but a silk nightshirt.
Charlotte was sickened by a wave of disgust and disappointment, and in an instant the thought flew to her: how could she prevent Emily from knowing about this? She would feel betrayed a second time-however little she cared for him, he had still affected to care for her.
“There’s no need to be concerned,” he was saying with a slight smile, pushing his hands through his hair. “Sybilla had a nightmare.”
“Indeed?” Vespasia’s silver eyebrows rose in disbelief.
Charlotte collected herself. “What about?” she said sarcastically, concealing nothing of her contempt.
William opened his own bedroom door and came out onto the landing looking confused and embarrassed. His face was blurred with sleep and he blinked as though dragged from an oblivion he infinitely preferred.
“Is she all right?” he asked, turning to Jack Radley and ignoring the others.
“I think so,” Jack replied. “She rang for her maid.”
Vespasia walked slowly past without looking at either of them and went into Sybilla’s room, pushing the door open wider. Charlotte followed, partly from some vague idea that she might help but also from a compulsion to know. If Sybilla were ever to tell the truth of what had happened it would be now, when she was still too startled to have thought of a lie.
She followed Vespasia inside and was taken aback. All her ideas were thrown into turmoil when she saw Eustace, decorously wrapped in a blue paisley dressing gown, sitting on the end of the bed, talking.
“Now, now, my dear,” he said firmly. “Have your maid bring you a hot drink, and perhaps a little laudanum, and you’ll sleep perfectly well. You must dismiss these things from your mind, or you will make yourself ill. They are only fancies, quite unreal. You need a good rest. No more nightmares!”
Sybilla was propped up against the pillows, but the bed was in considerable disorder, sheets tangled and blankets crooked, as if she had been thrashing around in them in her sleep. Her mass of hair was loose like a river of black satin, and her face was bloodlessly pale, her eyes wide with shock. She stared back at Eustace speechlessly, as though she barely comprehended his words.
“Perfectly all right,” he repeated yet again. He turned and looked at Charlotte and Vespasia, half apologetically. “Women seem to have such vivid dreams, but a tisane and a dose of laudanum, and in the morning you will have forgotten all about it. Sleep in, my dear,” he said again to Sybilla. “Have your breakfast sent up.” He stood, smiling benignly, but there was a tightness at the corners of his lips and an unusual color marking his cheeks. He looked shaken, and Charlotte could hardly blame him. It had been a terrible shriek in the depth of the night, and Jack Radley’s apparent behavior was inexcusable. Perhaps it was wise for Eustace to try to convince her it was fantasy, although her tight face and burning eyes betrayed her utter disbelief.
“Put it from your mind,” Eustace said carefully. “Right out.”
Involuntarily Charlotte looked at the doorway. William was standing just inside, his face crumpled in anxiety, staring past his father and Vespasia to Sybilla.
She smiled at him, and there was a softness in her face. Charlotte had not seen before. Charlotte knew without question that it was not something sudden, nor was William surprised to see it.
“Are you all right?” he said quietly. The words were simple, almost banal, but there was a directness in them quite unlike Eustace’s assurance. Eustace was speaking for himself; William was asking for her.
Her hands relaxed and she smiled back at him. “Yes, thank you. I don’t think it will happen again.”
“We trust it will not,” Vespasia said coldly, looking back towards the landing, where Charlotte could still see Jack Radley.
“It won’t!” he said a little more loudly than necessary. Looking past Vespasia into the bedroom, he met Sybilla’s eyes. “But if you have any more frights … dreams”-he said the word heavily-“just scream again. We’ll come, I promise you.” And he turned and walked away, gracefully, the tails of his nightshirt round his bare legs, and disappeared into his own room without looking back.
“Good God!” Vespasia said under her breath.
“Well,” Eustace began awkwardly, rubbing his hands. “Well. All had a bit of a shock. Ah.” He cleared his throat. “Least said, soonest mended. We’ll not refer to it again. All go back to bed and try to get a little sleep. Thank you for coming, Mrs. Pitt, most thoughtful of you, but nothing you can do now. If you need a tisane or a glass of milk, just ring for one of the maids. Thank heaven Mama wasn’t disturbed. Poor woman has more than enough to bear-er …” He faltered to a stop, looking at no one. “Well. Good night.”
Charlotte went to Vespasia and, without giving a thought to the familiarity of it, put her arm round her, feeling with a start how thin and stiff she was under her wrap, how unprotected her bones.
“Come,” she said gently. “Sybilla will be fine now, but you should have a hot drink. I’ll get you one.”
Vespasia did not shrug off the arm; she seemed almost to welcome it. Her own daughter was dead, now George was dead. Tassie was too young and too frightened. But she was used to servants. “I’ll ring for Digby,” she said automatically. “She’ll get me some milk.”
“No need.” Charlotte walked with her across the landing. “I can heat milk, you know. I do it all the time in my own house-and I’d like to.”
Vespasia’s mouth lifted in the wraith of a smile. “Thank you, my dear. I should appreciate it. It has been a distressing night, and I feel no comfort in Eustace’s rather sanguine hopes. He is quite out of his depth. I am beginning to fear that we all are.”
In the morning Charlotte got up late and with a splitting headache. Hot tea brought to her by Lettie did not help.
Lettie drew the curtains and asked if she might lay out any particular clothes, and if she should draw a bath.
“No, thank you.” Charlotte declined primarily because she did not want to take the time. She must see how Vespasia was, and Emily, and if she could make the opportunity, Sybilla. There was a great deal more to last night’s events than a bad dream; there had been a look of hatred in Sybilla’s eyes, a deliberation in her voice more than the shreds of a nightmare, however vile.
But Lettie remained in the middle of the sunlit carpet, her hands kneading her skirt under her apron.
“I expect the inspector understands a lot of things we don’t, ma’am,” she said quietly.
Charlotte’s first thought was that Lettie was frightened. In the circumstances it was hardly surprising.
“I’m sure he does.” She tried to sound reassuring, although it was the last thing she felt.
But Lettie did not move. “It must be very interesting …” She hesitated. “Being married to a policeman.”
“Yes.” Charlotte reached for the pitcher of water and Lettie automatically poured it for her. She began to wash.
“Is it very dangerous?” Lettie went on. “Does he get-hurt, sometimes?”
“Sometimes it’s dangerous. But he hasn’t been badly hurt. Usually it’s just hard work.” Charlotte reached for the towel and Lettie handed it to her.
“Do you often wish he did something else, ma’am?”
It was an impertinent question, and for the first time Charlotte realized Lettie was asking because it was of some personal urgency to her. She put down the towel and met Lettie’s blue eyes with curiosity.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Lettie blushed, and looked away.
“No, I don’t,” Charlotte said honestly. “It was hard to get used to at first, but now I wouldn’t have him do anything else. It is his work, and he is good at it. If you love someone, you don’t want to change them from doing what they believe in. It makes no one happy. Why do you ask?”
Lettie’s blush deepend. “Oh, no reason, ma’am. Just … just silly thoughts.” She turned away and began fussing with the dress Charlotte was to wear, tweaking unnecessarily at petticoats and removing imaginary specks of dust.
Charlotte learned from Digby that Emily was still asleep. She had taken laudanum and not woken in the night. Even Sybilla’s screams and the comings and goings on the landing had not disturbed her.
She expected Aunt Vespasia to have had breakfast sent up but actually met her at the top of the stairs looking ashen and hollow-eyed, holding on to the bannister, head erect, back stiff.
“Good morning, my dear,” she said very quietly.
“Good morning, Aunt Vespasia.” Charlotte had been intending to go to Sybilla’s room, if necessary to waken her and ask her about last night. Some pretext of concern for her would have been easy enough to find. But Vespasia looked so fragile, she offered her arm, instinctively, something she would not have dreamed of doing a
