sensitive to her, loving her so deeply, have behaved like this? But neither his anger nor his disgust would be of any ease to Carlton now.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Do you know who?”
“No. It is all very-discreet still. The police say as little as they can.”
“Do you know if she-cares for him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You haven’t asked her?”
Carlton turned and sheer surprise, for a moment, superseded the pain in his face.
“Of course not. I couldn’t-speak-to her of it. It would be-” he held out his hands helplessly.
“No.” Balantyne had no idea why he agreed. He was agreeing for Carlton, not for himself-he would have had a blazing row about it-but he could see that this quiet man, with whom he had thought he had so much in common, was utterly different. “I’m awfully sorry, Robert. I wish I knew what to say.”
For the first time Carlton smiled very faintly.
“Thank you, Brandon. There really isn’t anything to say. I don’t know why I bothered you with it, except that I felt like speaking to someone.”
“Yes,” Balantyne suddenly found his awkwardness again. “Yes, yes, of course. I-er-”
Carlton drank the last of his whisky and put the glass down.
“Better get back home. Must be toward dinner time. Got to change. Give my regards to Augusta. Good night, and thank you.”
“Good night-” he let out his breath again. There was nothing to say.
He thought several times of mentioning the subject to Augusta, but somehow could not bring himself to do it. It seemed a private matter, between men. For another woman to have known would have compounded the injury.
It was still at the back of his mind when Miss Ellison arrived on Monday morning to continue with the papers. He was surprisingly pleased to see her, perhaps because she was outside the family, and knew nothing of Callander Square or its wounds. Added to which she was cheerful, without being in the least coquettish. As he grew older he found coquettish women increasingly offensive.
“Good morning, Miss Ellison,” he smiled without thinking. She was a pleasing creature, not conventionally beautiful, and yet there was a richness about her, the wealth of mahogany-colored hair, the clear skin, and the intelligence in her eyes. For a woman, she talked remarkably little nonsense; funny, she was probably not more than four or five years older than Christina, who seldom spoke of anything but gossip or fashion, and who might marry whom.
He realized with a start that she was waiting for him to instruct her as to what he wished her to do.
“I have a box of letters here,” he fished it out, “from my grandfather. Would you please sort them out, those that refer to military matters from those that are purely personal.”
“Certainly,” she took the box. “Would you like them categorized?”
“Categorized?” he was still not concentrating.
“Yes. Those from the Peninsular War, those written before Quatre Bras and after Waterloo, and those from the military hospital and during the hundred days? Do you not think they would be interesting also?”
“Yes. Yes, please, that would be excellent.” He watched her remove them and go to sit at the far side of the room, by the fire, her head bent over the old paper and the faded, youthful handwriting. He saw in her, for a moment, his grandmother as she must have read those letters, sitting in an England at war with the Emperor, a young wife with infant children. He had no idea what she had looked like. Had she the same long curve of cheek, slender throat, so very feminine, and the tiny wisps of hair soft on the nape of the neck?
He shook himself strongly. The thought was ridiculous: she was merely a young woman who had an interest in old letters, and was competent to sort them.
Charlotte, on the other hand, was quite unconscious of the general. She forgot him as soon as she read the first sentence in the round, faded writing. Her imagination took her to lands she had never seen, and she tried to feel with the young soldier the emotions he described, his terror of the pressed men in the ranks, which he knew he must hide, his friendship for the surgeon, his awe at meeting the Iron Duke himself. There was humor in them, and unconscious pathos sometimes, and a lot of things he did not say about cold and hunger, aching legs, wounds, and fear, long monotony and sudden confusion of action.
She went down to luncheon in a dream, and the afternoon slipped by before she thought of time. It was dark when she got home, and less than a half hour later Emily arrived at the door, her coach horses stamping in the frost outside, their breath adding to the early fog.
“Well?” she demanded as soon as she was through the door.
Charlotte was still in Spain and the Peninsular War. She stared at Emily blankly.
Emily shut the door behind her and took a deep breath.
“What have you found out at the Balantynes’?” she said patiently. “You have been there, I presume?”
“Oh yes, of course,” Charlotte realized with a wave of guilt that she had done nothing to justify Emily’s trust in her, over the six days she had already been in Callander Square. “Many times,” she added. “I am coming to know some of the servants quite well.”
“Never mind the servants!” Emily said quickly. “What about Christina? Is she with child? And whether she is or not, why does she think that she is? Who is the father? And why does she not marry him, instead of allowing this ridiculous situation? Is he already married, or promised to someone else?” Her eyes widened. “Oh! Of course, he is unsuitable! It is a love match!” Then her face fell again. “No, it isn’t. Not Christina.” She sighed. “Oh Charlotte! Haven’t you found out anything at all?” Her expression crumpled in disappointment till Charlotte felt genuinely sorry for her, and even more strongly that she had let her down.
“I really will try tomorrow. But Christina has been in bed ever since I got there. They say she has a chill, but they haven’t called the doctor-”
“Who are ‘they’?” Emily asked, her interest quickening again.
“The servants, of course. Good gracious, Lady Augusta doesn’t speak to me, except to be civil, and the general never talks of anything but his papers. But servants are very inquisitive, you know. They would not do anything they would be obliged to admit to as gossip, but if it can be disguised as anything else, they will tell you everything they know, and most of what they merely surmise.”
“Well?” Emily said eagerly. “What do they surmise? For pity’s sake, tell me, before I explode!”
“They think that the police will never discover the truth, and will not really exert themselves greatly to try, because whoever is guilty, it will doubtless involve a gentleman, and therefore they will not be able to prosecute anyway! Which I would like to think is nonsense, but I fear they may speak with a bitterness of experience.”
“Which gentleman?” Emily could hardly contain herself, and her words came out in exasperation between closed teeth.
“There are as many ideas on that as there are servants to propose them,” Charlotte replied honestly. “Indeed, there have been some most heated exchanges. One of the housemaids is sure it cannot be young Brandon Balantyne, because he has never made an advance toward her, although the cook tells me he has assuredly been given the opportunity! Another housemaid is perfectly certain that it is him, for precisely the same reason! He has not made an advance toward her either, therefore he must have some dreadful secret-”
“Of course! Euphemia Carlton!” But Emily’s answer lacked any satisfaction. “Somehow I am reluctant to think that it is she, perhaps because I liked her. I fear I am not cut out for detection. But it will soon be appropriate for me to call again, without appearing to be too pushy in the acquaintance.” She sighed again. “But Charlotte, you really will have to do better! You are not trying! How can you possibly consider a war that was over in 1814 to be more interesting than a murder that is going on this very minute?”
“1815,” Charlotte corrected automatically, “and we don’t know that it is murder.”
“Oh, don’t be so pernickety! What does it matter as to the niceties? It is certainly the most terrific scandal! Which is more than you can say for your wretched wars! Do pull yourself together, please, and apply your mind properly!”
“I will, I promise. I will do my very best to see Christina myself, and if possible at least to begin to discover why she does not marry her lover, and who he is, if I can.”
“Thank you,” Emily assumed an air of patient generosity, as one who has decided to overlook an offense. “You might even get the opportunity to speak with other servants in the square. Of course, if you do, you will avail
