and white-wrapped, in one of the old nurserymaids’ rooms in the servants’ wing. Charlotte dreaded lying in the same bed that George had died in only a few hours ago, and yet there was no alternative. The only way in which she could bear it would be in refusing to allow the thought into her mind.
Her few dark clothes suitable for summer mourning had already been unpacked for her. She blushed as she remembered how worn they were, how plain the underwear, even mended in places, and her dresses adapted from last year to look a little less unfashionable. She had only two pair of boots, and neither of them was really new. At another time she would have been angry at the embarrassment of it, and stayed away rather than cause Emily to be ashamed for her. Now there was no time for such petty emotions. She must change from traveling clothes, wash her face and do her hair, and present herself for the evening meal, which was bound to be appallingly grim, perhaps even hostile. But someone in this house was guilty of murder.
On the way downstairs for dinner she had reached the lowest step, past the dark paneling and rows of muddy oil paintings of Marches of the past, when she came almost face to face with an elderly woman in fierce black, jet beads glinting in the gaslight on her neck and bosom. Her gray-white hair was screwed back in a fashion more than twenty years out of date. Her cold blue marble eyes fixed Charlotte with immovable distaste.
“I presume you are Emily’s sister?” She looked her up and down briefly. “Vespasia said she sent for you- although I do think she might have informed us first and invited an opinion before taking matters into her own hands! But perhaps it is just as well you are here. You may be of some use-I’m sure I don’t know what to do for Emily. We’ve never had anything like this in the family.” She regarded Charlotte’s gown and the toes of her boots, which showed beneath the hem. They were not of the quality she was accustomed to. Even the maids had one new pair every season, whether they needed them or not, for the sake of appearances. Charlotte’s had obviously seen several seasons already.
“What’s your name?” she demanded. “I daresay I’ve been told, but I forget.”
“Charlotte Pitt,” Charlotte answered her coldly, her eyebrows raised in question as to who the asker might be herself.
The old lady stared at her irritably. “I am Mrs. March. I presume you are”-she hesitated almost imperceptibly and glanced again at Charlotte’s boots-“coming in to dinner?”
Charlotte swallowed the retort that rose to her lips-this was not the time for self-indulgent rudeness-and forced herself to assume an expression far meeker than she felt. She accepted as though it had been an invitation. “Thank you.”
“Well, you are early!” the old lady snapped. “Don’t you have a timepiece?”
Charlotte felt her cheeks burn; she understood with a passion how so many girls marry anyone who will have them, simply to leave home and put away forever the specter of living out the rest of their lives at the beck and call of an overbearing mother. There must have been a million loveless marriages contracted for just such reasons. Please heaven they did not contract such a mother-in-law instead!
She swallowed hard. “I thought I might have the opportunity of meeting the family first,” she replied quietly. “They are all strangers to me.”
“Quite!” the old lady agreed meaningfully. “I am going to my boudoir. I daresay you will find someone in the withdrawing room.” And with that she walked off, leaving Charlotte to find her own way through the dining room, set for the meal but as yet unoccupied, and through the double doors into the cool, green withdrawing room beyond.
Already there, standing in the middle of the carpet, was a girl of about nineteen, very thin under her muslin dress, her vivid red hair piled untidily, her wide, delicate mouth grave. She smiled as soon as she saw Charlotte.
“You must be Emily’s sister,” she said immediately. “I’m so glad you’ve come.” She looked down, then up again, ruefully. “Because I don’t know what to do-even what to say-”
Neither do I, Charlotte thought painfully. Everything sounds banal and insincere. But that was no excuse; even clumsy help was better than ignoring grief, running away as if it were a disease and you were afraid of being contaminated.
“I’m Anastasia March,” the girl went on. “But please call me Tassie.”
“I’m Charlotte Pitt.”
“Yes, I know. Grandmama said you’d be coming.” She pulled a little face. Charlotte had already been given Grandmama’s opinion of that.
Further conversation was prevented by the doors opening again and William and Sybilla March coming in; she first, dressed in glittering black, lace around the smooth, white throat; he a step behind. Charlotte could see instantly how George had been fascinated with her. She had a vibrancy even in repose that Emily did not, an air of mystery and intensity that would intrigue many men. She did not need to do anything-it was there in her face, the dark, wide eyes, the curve of her mouth, the richness of her figure. Charlotte could well imagine how hard Emily had had to work, how unceasing her charm, how tight her self-control, to win George’s attention back again. No wonder Jack Radley had been drawn! But how careless had Emily been, with her mind solely on George? Could she have given away far more than she intended, and been too preoccupied to notice how seriously he had taken her advances?
And William March, the so slightly complacent husband-his face was anything but uncaring. His features were sensitive, ascetic; thin nose, chiseled mouth. Yet there was passion of some sort within him, even if it was more complex than simple adoration or a fire in the blood. He might despise both of those, and yet be just as much their victim.
Her contemplation was cut off by Eustace March himself sweeping in, immaculately dressed, his round eyes flicking from one to another, seeing who was absent, assuring himself that all was as he wished it. His gaze stopped on Charlotte. He seemed already to have made up his mind how he was going to treat her, and his smile was unctuous and confident.
“I am Eustace March. Most fortunate you were able to come, my dear Mrs. Pitt. Very fitting. Poor Emily needs someone who knows her. We shall do our best, of course, but we cannot be the same as her own family. Most suitable that you should be here.” His eyes flicked towards Sybilla, and he gave a slight, satisfied smile. “Most suitable,” he repeated.
The door opened again and the only unrelated guest came in, the one who troubled Charlotte the most. Jack Radley. As soon as she saw him standing elegantly just inside the arch of the lintel, she understood more of the problem than she had before, and felt the coldness grow inside her. It was not so much that he was handsome- although his eyes were amazing-as that he had a grace and a vitality that demanded a woman’s attention. No doubt he was totally aware of the fact; his charm was his primary asset, and he had sufficient intelligence to make the best possible use of it. Meeting his gaze across the short space of the green carpet, she could understand only too well how Emily had used him as a foil against which to win George’s attention again. A flirtation with the man might be enormous fun, and all too believable. Only it might prove more addictive than she had foreseen-and far harder to end than to begin. Perhaps after the heady excitement of a forbidden romance, the exhilaration of the game superbly played, George, familiar and predictable, would be a prize less worth the winning. Might Emily, perhaps without acknowledging it, have been willing to continue the affair? And had Jack Radley seen it as his chance at last for a wife prettier and far, far richer than Tassie March?
It was an ugly thought, but now that it was in her brain it was ineradicable without another solution to force it out, to disprove it beyond the smallest doubt.
She glanced at Eustace, standing with his feet a little apart, solid and satisfied, his hands clasped behind his back. Whatever nervousness he might feel was under control. He must have convinced himself he was in charge again. He was the patriarch leading his family through a crisis; everyone would look to him, and he would rise to the occasion. Women would lean on him, confide in him, rest on his strength; men would admire him, envy him. After all, death is a part of life. It must be dealt with with courage and decorum-and he had not been overfond of George.
She looked next at Tassie, as unlike her father as it was possible to be. She was painfully slender where he was thick, broad-boned; vivid and alive where he was innately immovable, settled and sure.
Did he really want to marry Tassie to Jack Radley in order to purchase himself the ultimate respectability of a title through the Radley family connections, as Emily had said in her letters? Looking at him now it seemed eminently likely. Although again, it could be no more than the desire of any good father to see his daughter escape the prison of home, to find another man to provide her with an establishment of her own when he no longer could,
