and with the social status of wife, and that goal and haven of all women, a family.
Was it what Tassie wanted?
Charlotte cast her mind back to the time when she had been taken with other young women of her age to parties, balls, and soirees in desperate hope of catching the right husband. If one were well-born enough to “come out,” it was a disaster to finish the Season unbetrothed, the mark of social failure. No one married unless the arrangement were suitable, the proposed partner acceptable to one’s family. Very seldom did one know the person, except in the most perfunctory way; it was impossible to spend time alone together or to speak of anything but trivialities. And once a betrothal was announced it was rarely broken, and only with difficulty and subsequent speculation of scandal.
But perhaps anything was better than life in perpetual bondage, first to old Mrs. March and then to Eustace. He looked robust enough to live another thirty years.
The introductions had been effected and she had barely noticed. Now Eustace was chunnering on about his emotions, rocking slightly back and forth and holding his strong, square, and immaculately manicured hands together.
“We offer you our condolences, my dear Mrs. Pitt. It grieves me that there is nothing we can do to be of comfort to you.” He was making a statement of fact, distancing himself and his family from the affair. He did not mean to become any further involved, and he was making sure Charlotte understood.
But Charlotte was here to investigate and she had no compunction at all. She might feel profound pity, perhaps even for Eustace, before, all this was over; but she could not afford such tenderness now, when Emily was on the edge of such danger. They hanged women as easily as men for committing murder, and that thought drove all others from her mind.
She smiled sweetly up at Eustace. “I am sure you underestimate yourself, Mr. March. From Emily’s letters I believe you are a man of the greatest ability, who would rise to assume natural leadership in a crisis. Just the sort of man any woman would turn to when the situation overwhelms her.” She saw the blood rise in his face till he was scarlet to the eyes. She was describing him precisely as he wished to be seen-at any time but this! “And of course your loyalty to your family is beyond anyone to question,” she finished.
Eustace drew a shuddering breath, and let it out with a splutter.
Tassie stared aghast, not seeing the irony, and Sybilla sneezed repeatedly into a lace handkerchief.
“Good evening, Charlotte,” Aunt Vespasia said from the doorway, her eyes for an instant catching some of their old fire. “I had no idea Emily had written so well of Eustace. How charming.”
Some flicker of movement made Charlotte turn, and she caught a glimpse of black hatred on William’s face that was so swiftly removed she was half convinced it was a trick of the light, a reflection of the gas lamp in his eyes. Tassie moved a step closer to him as if to touch her fingers to his arm, but changed her mind.
“Family loyalty is a wonderful thing,” Sybilla remarked with an expression that could have meant anything at all, except what it said. “I expect a tragedy like this will show us where our true friends really are.”
“I am sure,” Charlotte agreed, looking at no one, “we shall discover depths in each other we had not dreamed of.”
Eustace choked, Jack Radley’s eyes opened so wide he seemed transfixed, and old Mrs. March threw the door open so violently it jarred against the wall and bruised the paper.
Dinner was grim, conducted mostly in silence, since Mrs. March chose to freeze any conversation at birth by staring fixedly at whoever spoke. Afterwards she declared that in view of the day’s events it would be suitable if everyone retired early. She glowered at Eustace and then at Jack Radley so they could not possibly escape her meaning; then she rose and commanded the ladies to follow her. They trooped obediently to sit for an insufferable hour in the pink boudoir before excusing themselves and going upstairs.
Emily had gone back to her own room, because naturally Vespasia required hers for herself. Lying hot and tangled in George’s bed in the dressing room, Charlotte was acutely aware of her, wondering if she should get up and go to her, or if it was one of those times when Emily needed to be alone, to work through the stages of her grief as she must.
She woke for the final time a little late to find the air heavy and humid and the room full of white, flat light. There was a maid standing in the doorway with a tray in her hands. A hideous flood of memory swamped Charlotte, not only of where she was and that George was dead, but that he had had poisoned coffee on his morning tray. For a moment the thought of sitting here in this same bed and drinking tea was intolerable. She opened her mouth to say something angry, then saw that it was the short, sensible figure of Digby, and the protest died.
“Good morning, ma’am.” Digby set the tray down and drew the curtains. “I’ll draw you a bath. It’ll be good for you.” She did not allow any question into her tone. It was clearly an order, possibly originating with Great-aunt Vespasia.
Charlotte sat up, blinking. Her eyes were gritty, her head ached, and she longed for the luxury of hot, clean- tasting tea. “Have you seen Lady Ashworth this morning?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. The mistress gave her some laudanum last night and said I was to leave her till ten at the soonest and then take her breakfast in. No doubt you’ll be wanting to take yours downstairs with the family.” Again it was not a question. In fact, it was the last thing Charlotte felt like, but it was clearly a matter of duty. And she could certainly be of no service to Emily lying here in bed.
Breakfast was another almost silent meal taken in a room sharply chilly, since Eustace had preceded them and thrown all the windows open, and no one dared to close them while he was still there, plowing his way with unabated appetite through porridge, bacon, kedgeree, muffins, and toast and marmalade.
Afterwards Charlotte excused herself and went to the morning room, where she wrote letters for Emily, informing various more distant members of the family of George’s death. That at least would save Emily some pain.
By eleven she had completed all she could think of, and Emily was still not down, so she decided to begin her pursuit in earnest.
She had intended to speak to William, to see if she could form a clearer impression of him and confirm in her own mind what that extraordinary expression she had glimpsed the evening before might have been. She learned from the parlormaid that he was likely to be in his painting studio at the far end of the conservatory, and that the police were in the house again-not the inspector who had been the day before, but the constable-and the whole kitchen was set on its ears by his probing and prying into all sorts that was none of his affair. Cook was beside herself, and the scullery maid was in tears; the bootboy’s eyes were bulging out like organ stops, the housekeeper had never been so insulted in all her life, and the in-between maid was giving notice.
However, she did not get as far as the studio, because just inside the entrance of the conservatory she met with Sybilla, standing silent and motionless staring at a camellia bush. Charlotte gathered her wits and availed herself of this opportunity instead.
“One could almost imagine oneself out of England altogether,” she observed pleasantly.
Sybilla was jerked out of her reverie and struggled to find a civil reply to such a banal remark. “Indeed one could.”
There were lilies blooming a few feet away; their succulent flesh reminded Charlotte of bloodless faces. She did not know how long they would be alone there. She must use the time, and she fancied Sybilla was too intelligent for any oblique approach to succeed. Surprise just might.
“Was George in love with you?” she asked candidly.
Sybilla stood frozen for so long Charlotte could hear the condensation dripping from the top leaves near the roof onto the ones below. The fact that she did not instantly deny it was important in itself. Was she debating the truth with herself, or merely the safety of answering? Surely they must all know by now that it was murder, and have expected the question.
“I don’t know,” she said at last. “I am tempted to say, Mrs. Pitt, that it is a private matter, and none of your concern. But I suppose that since Emily is your sister, you cannot help caring.” She swung round to face Charlotte, her eyes wide, her smile vulnerable and curiously bitter. “I cannot answer for him, and I am sure you don’t expect me to repeat everything he said to me. But Emily was jealous, that is undoubted. She also carried it superbly.”
Looking at her, Charlotte was aware of intense emotions inside her, of the capability for passion and for pain. She could not possibly dislike her as she had intended.
“I apologize for asking,” she said brittlely. “I know it sounds gauche.”
“Yes,” Sybilla agreed dryly, “but you don’t have to explain.” There was no anger visible in Sybilla’s face, only a
