husband.
And the money?
She had already received a quick note from the lawyer, a condolence merely, but she knew there was a great deal of money. Some of it was in trust for Edward, but she herself would still have a very considerable amount- enough to keep Jack Radley in very fine style indeed. And of course, she would have the houses.
The thought was frightening; a cold, clammy sickness gripped like a hand at her stomach. If he had murdered George then she must share the responsibility. If he was discovered she would be a social outcast at best-at worst she would be hanged with him.
If he were not discovered the suspicion would remain over her forever. She would spend the rest of her life with other people wondering and whispering about her. And she might be the only other person who would know without the worm of doubt that she was innocent-and he was guilty.
Could he afford to let her live, with the danger she might one day somehow prove it was he? She would have to try, for her own honor. Surely she would one day also have an “accident,” or maybe even “commit suicide.” The draft through the carriage window brought out goose pimples on her skin.
Luncheon was a chill, formal affair, as a funeral meal should be. Emily bore it with as much dignity as she could, but afterwards she excused herself and went not to her bedroom where Charlotte or Vespasia could find her, but beyond. She wanted time to think without interruption, and she did not want anyone pressing her with questions.
Anywhere in the main house there was the risk of running into one of the others, forcing her either to make some obvious excuse to leave or else to find conversation, knowing what they were thinking of her and going through the charade of forced politeness.
She went up the stairs, and then up the second, narrower flight to what had been the children’s floor a generation ago, where their games and their crying would not disturb the rest of the house. She passed their bedrooms-closed off now-the nurserymaid’s room, the night nursery-empty except for two sheet-covered cribs and a chest of drawers painted pink and white-and at the very end of the corridor came at last into the big main day nursery.
It was like a world apart, trapped in amber a decade ago when Tassie, the last child, had left it. The curtains were wide, and sunlight caught the walls with gold, showing the faded patches and the rime of dust on the tops of the pictures: little girls in crisp pinafores and a boy in a sailor suit. It must have been William, face softer in childhood, bones not yet formed, mouth hesitant in a half smile. In the sepia tint, without the red of his hair, he looked oddly different. In his young face there was something sharply reminiscent of the picture she had seen of Olivia.
The little girls were different, but all but one had Eustace’s round face, round eyebrows, and confident stare. The exception was Tassie, thinner, more candid, more like William, except for her mouth and the bow in her hair.
There was a dappled rocking horse by the window, its bridle broken, saddle worn. A frilled ottoman in patched pink was covered with a row of dolls, all sitting to attention, obviously tidied by the unloving hand of a maid. A box of tin soldiers was closed neatly and piled next to colored bricks, a dollhouse with a front that opened up, two music boxes, and a kaleidoscope.
She sat down on the big nursery chair and caught sight of her own black skirt spread across the pink. She hated black. In the sunlight it looked dusty and old, as if she were wearing something that had died. She would be expected to keep to it for at least a year.
Ridiculous. George would not have wanted it. He liked gay colors, soft colors, especially pale greens. He had always loved her in pale greens, like shaded rivers or young leaves in spring.
Stop it! It was an unnecessary hurt to keep on thinking of George, turning it over and over. It was too soon. Perhaps in a year she would be able to remember only the good things. She would be used to being alone by then, and the rough edges would have worn off the wound. The healing would begin.
The room was warm and full of light, and the chair was very comfortable. She closed her eyes and leaned back, her face to the sun. It was totally silent up here; the rest of the house need not have existed. She could be anywhere, their quarreling and spite, the whispers, the fear and the malice a hundred miles away in another city. There were the smells of dust and old toys, the cotton of dolls’ dresses, the wood of the horse, the sharp, bitter smell of lead and tin boxes and toy soldiers. It was all vaguely pleasing, perhaps because it was different, half a memory from a simpler, infinitely safer time of her own life.
She was half asleep when the voice broke in, quite quietly but so startling that she felt as if she had been struck.
“Couldn’t you bear us anymore? I don’t blame you. No one knows what to say, but they go on saying it anyway. And the old woman is like something out of a Greek play. I came up here to find you because I was afraid you weren’t well.”
Her eyes flew open and she stared up, squinting in the sun. Jack Radley was standing gracefully, leaning a little against the doorway. He had changed out of his funereal black and was in a pleasant brown. She could think of nothing at all to answer him. The words froze in her brain.
He moved forward and sat on a nursery stool at her feet. The sun made a halo out of the edge of his hair and cast the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheek. It all reminded her of the conservatory, and her conscience wrenched at her again. George had been alive then….
She found an answer at last. “I’m not in the mood for conversation. I don’t feel like forcing myself to be polite anymore, with everyone trying-very clumsily-not to mention murder, while at the same time making it perfectly clear they think it was me.”
“Then I shall avoid the subject,” he replied without a qualm, looking at her with exactly the same warm candor she had seen in him that night he had kissed her so intimately. It brought back very precisely the taste of his mouth, the smell of his skin, and the thick, soft, texture of his hair under her fingers. Her guilt was overwhelming.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped with unreasonable fury. Normally she could have exchanged harmless banter indefinitely, but the knack had abandoned her. She did not want to talk to Jack Radley at all, about anything. She could not get out of her mind the thoughts she feared he might have with regard to her, the idea that she could have been so attracted to him that when George was dead she would be prepared to think of marrying anyone else-let alone a man who might have murdered him!
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know it’s impossible not to think. I suppose you can’t even put it out of thought for half an hour.”
She looked at him reluctantly. He was smiling and looked so agreeable and innocent here amid these childish things she felt bizarre thinking of murder. And yet the knowledge would not be banished. It was true! Someone had murdered George. She had not done it; she found it hard to think it was Sybilla-she had nothing to gain and so much to lose-and impossible to think it was William. She would love to think it was old Mrs. March, but she could rake up no possible reason. And of course there was the abominable picture of Tassie creeping up the stairs in the night, tired and smelling of blood. Could she have killed George in a fit of madness? But even madness has some reason!
Or even at a very wild extreme, Eustace, to hide Tassie’s affliction? Perhaps she had done something else dreadful before. Could it be to conceal that? But that did not make sense. If Eustace knew Tassie was mad he would hardly seek to marry her to anyone; he would have her locked away, for all their sakes.
Surely it had to be Jack Radley, sitting here two feet away from her, the sun shining on his hair, his shirt dazzling white. She could smell the clean cotton just as she could smell the dust and the sun’s heat on the chair and the tin soldiers.
She avoided his eyes, afraid he would see the fear in her own. If he did see her thoughts and understand them, how would he feel? Hurt, because he cared what she thought of him? Because it was unjust, and he had hoped for better? Angry, because she misjudged him? Or because his plans were failing? How angry? Angry enough to strike out at her?
Or worse, far worse, fearful that she would betray him, become a danger to his safety?
Now she dared not look up. What if he saw all that in her eyes? If he had killed George, then he would now have to kill her too. But he would be caught!
Not if he made it look like suicide. The Marches would be only too glad to accept it and dismiss the whole
