turned and looked back at her, his face perfectly serious. “Please?”
It was ridiculous, and yet she did believe him. Without considering, she acknowledged it.
“I believe you. But-do not speak or act without thought toward Miss Waggoner. It can hurt very much to fall in love where you know it cannot be returned.”
He looked at her closely, his hazel eyes clouded with a sudden sensitivity to her.
“Oh, not now,” she said quickly. “But in the past I have done. He was my sister’s husband. I grew out of it, I saw him differently. But it hurt at the time.”
He relaxed.
“Please don’t speak of Euphemia,” he asked again.
She thought of Pitt, the babies in the gardens.
“I promise I shall not speak except in her interest,” she said solemnly.
He was not satisfied, sensing evasion in her words.
“What do you mean?”
There was nothing for it but to be honest.
“I was thinking of the police. They know that Euphemia is with child, and that it is yours. They may hold her under some suspicion for the children in the gardens also, you know.”
His face went so blank with horror it was impossible to imagine that he had thought of such an eventuality before.
“To tell them the truth,” Charlotte said softly, “might be greatly to Euphemia’s advantage, do you not think?”
“They wouldn’t believe it,” his mouth was stiff, still shocked.
“They might.”
“How-how did they know of-of the child-about me-any of it?”
“They are quite clever, you know, and they would be looking for such things.”
“I suppose so. Mother said she thought that fellow Pitt was clever, and she’s usually right. And there are not many people whose intelligence she regards well.”
Charlotte did not wish to tell him of her own relationship to Pitt, and she wondered if the warmth of pride that bubbled inside her now was as obvious to him as it felt to her.
“That is all I meant,” she said carefully. “Now I think it might be advisable for us to finish this discussion before the general returns, do you not?”
“Oh-yes, yes it would. You won’t-?”
“No, of course I won’t! I was concerned only for Jemima.”
His mouth curved upward in a slight smile.
“You know, I like Jemima. She’s a little like you, in some ways. And in other ways, you are a little like Mother-”
Charlotte froze at the thought, although doubtless he intended it as a compliment.
His smile broadened into a grin.
“Don’t look so shocked. Mother has more courage than anyone else I know; she’d knock the stuffing out of all the old generals at Father’s clubs! And she was quite a beauty too. Only trouble was she could never flirt; didn’t know how; had no art of deception.”
Charlotte blushed. She had rather charged in, and certainly she had displayed no finesse. Perhaps she was more like Lady Augusta than she would have cared to admit. She looked up at Brandy to say something to excuse herself, make herself appear softer, when the general came in. His face widened in surprise when he saw Brandy.
“Best fire in the house,” Brandy said quickly. “You always bragged it was.”
“That does not mean I intended you to stand by it all afternoon, distracting Miss Ellison from her work.”
“Pity. Can’t think of a pleasanter thing to do on a filthy winter afternoon. Do you see the gutters, simply running over with water?”
“Then go and change your boots. I must get on with my work. You would be better if you found yourself something to do.”
“Can’t write my memoirs yet, I haven’t got anything to remember.”
Balantyne looked at him with slight suspicion, as if he thought he might be being faintly twitted, but Brandy’s face was bland with innocence. He went to the door.
“Good afternoon, Miss Ellison, thank you for permitting me to stand by your fire,” and he went out.
“Was he disturbing you?” Balantyne asked a little sharply.
“Not at all,” Charlotte replied. “He wasn’t here long. I believe I have sorted those Marlborough letters, would you care to look at them?”
Emily had been several times to Callander Square since her last visit to Charlotte over the matter, and had managed to form quite a friendship with Christina. Therefore she was not surprised when Christina confided in her at the end of the first week in January that she was shortly to be married to Alan Ross.
The confidence itself did not surprise Emily; she had spent their entire acquaintance diligently seeking precisely this. But under any other circumstances, the choice of bridegroom would have surprised her considerably. Alan Ross and Christina Balantyne seemed to her judgment an unnatural partnering. From what she had seen of Ross, he was a serious and rather tense man, possibly even a man of deep feeling: whereas Christina was gay, when she chose, deliriously sophisticated, and essentially shallow. Still, he was of good family, and adequate means, and most important, apparently willing to marry at short notice.
“We are to be married at the end of the month,” Christina said, facing Emily in the morning room where they sat by the fire.
“My congratulations,” Emily replied, her mind considering the possibility that Christina might know by now whether she was actually with child or not. She was careful not to glance downward to a betraying waistline, but she had admired her gown earlier, to give herself an opportunity to look carefully then. There was certainly no sign of it. But it was early yet. In fact Charlotte was over four months, and still looked quite normal. Of course Charlotte was a bigger person than Christina, and all these things had to be taken into account.
“Thank you,” Christina accepted without enthusiasm. “I should like you to be there, if you are able?”
“Of course. It will be charming. Which church do you choose?”
“St. Clement’s. It is all arranged.”
“I hope you have a good dressmaker? It is so nerve-racking to be let down at the last moment. I can give you names, if you are not already suited?”
“Oh, I am, thank you. Miss Harrison is most reliable.”
“I’m so glad.” Emily sensed a certain restraint, something beneath the surface that Christina wished to say to someone, and yet could not decide. “You will make a beautiful bride,” Emily went on. “Mr. Ross is most fortunate.”
“I hope so.”
Emily affected to be mildly surprised.
“Have you some doubt? I think you will make him an excellent wife, if you wish to.”
Christina’s little face hardened.
“I’m not sure that I do wish to. I’m not sure that I wish to give up my freedom.”
“Good gracious, girl, there is no need to give up your freedom, or anything else-except money, of course-but even that can be managed properly, with a little forethought.”
Christina looked up, staring at her.
“What do you mean? I am marrying a man I am not in love with. What greater sacrifice of freedom can there be than that?”
It was time she was taught a little common sense.
“My dear, very few women marry men they are in love with,” Emily said firmly. “And even those who do, frequently find that it was a mistake. The kind of man one falls in love with is usually entertaining, witty, and handsome; but equally often he has no means to support one, is highly unreliable, and as like as not, will in due course fall out of love with you, and in again with someone else. To marry, one requires a man with good character, common sense in business, or else a private income of great proportions; he must be moderately sober and not gamble to excess, and be of gentle manners and acceptable appearance.”
