ramsay,” she said huskily. “It was terrible, Dominic. I don’t even know how it happened. One moment we were talking quite agreeably, then he went to look at his letters which the butler had left on his desk, and without any warning at all he flew into a rage. He seemed to lose all control of himself.” She kept her eyes on Dominic’s all the time she spoke, but she must have been acutely aware of Mallory standing at the edge of the group, his shoulders tight, his face drawn into faint lines of anger and confusion.

Clarice made as if to interrupt and then stopped.

Vita was gripping Charlotte’s hand so tightly it was painful, but Charlotte did not pull away.

“He accused me of opening his letters … which is ridiculous. I would never touch anything addressed to him. But one must have been torn in the delivery, and he just lost his temper and started to say it was I who had done it.” Her voice was low and urgent, sharp with fear. Now that she had started she could not stop herself. The words were tumbling out full of confusion. “He shouted at me, not loudly … 
shout
is the wrong word. He was so furious it was more like a snarl.” Her teeth chattered so she was in danger of biting her tongue.

“Drink some tea,” Charlotte said quietly. “It will help a little. You are terribly shocked. It is only natural.”

“Thank you,” Vita accepted, putting her hands over Charlotte’s to steady the cup for herself. “You are very kind, Mrs. Pitt.”

“I will call the doctor,” Mallory insisted, starting towards the door.

“No!” Vita insisted. “I forbid it! Do you hear me, Mallory? I absolutely forbid it.” Her voice was so strained, her face so full of anguish, he stopped where he stood, reluctant to obey and yet not wishing to defy her.

Dominic started saying something, then caught Mallory’s glare of fury and stopped.

Vita closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I am sure I will be all right. I shall just go and lie down for a while. Braithwaite can look after me.” She made as if to rise to her feet, but her knees would not support her. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I feel so … foolish. I just don’t know what to do. He accused me of undermining his authority, of belittling him, of questioning his judgment. I denied it. I never have … ever in my life! And he … he struck me.”

Clarice stared at her for a moment, then brushed past Tryphena and Dominic and went to the door. She threw it open and they heard her footsteps cross the hallway and go up the stairs, loud on the black, uncarpeted wood.

“This is appalling!” Mallory said in anguish. “He’s mad! He must be. He’s taken leave of his wits.”

Dominic looked acutely distressed, but after only a moment’s hesitation he mastered his own feelings and turned to Mallory.

“We must abide by her wishes. We should not say anything further about it.”

“You can’t do that!” Tryphena protested. “Are you going to wait until he kills her, too? Is that what you want? I thought you cared about her! In fact, I thought you cared a great deal.”

Vita looked at her desperately. “Tryphena! Please …”

Dominic bent and picked Vita up in his arms and walked over to the door.

Charlotte hastened to open it wider for him, and he went through without looking back. Charlotte faced the room.

“I think there is nothing I can do to help except leave you some privacy to make whatever decisions you believe best. I am so sorry this should have happened.”

Mallory recollected his duty as host in his parents’ absence, and hastened to the door after her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pitt. I … I hardly know what to say to you. You came to call upon us out of kindness, and we have embarrassed you dreadfully …” He looked acutely uncomfortable,
his face white except for blotches of pink in his cheeks. He stood awkwardly, not knowing how to rest his weight or what to do with his hands.

“I do not think of being embarrassed,” she said with something less than the truth. “I have had tragedy in my own family, and I know how it can change everything. Please do not think of it again.” She was at the front door. She tried to smile as he opened the door for her, and for a moment she met his eyes and was sharply aware of the fear in him, almost panic, and that it lay barely beneath the surface, threatening to break through if there were one more tear in the fabric of his life, however small.

She wished she could have comforted him, but she could not promise it would get better. It probably would not.

“Thank you, Mr. Parmenter,” she said quietly. “I hope next time we meet the worst will be over.” Then she turned and went down the steps and along the pavement to look for a hansom.

    Earlier that day Cornwallis had received an unexpected visitor in his office. The constable outside told him that Mrs. Underhill had asked to see him.

“Yes … yes, of course …” He rose to his feet and accidentally knocked over a pen with his cuff. He set it right. “Ask her to come in. Did … did she say what it was about?”

“No sir. Didn’t like to ask her, her bein’ a bishop’s wife an’ all. Shall I go an’ ask her now, sir?”

“No! No, please show her in.” Unconsciously he straightened his jacket and pulled at his tie, actually setting it crooked.

Isadora came in a moment after. She was dressed in a dark shade somewhere between blue and green. It reminded him of the color of ducks’ tails. It suited her pale skin and almost black hair, with its wing of white at the brow. He had not realized it before, but she was beautiful. There was an inner peace in her face which made it remarkable. It was a face he could look at without growing tired of it, or feeling as if he had learned every expression and could predict its next light or shadow.

He swallowed. “Good morning, Mrs. Underhill. How may I help you?”

A smile flickered across her face and vanished. She obviously felt some awkwardness about the matter, whatever it was, and disliked having to broach it with him.

“Please sit down,” he offered, indicating the large chair near his desk.

“Thank you.” She glanced around his office, noticing the ship’s sextant on the shelf and looking quickly at the titles of the books. “I’m sorry. I should not waste your time, Mr. Cornwallis.” She brought her attention back to him. “I think perhaps I was foolish to have come and disturbed you. It is a personal matter, not official. But I felt that we left a most unfortunate impression upon you the evening you came to dinner. The Bishop …” She gave his title rather than calling him “my husband,” as he would have expected. He noticed the hesitation. “The Bishop was deeply distressed about the whole incident,” she went on quickly. “And fearful that the wider repercussions could damage so many people, I think he may have seemed less concerned with Ramsay Parmenter’s own … welfare … than he really is.”

She was obviously finding it extremely difficult to talk, and studying her face, her shadowed eyes avoiding his, he felt that she was as deeply offended by the bishop’s behavior as he was himself. Only for her it was also a profound shame, because she could not dissociate herself from it without disloyalty. She had come here now to try to improve her husband’s image in Cornwallis’s eyes, and she must hate doing it and feel a terrible inner anger at the necessity. Did she wish to tell him her true emotion, but honor forbade her?

“I understand,” he said into the awkward silence. “He has many considerations beyond the purely personal. All men with great responsibility have.” He smiled, keeping his eyes very steadily on hers. “I have commanded a ship myself, and no matter what my feelings towards any individual member of the
crew, what like or dislike, what pity or respect, the ship itself always had to come first or we should all perish. They are hard decisions to make, and not always thought fair by others.” He did not think those rules applied to Bishop Underhill. His “ship” was a moral one, fighting the elements of cowardice and dishonor, not of wood and canvas struggling against the ocean’s power. Cornwallis’s commission had included safeguarding the lives of his men. Underhill’s was to safeguard their souls.

But he could say none of this to her. She must know it as well as he … at least—looking at her, the awkwardness of her hands knotted together in her lap, the way her eyes avoided his—he believed she did, and he did not wish to remind her.

“We must all make whatever decisions we feel to be the best in difficult circumstances,” he went on. “It is easier to judge others than to be in that position oneself. Please do not feel I misunderstand.”

She looked up at him quickly. Was she aware that he was trying to be kind rather than honest? He was unused to women. He had only the vaguest idea how they thought, what they believed or felt. Perhaps she saw right through him and despised him for it? That possibility was startlingly unpleasant.

She smiled at him. “I think you are being very generous, Mr. Cornwallis, and I am grateful to you for that.” She glanced around the room. “Were you at sea for long?”

“A little over thirty years,” he replied, still looking at her.

“You must miss it.”

“Yes …” The answer came instantly and with a depth which he had not expected. He smiled self-consciously. “In some ways it was a great deal simpler. I am afraid I am not used to politics. Pitt tries to keep instructing me in the nature of intrigue and the possibilities of diplomacy—and more often the impossibilities.”

“I don’t suppose there has to be much diplomacy at sea,” she said thoughtfully, looking away again, the shadow returning to
her face. “You are in command. You simply have the terrible burden of being right, because everyone depends upon it. Great power brings its equal responsibility.” Her voice was thoughtful, as if she were talking as much to herself as to him. “I used to imagine the church was like that … a magnificent proclaiming of the truth, like John the Baptist before Herod.” She laughed at herself. “About as undiplomatic as it would be possible to be … telling the king publicly that he is an adulterer and his marriage is illegal, and to repent and ask God’s forgiveness. He can hardly have been surprised to lose his head.”