Half Moon Street (15 page)

But today was different. Was it loneliness, the grief she referred to every so often because she had been a widow so long? Did she really mourn Edmund still? Was she angry at the world because they went on with their own lives regardless of the fact that Edmund Ellison was dead?

Caroline had loved her own husband, but when he died her grief was not inconsolable. Time had not robbed her of the need for affection. Occasionally she still missed him. But shock had certainly healed, as had the momentary numbing loneliness without him.

Now, of course, there was Joshua, and that was a whole new world: exciting—sometimes too much so—exhilarating and threatening, full of laughter deeper than any she had known before, and disturbing new ideas—perhaps not all good ones, not ones she could keep up with, or wanted to.

She liked Samuel Ellison very much. Was it for himself or because he reminded her of everything that had been good in Edward, and of a past which was so much less threatening, less dangerous to her safety, her self-esteem, to keeping the ideas and values she had grown accustomed to?

Samuel was talking to her, his face puckered with concern, perhaps because he knew she was not really listening.

“. . . all about land,” he was saying. “You see, Indians don’t see land as we do, to be owned by one individual or another. They hold it in common to the tribe, to hunt, to live on and to preserve. We didn’t understand their way of life and we didn’t want to. They didn’t understand ours. Their tragedy was that they believed us when we said we would feed and protect them in return for allowing us to settle.”

“You didn’t?” she asked, knowing the answer already from his face.

“Some would have.” He was not looking at her but somewhere into the distance of his memory. “But more moved west, and then more again. Once we saw the rich land we were greedy to keep it, put fences around it, and let no one else in. The story of the Indians is a tale of one tragedy after another.”

Caroline did not interrupt as he recounted the betrayal of the Modoc tribe. She did not know whether Mrs. Ellison was listening or not. She sat with her black eyes half closed, her mouth thin and narrow, but whether it was the Indian Wars which she disapproved of, or Samuel Ellison, or something else altogether, it was impossible to say.

Caroline was startled, and deeply moved, to see tears on Samuel’s cheeks. Without thinking she stretched out her hand and touched him, but she said nothing. Words would have been pointless, a mark of failure to understand, an attempt to communicate the incommunicable.

He smiled. “I’m sorry. That really wasn’t a teatime story. I forgot myself.”

“This is not an ordinary teatime call,” Caroline said instinctively. “If one cannot speak to one’s family of things that matter, then who can one speak to? Should it be strangers, so we don’t have to think of it again, or live with those who know what we have said and felt?”

Mariah Ellison ached to agree, the words throbbed inside her, but fear held them in. It would be too much, too precipitate. Once out they could not be withdrawn, and they might give her away.

Samuel smiled. “Of course not,” he answered Caroline. “But I do speak too much.”

“It is customary in England to talk of less personal things,” Mrs. Ellison said with emphasis. “Not to disturb people, or cause them embarrassment or distress. Teatime is supposed to be pleasant, a small social interlude in the day.”

Samuel looked uncomfortable. It was the first time Caroline had seen him disconcerted, and she felt instantly protective.

“And criticism of other people’s behavior or remarks is an excellent thing to avoid,” she said sharply.

“As is family unpleasantness,” the old lady retorted. “Disrespect,” she went on. “Or any form of unseemly behavior, overfamiliarity or clumsiness.” She did not look at Samuel but at Caroline. “It makes people wish they had not come, and desire to leave as soon as they decently may.”

Samuel glanced from one to the other of them uncertainly.

Caroline did not know what to say. Even for Mrs. Ellison this was extraordinary behavior.

The old lady cleared her throat. She was sitting rigidly upright, her shoulders so tight they strained the black bombazine of her dress. The jet beads hanging from her mourning brooch shivered slightly. Caroline was torn by conflicting loathing and loyalty. She had no idea what emotions raged inside the old woman. She had known her for many years and never understood her except superficially, and they equally disliked each other.

“Thank you for coming to see us, Mr. Ellison,” Mrs. Ellison said stiffly. “It is good for you to spare us the time when you must have many other commitments. You must not rob yourself of the opportunity to go to the theatre and see the sights of London, or wherever else you may care to go.”

Samuel rose to his feet. “It was my pleasure, Mrs. Ellison,” he replied. He turned to Caroline and bade her farewell, thanking them both again for their hospitality, then took his leave.

When he had gone, and before Caroline could speak, the old lady stood up also, leaning heavily on her cane as if she needed it to support herself, and half turned her back. “I have a fearful headache. I am going to my room,” she announced. “You may have the maid bring my dinner upstairs to me. You would be well advised to spend the rest of the afternoon considering your behavior and your loyalties to the husband you have elected to marry. Not that you ever took advice. But you have made your bed . . . you had best learn to lie in it before you fall out and have no bed at all! You are making a complete fool of yourself. In the privacy of your own home is one thing, but if you throw yourself upon him like this in public, you will cause scandal—and rightly so. A woman who has lost her reputation has lost everything!”

She lowered her voice and stared at Caroline intently. “You had better hope that your husband does not learn of it. Consider your situation!” And with that as a parting shot she stumped out of the room and Caroline heard her heavy footsteps cross the hall to the stairs. She felt cold inside . . . and angry.

There was nothing to say. Not that she was sure what she would have said, were the old lady listening. Actually she was glad to be alone. The words stung precisely because she realized she was thinking all sorts of things which a few days ago had seemed unquestionable, matters of loyalties and beliefs and a sense of belonging.

She half turned and caught sight of herself in the glass over the mantel. At this distance she was handsome, dark hair with a warmth of color in it, only a little gray, slender neck and shoulders, features still almost beautiful, perhaps a trifle too individual to please the strictest taste. But closer to she knew she would see the telltale signs of age, the fine lines around eyes and mouth, the less-than-perfect sweep of jaw. Did Joshua see that every time he looked at her as well?

He would not be home until that evening. He was performing onstage, and she was going alone to dine with the Marchands. She did not feel in the least like going out and making pleasant conversation about trivia, but it would be better than staying there alone and wondering about herself, about Joshua, and how he saw her compared with someone like Cecily Antrim.

Had she really made as big a fool of herself as the old woman said? Would it all have been better, easier, far more honest if she had married someone her own age, with the same memories and beliefs, someone even like Samuel Ellison?

She hadn’t! She had fallen in love with Joshua, and believed it when he had said he returned her feelings. She had wanted it so much, it had been the most important thing in the world to her. Was she utterly blind, like a schoolgirl, as Mrs. Ellison said? Could she lose everything?

She turned away from the glass impatiently and went upstairs to her room to consider what she should wear for dinner. Nothing would make her feel beautiful, charming or young.

The Marchands greeted Caroline with great pleasure. They were charming, supremely civilized people who would never wittingly have made any guest less than welcome, but it was impossible not to see the genuineness of their feelings.

“How very nice to see you,” Mrs. Marchand said, coming forward from where she had been standing near a small table of flowers in the withdrawing room. The evening was not cold, but there was a fire burning in the grate and the room was warm with the glow of flames reflected on the copper fender and scuttle and the brass-and-copper fire tongs. The heavy curtains were old rose and the furniture massive and obviously comfortable. Embroidered cushions and samplers and an open book of cards and scraps gave it a look of having long been the heart of a family home, albeit a very orthodox one.

“I’m so glad you were prepared to come even without Joshua,” Mr. Marchand added from in front of the largest armchair, where he had obviously risen to his feet. He was smiling broadly. He was a shy man, and this was an unusually outspoken remark for him.

Caroline felt enfolded by familiarity and its comfort. It was people like these she had known and understood all her life. There was no need to make any pretense with them, any effort to keep up with bright conversation or forward-thinking opinions.

“I really am very happy to come,” she answered, quite honestly. “It is so relaxing to be able to converse without wondering when the theatre bell will go or who else one really ought to speak to.”

“Isn’t it!” Mrs. Marchand agreed quickly. “I love the theatre, and concerts and soirees and so on, but there is nothing like the quiet company of friends. Do come and sit for a little while and tell us how you are.”

Caroline did as she was bidden, and they spoke for a little while of fashion, gossip, mutual acquaintances and other agreeable and unimportant things.

A little before dinner was served the door opened and a youth of about sixteen came in. He was already tall and lean, as if outgrowing his strength. He had his mother’s wide blue eyes and dark hair. His skin was still soft; it would be some time before he needed to shave. He was composed, but his slightly awkward silence, the uncertainty what to do with his hands, betrayed his shyness. That much at least was sharply reminiscent of his father, and Caroline could so easily imagine Ralph Marchand at the same age.

“How do you do, Mrs. Fielding,” he replied when they were introduced. She wanted to engage him in conversation so he would not have to search for something to say to her. What manner of subject would interest a boy of his age? She must not seem condescending or intrusive, or make him feel as if he was being examined.

He looked at her steadily because he had been taught it was rude not to meet people’s eyes when you spoke to them, but she could see he was highly uncomfortable doing so, only waiting for the moment he could disengage himself.

She smiled. Complete candor was the only thing that came to her mind.

“I am very pleased you joined us, Lewis, but at a loss to know what to say to you. I’m sure you are not the least interested in the latest births, deaths and marriages in society, or the fashions either. I do not know sufficient of politics to discuss them with anyone except in the most superficial manner. I am afraid I have become rather singular in my interests lately, and that may make me very tedious.”

He drew in his breath to make the denial courtesy called for, and she cut him off. “Please don’t feel the need to be polite. Instead, tell me what you would most like to speak of, were you to initiate the conversation and not I.”

“Oh!” He looked startled and a little flattered. A warm color flushed up his cheeks, but he did not seek to move away.

“Papa tells me Mr. Fielding is an actor. Is that really so?”

“Are you still being courteous?” she said, teasing him very gently. “You really would wish to speak of the one thing I am obsessed with myself ? Or are you trying to make me feel at ease, just as I am with you? If so, you are remarkably sophisticated for one so early in his career. You will be an enormous success in society. Ladies will love you.”

He blushed scarlet. He opened his mouth to say something and quite obviously could think of nothing adequate. His eyes were shining, and it was a moment before she realized he was making an intense effort to look only at her face, not even for an instant to allow his gaze to slide as far as her neck or shoulder, let alone the smooth skin above her bosom.

Mr. Marchand cleared his throat as if about to speak, then said nothing.

Mrs. Marchand blinked.

Caroline was aware of an oppressive silence. The sudden crackling of the fire was almost explosive.

“Yes, he is an actor,” she said more abruptly than she intended. “Do you like the theatre? I expect you are studying plays in your schoolwork?”

“Oh yes,” he agreed. “But mostly Shakespeare, I’m afraid. Nothing very modern. That is all very . . . well, some of it is outrageous. Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that Mr. Fielding . . .”

“Of course you didn’t,” she agreed quickly. “I expect Shakespeare was considered outrageous in his time, at least by some.”

“Do you think so?” He looked hopeful. “It all seems so . . . historical! Sort of . . . safe . . . the histories happened . . . and we know they did.”

She laughed. “I expect even Mr. Ibsen will be a classic one day, and perfectly ‘safe’ as well.” She knew that was what Joshua would have said. “And we don’t know what really happened in the histories, only what Shakespeare told us for the sake of his drama.”

He was surprised. “Do you think it wasn’t true?” It was obviously a new thought to him. “I suppose it doesn’t have to be, does it? Maybe there was no one to stop libel and blasphemy then.” He was frowning. “Only it wasn’t, of course . . . I mean, not Shakespeare. Maybe all the things that were have been stopped . . . either by some censorship, or because we learned they were untrue, so we didn’t watch them anymore.”

“I should think it is more likely we became so used to them, we now believe they are the truth,” she replied, and then instantly wondered if perhaps she was speaking too freely. He was only a child, after all. “You may well be right,” she amended. “In the long run we are fairly competent judges of what is good.” She hoped Joshua would forgive her for such arrant nonsense. “What are you studying?”