Paragon Walk (9 page)

“I wasn’t thinking of you.” She slipped the plum dress to the floor.

“Of course not,” Emily picked it up and passed her the gray muslin. “You were thinking of George! Just because I’m with child, and George is a gentleman and doesn’t have to work like Thomas, you think he’s out gambling and drinking at his club and having affairs, and that he could have taken a fancy to Fanny Nash and refused to be put off!”

“I don’t think anything of the kind!” Charlotte took the muslin and put it on slowly. It was more comfortable than the plum, and she had let her stays out an inch, but it looked inexpressibly drab. “But it seems that you are afraid of it.”

Emily whirled around, her face red.

“Rubbish! I know George, and I believe in him!”

Charlotte did not argue; the fear was too high in Emily’s voice, the sharp corrosive poison of anxiety eating away. In weeks, perhaps days, it would turn to question, doubt, or even actual suspicion. And George was bound to have made some mistakes somewhere, said or done something foolish, something better forgotten.

“Of course,” she said softly. “And hopefully Thomas will soon find whoever did it, and we can begin to forget the whole thing. Thank you for lending me your dress.”

E
MILY SPENT A
miserable evening. George was at home, but she could think of nothing to say to him. She wanted to ask him all sorts of questions, but they would have betrayed her doubts so openly that she dared not. And she was afraid of his answers, even if he kept his patience with her and was neither hurt nor angry. If he told her the truth, would there be something she would wish with all her heart she had never known?

She had no illusions that George was perfect. She had accepted when she had first determined to marry him that he gambled and occasionally drank more than was good for him. She even accepted that from time to time he would flirt with other women, and normally she regarded it as harmless enough, the same sort of game she indulged in herself, just a sort of practice, a refining of one’s skills, so as not to become too domestic and taken for granted. It had been hard at times, even confusing, but she had accommodated to his manner of life with great skill.

It was only that lately she had been most unlike herself, upset over trivialities and even inclined to weep, which was appalling. She had never had patience with weepy women, or those given to fainting, for that matter—and this last month she had done both.

She excused herself and went to bed early, but although she fell asleep straight away, she awoke several times through the night, and in the morning felt miserably sick for over an hour.

She had been most unfair to Charlotte, and she knew it. Charlotte wanted to learn all she could about the Walk because she wished to protect Emily from the very things that gnawed at the back of her mind now. Part of her loved Charlotte for it, and for a hundred other reasons, but there was a loud, strident voice in her just now that hated her, because even in her old-fashioned, dull gray muslin she was secure and comfortable, with no ugly fears at the back of her mind. She knew perfectly well that Thomas was not out flirting with anyone else. No social behavior of Charlotte’s would ever make him wonder if he had been wise to marry beneath him, or if Charlotte could maintain his social position and be a credit to him. There was no pressure to produce a son to carry on the title.

Admittedly Thomas was a policeman, of all things, and quite the oddest creature, as homely as a kitchen pot and wildly untidy. But he knew how to laugh, and Emily had a knowledge inside her she kept unspoken that he was cleverer than George. Perhaps he was clever enough to find out who murdered Fanny Nash before suspicions uncovered all kinds of old guilts and wounds in the Walk, and they could keep up the small, chosen masks no one really wanted to see behind.

She could not stomach any breakfast, and it was luncheon before she saw Aunt Vespasia.

“You look very peaked, Emily,” Vespasia said with a frown. “I hope you are eating sufficiently. In your condition, it is most important.”

“Yes, thank you, Aunt Vespasia.” Indeed she was hungry now and took herself a very liberal portion.

“Hmph!” Vespasia picked up the tongs and helped herself to half the amount. “Then you are worrying. You must not mind Selena Montague.”

Emily looked up at her sharply.

“Selena? Why should you think I am worrying about Selena?”

“Because she is an idle woman who has neither husband nor child to concern herself with,” Vespasia said tartly. “She has set her cap, unsuccessfully so far, at the Frenchman. Selena does not care for failure. She was her father’s favorite child, you know, and she has never got over it.”

“She is perfectly welcome to Monsieur Alaric, as far as I am concerned,” Emily replied. “I have no interest in him.”

Vespasia gave her a sharp look.

“Nonsense, child, every healthy woman has an interest in a man like that. When I look at him, even I can remember what it was like to be young. And believe me, when I was young, I was beautiful. I would have made him look at me.”

Emily felt the laughter inside her.

“I’m sure you would, Aunt Vespasia. I wouldn’t be surprized if he preferred your company even now!”

“Don’t flatter me, child. I’m an old woman, but I haven’t lost my wits.”

Emily remained smiling.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your sister before?” Vespasia demanded.

“I did. I told you about her the day after you came, and later I told you she had married a policeman.”

“You said she was not conventional, I grant you. Her tongue is a disaster, and she walks as though she thought herself a duchess. But you did not say that she was so handsome.”

Emily suppressed a desire to giggle. It would be most unfair to mention the pins or the stays.

“Oh yes,” she agreed. “Charlotte was always striking, for better or worse. But many people find her too striking to be comfortable. Only traditional beauty is admired by most people, you know, and she does not know how to flirt.”

“Unfortunate,” Vespasia agreed. “It is one of the arts that cannot possibly be taught. Either you have it, or you have not.”

“Charlotte hasn’t.”

“I hope she calls again. It should prove most entertaining. I am bored with everyone here. Unless Jessamyn and Selena improve their battle over the Frenchman, we shall have to create some diversion of our own, or the summer will become intolerable. Are you well enough to go to the funeral of that poor child? Have you remembered it is the day after tomorrow?”

Emily had not remembered.

“I expect I shall be fine, but I think I shall ask Charlotte if she will accompany me. It is bound to be trying, and I should like to have her there.” Also it would be an opportunity to apologize to her for yesterday’s unfairness. “I shall write straightaway and ask her.”

“You will have to lend her something black,” Vespasia warned. “Or perhaps you had better find something of mine, I believe we are more of a height. Get Agnes to alter that lavender for her. If she starts now she should have it quite acceptable by then.”

“Thank you, that is very kind of you.”

“Nonsense. I can always have another one made if I wish. You had better find her a black hat and shawl as well. I haven’t got any, can’t bear black.”

“Won’t you wear black to the funeral yourself?”

“Haven’t got any. I shall wear lavender. Then your sister will not be the only one. No one will dare criticize her if I wear lavender also.”

Charlotte received the letter from Emily with surprise, and then when she opened it a wave of relief spread through her. The apology was simple, not a matter of good manners but a genuine expression of regret. She was so happy she nearly missed the part about the funeral, and not to worry about a dress, but would she please come because Emily would greatly value her presence at such a time. A carriage would be sent in the morning to collect her, if she would prepare herself by having someone take care of Jemima.

Of course she would go, not only because Emily wanted her to but also because all the Walk surely would be there, and she could not resist the opportunity of seeing them. She told Pitt about it that evening, as soon as he was through the door.

“Emily asked me to go to the funeral with her,” she said, her arms still round him in welcome. “It’s the day after tomorrow, and I shall leave Jemima with Mrs. Smith—she won’t mind—and Emily will send a carriage, and she has a dress organized for me!”

Pitt did not question how one “organized” a dress, and, as she was wriggling to free herself in order the better to explain, he let her go with a wry smile.

“Are you sure you want to?” he asked. “It will be a grim affair.”

“Emily wants me to be there,” she said it as if it were a complete answer.

He knew immediately from the luminous rationality in her eyes that she was evading the issue. She wanted to go, out of curiosity.

She saw his wide smile and knew she had not fooled him in the least. She shrugged and relaxed into a smile herself.

“All right, I want to see them. But I promise I shall do no more than look. I shan’t interfere. What have you discovered? I have a right to ask, because it involves Emily.”

His face closed over, and he sat down at the table, leaning his elbows on it. He looked tired and rumpled. Suddenly she realized her selfishness in ignoring his feelings and thinking only of Emily. She had just learned how to make good lemonade without all the quantity of expensive fresh fruit that she would have used before her marriage. She kept it in a bucket of cold water on the stones near the back door. Quickly she poured him some and put the glass in front of him. She did not ask the question again.

He drank the whole glassful and then answered her.

“I’ve been trying to check where everyone was. I’m afraid no one remembers whether George was at his club on that evening or not. I pressed as hard as I dared, but they don’t recall one evening from another. In fact, I’m not honestly sure how much they recall one person from another. A lot of them look and sound much the same to me.” He smiled slowly. “Silly, isn’t it—I suppose most of us look the same to them?”

She sat silent. It was the one thing she had been praying for, that George would be cleared beyond question, quickly, completely.

“I’m sorry,” he reached out and touched her hand. She closed her fingers over his hand.

“I’m sure you tried. Did you clear anyone else?”

“Not really. Everyone can account for themselves, but it can’t be proved.”

“Surely some can!”

“Not proved,” he looked up, his eyes clouded. “Afton and Fulbert Nash were at home and together most of the time, but not all—”

“But they were her brothers,” she said with a shudder. “Surely you don’t think they could possibly be so depraved, do you?”

“No, but I suppose it isn’t impossible. Diggory Nash was gambling, but his friends are peculiarly reticent about exactly who was where, and when. Algernon Burnon implies he was on a matter of honor, which he won’t divulge. I imagine that means he was having an affair, and in the circumstances he dares not say so. Hallam Cayley was at the Dilbridges’ party and had a row. He went for a walk to cool off. Again, it’s not likely he left the garden and somehow found Fanny, but it is possible. The Frenchman, Paul Alaric, says he was at home alone, and that’s probably true, but again we can’t prove it.”

“How about the servants? After all, they are far more likely.” She must keep it in proportion, not let Fulbert’s words warp her thinking. “Or the footmen and coachmen from the party?” she added.

He smiled slightly, understanding her thoughts.

“We’re working on them. But nearly all of them stayed together in groups, swapping gossip and bragging, or else were inside, getting something to eat. And servants are too busy to have much time unaccounted for.”

She knew that was true. She could remember from the days when she had lived in Cater Street that footmen and butlers did not have spare time in the evenings to go wandering outside. A bell might summon them at any moment to open the door or bring a tray of port or perform any other of a dozen tasks.

“But there must be something!” she protested aloud. “It’s all so—nebulous. Nobody’s guilty, and nobody’s really innocent. Something must be provable!”

“Not yet, except for most of the servants. They can account.”

She did not argue anymore. She stood up and began to serve his meal, placing it carefully, trying to make it look delicate and cool. It was nothing like Emily’s, but then she had made it for a twentieth of the price, all except for the fruit—she had been a little extravagant to buy that.

The funeral was the most magnificently somber affair Charlotte had ever been to. The day was overcast and sultry hot. She was collected by Emily’s carriage before nine in the morning and taken straight to Paragon Walk. She was welcomed quickly, Emily’s eyes warm with relief to see her and to know that the outburst of the other day was forgotten.

There was no time for refreshments or gossip. Emily rushed her upstairs and presented her with an exquisite deep-lavender dress, far more elaborate and formal than anything she had seen Emily wear. There was a sort of grand dame effect to it she could not reconcile with Emily as she knew her. She held it up and stared over its regal neckline.

“Oh,” Emily sighed with a faint smile. “It’s Aunt Vespasia’s. But I think you will look wonderful in it, very stately.” Her smile widened, then she flushed with guilt, remembering the occasion. “I think you are very like Aunt Vespasia, in some ways—or you might be, in fifty years.”

Charlotte remembered that Pitt had said much the same thing and found herself rather flattered.

“Thank you.” She put the dress down and turned for Emily to unbutton her own dress so that she might change. She was all prepared to reach for pins again, but was amazed to find that none were necessary. It fitted her almost as well as any of her own; it could have done with an inch more across the shoulder, but other than that it was perfect. She surveyed herself in the cheval glass. The effect was quite startling, and really very handsome.