Farrier's Lane (48 page)

“You don’t think so, do you, ma’am?” Gracie said, watching her face carefully. “You still fink as it were Mr. Fielding, ’im wot Mrs. Ellison likes.”

“I don’t know, Gracie. I suppose it could be Mr. O’Neil. Part of me wishes it were. Mama is going to be terribly hurt if it is Mr. Fielding. And yet if it isn’t …” She sighed, and refrained from saying what was in her mind.

“You shouldn’t ought to worry so much, ma’am,” Gracie said, her little face puckering up with anxiety, the knives momentarily ignored. “Mrs. Ellison’ll do what she wants ter, and there in’t nothing you nor the master can say as’ll change it. But I do understand as yer gotter know ’oo done the murder in Farriers’ Lane. An’ I keep on thinking about it, like.” She stopped even pretending to work and put her cloth down, staring at Charlotte with total concentration. “That lad wot took the message across the street to Mr. Blaine at the door. If the master could speak to ’im proper, away from all them other rozzers, maybe ’e’d be able ter say summink more as ter wot the man were like.” Her face was sharp with hope. “The rozzers before, the ones wot did the case in the beginning, they told ’im as it were Mr. Godman. Well, bein’ as ’e were just a lad on the street, ’e wouldn’t want ter argue wiv ’em, would ’e? But bein’ as you know it weren’t Mr. Godman, maybe ’e’d say summink ’elpful?”

“Mr. Pitt found him,” Charlotte said with a bleak smile. “He wouldn’t say anything that was helpful at all, I’m afraid. But it was a good idea.”

“Oh.” Gracie renewed her polishing, but her face was deep in thought, and she said little more for the rest of the morning, except to look very carefully at Charlotte just before they began peeling the vegetables for dinner.

“You goin’ ter the theater termorrow wif them ’Arrimores?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you be careful, ma’am! If it were that Mr. O’Neil as done it, then ’e’s a very wicked man, an’ ’e don’t care nuffink for nobody ’cept ’isself. Don’t you go askin’ questions.”

“I shall be very careful,” Charlotte promised. But there was a sinking feeling in the bottom of her stomach and a catch in her throat, as if she were close to something that would prove to be very dreadful.

    Charlotte felt guilty that Pitt was not included in the evening visit to the theater because it was such a vivid, exciting event quite apart from any information that might be gleaned from the Harrimores or the O’Neils. But had Pitt come it would almost certainly have put an end to any discussion at all, now, and in the future.

So with an effort of will she followed Caroline up the wide stairs behind Kathleen O’Neil on Devlin’s arm, and Adah Harrimore leaning heavily on Prosper, who, although he limped in an ungainly fashion, seemed to feel no pain in his foot. Presumably the limp’s cause was the deformity with which he was born, and not a degenerative disease.

The entire foyer was filled with people. The chandeliers blazed so one could barely look at them, shedding cascades of light. Jewels sparkled in elaborate coiffures and at arms, throats and wrists, and on hands. Feathers waved as heads turned. Pale shoulders gleamed amid bowers of silk, taffeta, voile and velvet of every shade, the pallor of lilies, the warmth of peach and rose, the flaring vibrancy of scarlet, magenta and blue, and behind them all the stark black and white of dinner suits.

Everywhere was the rustle and whisper of fabric, the murmur of voices, every few moments a burst of laughter.

Charlotte turned once on the stairs to look behind her and remember it all, the quickening of the pulse, the overflowing life, the expectancy as if a thousand people all knew that something thrilling was about to happen.

Then Caroline pulled at her arm and obediently she went on up and around the wide balcony towards the Harrimores’ box, where she and Caroline were offered center seats, as guests, between Adah on their left and Kathleen on their right. The two men sat on the outside a little to the rear. It was some fifteen or twenty minutes before the performance was due to begin. Watching others arrive was a great deal of the pleasure of such an event, and of course being seen oneself.

A very handsome woman walked up the aisle beneath them, dressed in shades of fuchsia and palest pink, her black hair piled luxuriantly, her step graceful, but nonetheless a slight swagger. She looked from right to left, smiling a little.

“Who is she?” Charlotte asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Caroline replied. “She is certainly most striking.”

Kathleen gave a very tiny laugh, and stifled it immediately.

“No one,” Adah answered crisply. “She is no one.” Charlotte was puzzled.

Adah turned to face her, her expression a mixture of amusement and distaste.

“Such persons may pass in front of you, my dear, but you do not see them. To a lady, they are invisible.”

“Oh—oh, I see. She is …”

“Precisely.” Adah waved her arm very slightly towards one of the boxes farther around the tier of the balcony. “On the other hand, or perhaps not. That is Mrs. Langtry—the Jersey Lily.”

Charlotte did not bother to hide her smile. “Has anyone ever seen Mr. Langtry? I’ve never even heard him mentioned.”

“I have,” Adah answered dryly. “But I shall not repeat what was said—poor man.”

She obviously meant it, so Charlotte did not ask. Instead she looked farther around the tier of boxes for other people of interest. It did not take her long to observe that at least half those she watched were turned towards one particular
box over on the far side where there was a considerable amount of coming and going, of both men and women. The men especially were dressed in the height of fashion, although what fashion was harder to say. Their hair was far longer than customary, they were clean-shaven, and large, floppy ties overflowed their collars. However, there was an elegance about them, almost a languor, which was quite distinctive.

“Who are they?” Charlotte asked, her interest piqued. “Are they critics?”

“I doubt it,” Devlin replied with a smile. “Actors come frequently very well dressed, but a little more conventionally than that. They are almost certainly members of the aesthete set, very self-consciously artistic of soul, even if not necessarily of output. I am afraid Mr. Gilbert guyed them terribly in his opera
Patience.
You should see it; it is extremely entertaining, and the music is delightful.”

“I shall, quite definitely.” She smiled back at him cordially, then suddenly remembered what she was here for. She froze, still looking at him. For a moment the situation struck her with all its farcical quality. They were dressed in their very best clothes, he in black dinner suit with gold cuff links, and onyx and mother of pearl studs, she in a gown borrowed from Caroline and retrimmed to be more up to date, but a shade of dark wine which suited her marvelously, and she knew it, deep at the bosom and with only a tiny bustle. They were here as guests of Prosper Harrimore, waiting for the curtain to go up on the stage where the people who had brought them together by virtue of a notorious tragedy were going to play out a comedy of manners, all saying words no one meant, on stage or off it. And all the time she was trying to determine whether he was the person who had murdered and crucified Kingsley Blaine and allowed Aaron Godman to be hanged for it.

Devlin O’Neil was looking at her curiously.

She forced her eyes away, turning her head to look back at the great sweep of the auditorium, the boxes tier on tier, plush lined, filled now with expectant people, the pallor of their faces turned towards the stage. Their own dramas
were played out, or temporarily forgotten. Lillie Langtry sat well forward, not only to see, but to be seen. Even the aesthetes were for once oblivious of each other and had their faces towards the curtain, their own wit set aside.

What an extraordinary convention that a few hours of precise and formal unreality should hold mem spellbound, together and yet unreasonably separate, all held by the power of the imagination woven by a few men and women in borrowed costumes speaking borrowed words.

The murmur of voices died and the silence quivered with indrawn breath, and the faint rustle of fabric and creak of whalebone. The curtain went up. There was a sigh like a wind stirring leaves. The lights picked out Tamar Macaulay standing alone in the center of the stage. She did not move, and yet she was a figure of such arresting power that every eye was fixed upon her. Even Lillie Langtry ignored her admirers and stared ahead. Tamar had not the Jersey Lily’s beauty, nor her fame, but she had a depth of emotion that surpassed both, and for this space of time, the audience was hers.

Joshua Fielding came onto the stage. Beside Charlotte, Caroline stiffened, held her breath and leaned a little forward. The drama began.

Charlotte watched the stage as well, but more often she turned to look at the people in her own box. Kathleen O’Neil sat graciously, a slight smile on her lips, her eyes on the figures on the lit stage below her. Charlotte searched her expression when she looked at Joshua and saw nothing in the smooth cheeks, the slanted eyes, no suspicion, no curiosity. If she wondered about Aaron Godman’s guilt, about Joshua’s part in the tragedy, those thoughts did not seem to occupy her now.

Then Tamar was back on the stage, the lights brilliant on her face as she spoke her lines, her voice ringing with emotion.

A flicker crossed Kathleen’s brow. Her mouth narrowed and her tongue touched her lips. She would have been less than human had she not wondered what this woman was like, what fire burned in her, that Kathleen’s own husband
had risked so much to stay with her. But even staring as openly as she dared, Charlotte could see no hatred in Kathleen’s eyes, no violence of feeling, only a sad curiosity, and behind her Prosper’s hand on her chair tightened, the knuckles white. Perhaps he relived her pain more than she did herself.

Kathleen turned, not seeing Charlotte, and smiled at Devlin O’Neil, standing behind Adah. He smiled back, a warm, gentle look, and her lips curled upwards as she moved her head back to watch the stage.

How long had Devlin O’Neil been in love with her? Long before Kingsley Blaine’s death? It was a very ugly thought, and Charlotte resented its necessity. She liked them both. One tragedy was more than enough.

She looked again at Devlin’s arm on Adah’s chair. His hand was fine, well manicured, the cloth of his jacket excellent gabardine, his shirt with its gold links was made of silk. What had it been before his marriage to Kathleen?

Charlotte looked away, her eyes going to Adah, seeing her face set in hard lines of some emotion that troubled her deeply. It was not new, there was no urgency in it, only an old pain she had borne a long time. It had already cut deep into her; it was a matter of enduring it.

What was it? Disappointment? No, it was too sharp. It was not fear. It was harder than grief.

Charlotte turned to Prosper where he stood beyond Caroline, his hand still over Kathleen’s chair. His heavy face with its deep-set eyes and hatchet nose was fixed on the stage, oblivious of his family and guests. Was it the drama which held him, or Tamar Macaulay, who had stolen his daughter’s husband?

Everyone else was totally unaware of Charlotte or the O’Neils, or Adah or Prosper Harrimore. Only Joshua Fielding turned and moved in the spotlight.

Charlotte looked at Adah again, and then she knew what the emotion was that tore at her: guilt.

Why?

Was it still because Prosper had a clubfoot and she felt responsible? That ridiculous idea that her husband had defiled
himself with a Jewess, and then contaminated her, causing her unborn child’s deformity?

Adah looked around and caught Charlotte staring. Her eyes widened.

Charlotte gulped and felt her face flush.

“I am so grateful to you for inviting us.” She forced the words out of her mouth and felt an abject hypocrite. “It is a marvelous drama. What that woman is suffering for her child. I find it most moving—” She stopped. The words stuck on her tongue.

“I am pleased you are enjoying it,” Adah said with an effort. “Yes, it is very powerful.”

They sat in silence for several more minutes, perhaps almost a quarter of an hour. Then the action of the stage came to a climax with the entrance of the child in the play. Charlotte had not expected a real child and she was startled when he appeared, slender, fair-haired, with a wistful, innocent face. He reminded her intensely of someone else she had seen, but she could not think who. He was nothing like her own children, he was fairer, softer of feature.

Then she heard Kathleen O’Neil gasp and saw her hand fly to her lips as if to stifle a further cry, and behind her Prosper Harrimore’s hand clench so tight on the chair back, his nails drew a thin trickle of blood down his wrist.

The child was startlingly like Kathleen’s daughter, only this was a boy, or dressed to look like one. They must have been within a few months of the same age. And the child stood in front of Tamar Macaulay, his mother in the drama, and surely in life as well?

Kingsley Blaine’s child—by a Jewess—a beautiful child, perfect in face and limb. Tamar must have carried him when Kathleen was carrying her daughter.

With a sudden sick realization Charlotte understood Adah’s guilt, and the fear she had seen in her before—and what emotion it was which drew blood in Prosper Harrimore’s clenched hands.

It was not Aaron Godman who had killed Kingsley Blaine, nor was it Joshua Fielding in jealousy, nor Devlin O’Neil to win Kathleen. It was Prosper Harrimore, hating
and fearing that which was different and which he thought responsible for his own imperfection, his deformity. And then history had repeated itself with his daughter betrayed by her husband with a Jewess; and while she was carrying his child—another child to be born deformed, imperfect.

There was no proof, no way to be sure except in her own intense conviction. But she had no doubt. It was there in Adah’s face, and it was in his as he stared at the child on the stage.

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