reason than all that she had already sacrificed for it. Perhaps some of her early infatuation for Dominic held some element of such a habit of emotion. But was Jemima thinking about the price of possessions, of war-or about the fear that Brandy Balantyne might fight somewhere, and be killed? She recalled other small fragments of conversation they had had, gentle, frequent mention of the Balantynes.
“Yes,” she agreed, bringing herself back to the moment. “Oh yes. Men tend to do that with wars and politics, and perhaps women do so with marriages.”
Jemima relaxed with a little rueful sigh.
“Well, for women, where else is there to go? One cannot give up a marriage, however empty it may be; there is nothing to do but work at it. One has no means to leave. Even if one possessed money beforehand, when one marries it becomes the property of one’s husband. If one leaves, one goes without anything. And no one in society will help, because divorce is not acceptable. My elder sister-still, that is an unhappy subject, and I am sure you don’t wish to hear of it. Tell me more about the work you are doing. You told me that General Balantyne actually saw the charge of the Light Brigade, himself! I pray there may never be such a dreadful, useless waste of lives again. How can the women ever forgive for all those deaths, the losses, and all so unnecessary: a little common sense could have-”
“Common sense is excessively rare,” Charlotte interrupted. “I have often seen afterward things which I would permit no one to tell me at the time.” She wondered if she should say something about Brandy Balantyne. It was his relationship with Euphemia Carlton that concerned her, of course. If he could have been her lover, he must be a most unprincipled man, and could bring Jemima nothing but pain. One needed only to have been in love once, to have ached in secret and unfulfilled, to see it clearly in others.
She felt the wound now for Jemima.
No, it was better to say nothing. She would have curled with mortification to have had anyone else know how she had felt, in the past. Now of course she loved Pitt, and it hardly mattered. But for Jemima it was the present, and there was no Pitt.
So she talked instead of other things, of teaching history to children, and heard tales of the schoolroom, some that made her laugh. Presently she took her leave and returned to the library, resolved to deal somehow with the matter herself.
She worried about it all evening, till Pitt asked her what absorbed her so, and of course she was unable to answer, since she felt it was an entirely feminine confidence, and he would not understand. She replied that it was a friend whose romance exercised her, and he seemed satisfied not to press further. And indeed, it was true enough.
Much of the night she lay awake, wrestling with her conscience as to whether she should interfere in the matter, or leave it for fear of causing embarrassment. She finally arose still unsatisfied that she was correct, but having reached a decision to approach Brandy Balantyne in a manner which would have annoyed Pitt, had he known, and have horrified her parents. Only Emily might approve, and even she might well consider it socially unwise.
Her opportunity came in the afternoon. Brandy came in from a bitterly cold and wet day to warm himself by the library fire, knowing it to be the best in the house. The general was out on an errand.
Brandy came in cheerfully, rubbing his hands and shivering. He really was a most charming person; she would prefer to have liked him. She had to keep reminding herself that he was careless of feelings, indifferent to hurt, or she would have warmed to him in spite of herself.
“Hello, still working?” he smiled without a trace of condescension. “Do you like that stuff, honestly?”
“Yes, it’s extremely interesting.” For a moment she was beguiled, and was on the verge of replying with enthusiasm about the glimpses of people coming through the letters, the tendernesses, the vulnerability, the sudden harsh fears and griefs; when she remembered that she had made up her mind to speak to him about Jemima.
“Mr. Balantyne,” she said firmly.
He looked a little surprised.
“Yes?”
She stood up.
“I have a matter of some privacy to discuss with you. Do you mind if I close the door?”
“With me?” He did not yet seem embarrassed, as she had feared he might, and then easily refuse to listen.
She pushed the door and heard it catch. She turned to face him. She must hurry, the general might return at any time. It must not be left half done.
“I have formed a considerable regard for Miss Waggoner,” she began, trying to conceal her nervousness, hearing her voice go dry. “Because of my friendship for her, I do not wish to see her hurt-”
“Of course not,” he agreed. “What makes you think she is in danger of being hurt? She always looks uncommonly well to me.”
“Always?” Charlotte said quickly.
“Well, as often as I see her.” He frowned. “What is it you fear, Miss Ellison?”
There was no point in prevaricating, and she was not good at it. She wished Emily were here to put it more delicately, to be subtle. She took a deep breath.
“You do, Mr. Balantyne.”
His face fell in astonishment. It would be easy to believe he had no idea what she meant.
“I do?” he said incredulously.
She breathed in and out slowly to collect herself.
“I am aware of your relationship with Lady Carlton. If I can prevent it, I shall not let you do the same with Miss Waggoner. And do not say you do not look on servants in such a way. A man who would have an affair with his neighbor’s wife does not scruple about governesses.” She could not look at him, and felt strangely empty for having said all that was inside her.
“For God’s sake don’t-I mean-please-” There was such an urgency in his voice that she found herself lifting her eyes to meet his. His concern looked almost genuine. “Look,” he held up his hands helplessly, and let them fall again as explanation eluded him, “you don’t understand!”
She struggled to remain cold; she wished so much to relent, and like him.
“Is there something more to understand than that you found her attractive, and took advantage of her situation?” she said coolly.
“Yes, there’s everything to understand!”
“It is none of my business, but I cannot understand it if I do not know.”
“And if you don’t know, I suppose you will believe the worst, and spread it about.” There was a mounting hopelessness in his voice now, and in his face.
“Of course I shall not spread it about,” she said crossly. It was a horrible suggestion. “But I wish to make sure you do not hurt Jemima.”
“Why should I? Why Jemima?” he fenced.
“Don’t be naive! Because she finds you attractive, and does not know that you are-” she could think of no word she wished to employ.
“Very well,” he turned away. “Though I doubt you will believe me.”
She waited, looking at his dark head against the winter light of the window.
“Robert Carlton is a nice old boy, but pretty remote, detached-”
“That is no excuse-”
“Don’t interrupt,” he said sharply. “Above all things Euphemia wants a child. She is thirty-six. She has not forever. And if Robert persists in treating her with courtesy and excessive consideration, either because he is abashed by emotion, or because he believes, mistakenly, that it is what she wishes, then she will never have one. She fears that he is uninterested in physical affection, and would find her repellent if he knew she was, so she dares not tell him.
“We have always been friends. I like her; she’s a generous woman, with wit and kindness. I saw she was getting more and more distressed about something. She finally confided it to me. Ours was an arrangement of convenience, only until she conceived a child. Now you can believe that or not, as you choose. But it’s the truth. And whatever you think of me, for Euphemia’s sake-or for Robert Carlton’s-don’t spread it around.” For the first time he
