Seven Dials (20 page)

It was nearly half an hour of walking at a breathless pace, moving from one group to another and wearing a blister on her left heel, before Charlotte finally caught up with Vespasia. She was actually walking alone, her head high, her steel-gray hat with its sweeping brim adorned with a magnificent silver ostrich plume. Her gown was a paler shade of gray, and there was a white ruffle at her throat of such superb lace as to look as if it were breaking foam in the sunlight.

She turned as she heard Charlotte’s footsteps crunch on the grit behind her. “You look out of breath, my dear,” she said, her eyebrows raised. “No doubt it is something of the utmost importance to bring you in such haste.” She looked down at Charlotte’s dusty hem and the slightly lopsided way she was standing, due to the blister. “Would you care to sit down for a little while?” She could already see from Charlotte’s face that it was not a matter of emotional distress.

“Thank you,” Charlotte accepted, suddenly feeling the blister even more profoundly. She did her best to walk more or less uprightly until they reached the next seat, then sank into it with gratitude. In a moment or two she would unbutton the boot and see what could be done to ease the pain.

Vespasia looked at her with wry amusement. “I am consumed with curiosity,” she said with a smile. “What has brought you out to an unaccustomed place, alone, and in what appears to be some difficulty?”

“The need to know,” Charlotte answered, wincing as she moved her foot experimentally. She smoothed her skirt and sat a little more upright, aware that passersby were looking at her, very discreetly, of course, and almost certainly because she was with Vespasia. No doubt they would be asking one another who on earth she was. Were Vespasia sensitive about her reputation, it would have embarrassed her, but she did not care in the slightest, let the world think what it wished.

“More about Saville Ryerson?” Vespasia said quietly. “I am not certain that I can help you. I wish I could.”

“Actually, about Mr. Ferdinand Garrick,” Charlotte corrected her.

Vespasia’s eyes widened. “Ferdinand Garrick? Don’t tell me that he has a connection with the Eden Lodge affair. That is absurd. So much so that it is about the only thing which could possibly redeem it from absolute tragedy. It would then become farce.”

Charlotte stared at her, uncertain how serious Vespasia was. She had a sharp and highly individual sense of humor which was no respecter of persons.

“Why?” she asked.

The expression on Vespasia’s face was sad, wry, and of slight distaste mixed with memory. “Ferdinand Garrick is what some people refer to as a ’muscular Christian,’ my dear,” she replied, and saw the answering comprehension in Charlotte’s face. “A man of ebullient and officious virtue,” she continued. “He eats healthily, exercises too much, enjoys being too cold, and makes everyone else in his establishment equally uncomfortable. He denies himself and everybody else, imagines himself closer to God for it. Like castor oil, he may on some occasions be right, but he is extremely difficult to like.”

Charlotte hid a smile.

“Actually, it has nothing to do with Mr. Ryerson,” she replied. “Thomas has gone to Alexandria to find out more about Ayesha Zakhari.”

Vespasia sat absolutely motionless. A couple of gentlemen strolled past, and both of them tipped their hats to her. She appeared not even to have seen them.

“Alexandria?” she murmured. “Good heavens! I presume Victor Narraway sent him? He could not possibly have gone otherwise. No, I apologize. That was a ridiculous question.” She breathed out very slowly. “So he is taking it all the way, after all. I am glad to hear it. When did he leave?”

“Four days ago,” Charlotte replied, surprised how much longer it seemed. Even though he was away from the house all day, the nights were horribly empty without him, as if she had forgotten to light the fires. The warmth and the heart of the home were gone. Did he miss her as much on the rare occasions she was away? She hoped fiercely that he did. “He should be there by now,” she added.

“Indeed he should,” Vespasia agreed. “He will find it extraordinarily interesting. I imagine it will not have changed a great deal, not at heart.” Her mouth pulled a little twistedly. “Although I have not been there since Mr. Gladstone saw fit to bombard it. That cannot have increased their affection for us. Not that that usually worries us overmuch. But Alexandria does not bear grudges. It simply absorbs whatever is sent there, like food, and transmutes it into another part of itself. It has done so to the Arabs, the Greeks, the Romans, the Armenians, the Jews, and the French-why not the British as well? We have something to offer, and it accepts everything. Its taste is magnificently eclectic. That is its genius.”

Charlotte would gladly have asked questions and listened to the answers all day, but with difficulty she forced her attention back to the only part of anything going on that she could possibly affect for good.

“I need to know something about Ferdinand Garrick because a friend of Gracie’s has a brother who has gone missing,” she explained.

“Gracie?” Vespasia’s interest was immediate. “That little maid of yours, the one with enough spirit for two girls twice her size? From where has the young man gone missing, and why does it concern Ferdinand Garrick, of all people? If he has dismissed a servant he will believe himself to have had an excellent reason, and there will be no arguing with him. He has irredeemably absolute ideas about virtue-and justice is a great deal higher in his estimation than mercy.”

“He hasn’t dismissed him, as far as we know,” Charlotte replied, although she felt a chill as she saw the anxiety in Vespasia’s eyes. She was still speaking with a lightness in her voice, but her words about mercy were carefully chosen and Charlotte knew it. “Actually, Martin worked for Garrick’s son, Stephen. He was his valet.” She shook her head in impatience with herself. “I don’t know why I say was. As far as we know he still is. It is just that he has not been in touch with Tilda, who is his only relative in the world, for nearly three weeks now, and that is something that has never happened before. And when Gracie went to the Garrick house to make discreet enquiries, the staff did not appear to know where he was. And for that matter, Stephen himself does not appear to be at home. At first they assumed he was confined to his room, which apparently happens every so often. But there has been no food sent up, and no laundry came down.”

“Gracie went to the house?” Vespasia said with a lift of admiration in her voice. “I should very much like to have seen that! What did she learn, other than that neither man is at home and the staff knew nothing as to where they were? Or at least will say nothing,” she amended.

“That Stephen Garrick is an unhappy man with a violent temper, which he indulges freely, that he drinks too much, and that no one can manage his moods, or his times of despair, except Martin,” Charlotte said succinctly. “So it would make little sense to dismiss Martin, because they would have a terrible difficulty replacing him.”

Vespasia sat still for a few moments, apparently watching the occasional parade of ladies in their finest gowns on the arms of gentlemen in dark morning suits or bright military splendor.

“Unless he was unfortunate enough to witness a particularly unpleasant episode,” she said at length, her voice low and sad. “And unwise enough to ask for extra remuneration as a result. Then he might be viewed as more cost than he was worth, and dismissed without a character.”

“Wouldn’t that be very foolish?” Charlotte questioned. “If I had a servant privy to family secrets, I would want him close by me, not looking for work elsewhere, and with a grudge… a justifiable one at that.”

Vespasia shook her head very slightly. “My dear, a man of Ferdinand Garrick’s stature does not stoop to explain himself, and prospective employers do not ask a servant they are considering what his reasons were for his actions. They would simply accept that he had threatened Garrick with loose talk of family matters. Indiscretion is the ultimate sin in a personal servant. It would have been less severe if he had taken the family silver rather than the family reputation. One can always buy more silver, or even if the worse comes to the worst, survive without it. No one survives without a reputation.”

Charlotte knew Vespasia was right. “I still need to know what happened to Martin,” she persisted. “If he was simply dismissed, why didn’t he tell Tilda? Especially if it was unfair.”

“I don’t know,” Vespasia admitted, nodding to an acquaintance who had seen her and doffed his hat. She looked quickly at Charlotte, so the man did not take her acknowledgment as an invitation to join them. “I think you are right to be concerned.”

“What is Ferdinand Garrick like, apart from being religiously unsufferable?” Charlotte wriggled her foot, hoping the blister had eased a little. It had not.

“For goodness’ sake, child, take your boot off!” Vespasia told her.

“Here?” Charlotte said in amazement.

Vespasia smiled. “You will make less of a spectacle of yourself removing a boot than you will by hobbling the length of the row back to my carriage. People will think you are intoxicated. I do not know Ferdinand Garrick well, nor do I wish to. He is a type of man I do not care for. He is devoid of humor, and I have come to believe that a sense of humor is almost the same thing as a sense of proportion.” She watched with pleasure as a loose-limbed puppy capered about, throwing up gravel with its feet. “It is the absurdity of disproportion which makes us laugh,” she continued. “There is something innately funny in punctured self-importance, in the positioning side by side of that which is incongruous. If everything in the world were suitable, appropriate, it would be unbearably tedious. Without laughter, something in life is lost.” She smiled, but there was sudden, deep sorrow in her eyes. “Sanity, perhaps,” she said quietly.

Then she lifted her chin. “But I shall find Ferdinand Garrick and see what I can discern. I have nothing more interesting to do, and certainly nothing more important. Perhaps that is the ultimate absurdity?” The puppy had disappeared across the grass, and she was regarding a man and woman who looked to be in their fifties, exquisitely dressed in the height of fashion, walking down the middle of the pathway, nodding graciously to either side of them as they saw people they knew. They acknowledged some and looked through others, now and again hesitating until they had glanced at each other and made up their minds.

“Filling your time with games,” Vespasia remarked. “And imagining they matter, because you can think of nothing that does. Or you can, but do not do it.”

“Aunt Vespasia,” Charlotte said tentatively.

Vespasia turned to look at her, enquiry in her eyes.

“I know you would not like to think that Mr. Ryerson killed Lovat,” Charlotte said. “Or even that he deliberately helped Miss Zakhari with the intention that she should get away with murdering him, but facing the worst, what do you really believe?” She saw Vespasia smile. “We cannot defend against the worst if we do not acknowledge what it is,” she pointed out, but gently, aware of Vespasia’s affections. “What kind of man is he, not just what the police will find, but what you know?”

Vespasia was silent for so long that Charlotte thought she was not going to answer. She stopped waiting for her to speak and bent over to finish unbuttoning her boot. She eased it off painfully. There was a hole in the heel of her stocking, which was what had caused the problem. The skin was raw, but it was not yet bleeding.

She felt a touch on her arm and looked up. Vespasia was holding out a large silk handkerchief and a tiny pair of nail scissors.

“If you cut the stocking off, and tie the silk around your foot,” she said, “it will enable you to get home with a minimum of additional damage.”

Charlotte thought of the appearance of the colored silk above her boot if her skirt swung wide.

“Smile,” Vespasia advised. “Better to be noted for eccentric footwear than a sour expression. Besides, who are you going to encounter here that you will ever see again, and whose opinion you would care about in the slightest?”

“No one,” Charlotte agreed, smiling far more broadly than the invitation had suggested. “Thank you.”

“You are very delicate in your questions, my dear.” Vespasia looked at the far trees, only the odd leaf here and there touched by the warm colors of autumn. “But you are quite right. Saville Ryerson is a man of deep emotions, impulsive, and… and physical.” She bit her lip very slightly. “He lost his wife in a miserable mischance of fortune in ’71, but it was more than that; there was a betrayal involved, although I do not know what, and I certainly do not know by whom.” She dropped her voice even lower. “He was furiously angry, even before her death. Not only did he grieve for her, and that he had not been able to save her, but he felt a guilt that he then could never take back the things he had said, even though he believed they were true.”

Charlotte finished rebuttoning her boot. “That must have been very hard. But Lovat could have had nothing to do with it, surely? It happened over twenty years ago.”

“Nothing whatsoever,” Vespasia agreed. “I tell you only so you may know more closely what kind of man he is. He remained alone from that time onward. He served his party and his constituents. They were hard taskmasters, capricious, demanding much and giving little-at times not even loyalty. But the best of them loved him, and he knew it. But it wearied him to the soul, and he did it alone.” She made a slight, deprecatory gesture with her pale, gloved hand. “I do not mean he abstained from satisfying his desires, of course, simply that he was discreet, and he had little if any involvement of the emotions.”

“Until Ayesha Zakhari…”

“Exactly. And a passionate man who neither gives nor receives anything for himself for over two decades, when he does fall in love, is going to do so with great violence, greater than he understands or can master. He becomes uniquely vulnerable.” She said it softly, as if she had seen the reality of it herself.

“Yes…” Charlotte said thoughtfully, trying to picture it in her mind, imagine the waiting, the loneliness over years, and then the power of feeling when finally it came.