Crescent. He was a ravishingly handsome young man with excellent connections, but unfortunately, no money worth mentioning, and a highly dubious reputation with women. He was another outsider, and for that alone Emily could have liked him, regardless of his grace or his humor. It was fairly obvious that he had been invited with a view to arranging a marriage for Tassie, the only one of the ten March daughters still unmarried. The purpose of this liaison was not yet plain, since Tassie did not appear to be fond of him and had considerably more substantial expectations than he; although his family was related to those who held power he himself had no prospects. William had said unkindly that Eustace hungered for a knighthood-and in time, perhaps, a peerage-as the ultimate accolade to his family’s rise from trade to respectability. But that was surely an observation more malicious than truthful. There was a tension between father and son, a sharpness that intruded like a sudden splinter of glass every now and then, small but surprisingly painful.
At present William was behind Emily’s chair, and he was the only one she could not see.
During the interval it was he who brought her wine and a chocolate bonbon, not George; George was standing in the corner laughing at something Sybilla had said. Emily forced herself to make some sort of conversation, knowing it was a failure even as the words fell into hot silence, and the minute after she wished she had not said them. She was relieved when the curtain went up again.
“I cannot think where Mr. Gilbert gets such ridiculous plots!” Old Mrs. March drummed her fingers irritably when the final applause had died. “There is absolutely no sense in it at all!”
“There is not meant to be, Grandmama,” Sybilla said with a dreamy smile.
Mrs. March stared at her over her pince-nez, the black velvet ribbon dangling down her cheek. “Someone who is foolish because nature has so designed them, I pity; someone who is foolish by intention it is beyond me to understand,” she said coldly.
“That I can well believe,” Jack Radley murmured behind Emily’s ear. “And I’d swear Mr. Gilbert would find her equally incomprehensible-only he wouldn’t care.”
“My dear Lavinia, he is no more foolish than some of the romances by Madam Ouida, which I see you reading under brown paper covers.”
Mrs. March’s face froze, but there were pink spots in her cheeks where rouge would have been on a younger woman. She deplored the vulgarity of painting one’s face; women who did that were “of a certain sort.”
“You are quite mistaken, Vespasia,” she snapped. “It is a pity your vanity prevents you obtaining a pair of spectacles. One of these days you will fall downstairs or otherwise make an unfortunate exhibition of yourself. William! You had better give your grandmama your arm. I don’t wish to be the center of attention as we leave.” She rose to her feet and turned to the door. “Especially of that kind!”
“You won’t be,” Vespasia retorted. “Not as long as Sybilla insists upon wearing scarlet.”
“Very suitable for her,” Emily said, before she thought. She had intended it to be inaudible, but just at the precise moment everyone around them stopped speaking and her voice came clearly into the pause.
There was a touch of color in George’s face, and she looked away instantly, wishing she had bitten her tongue till it bled rather than betray herself so nakedly.
“I’m so glad you like it,” Sybilla answered quite calmly, rising also. There seemed no end to her aplomb. “We all have colors which flatter us, and those which don’t. I doubt I should look as well as you do in that shade of blue.”
That made it worse. Instead of spitting back she had been charming. Even now, George was smiling at her. Almost as if some invisible current had designed it, they were swept out of the box into the eddy of people pressing to reach the foyer, George next to Sybilla, offering his arm as if anything less would have been uncivil.
Emily found herself, hot-faced and stumbling, being pushed and jostled forward with Jack Radley’s arm about her and Great-aunt Vespasia’s beautiful silver head in front.
Once they reached the foyer it was inescapable that they should meet with people they knew, and be obliged to exchange opinions and inquiries as to health, and all the other chitchat of such an occasion. It swam over her head in a senseless bedlam. She nodded and smiled and agreed with everything that penetrated into her mind. Someone asked after her son, Edward, and she replied that he was at home and very well. Then George nudged her sharply, and she remembered to inquire after the family of the speaker. It all babbled on around her:
“Delightful performance!”
“Have you seen
“How does that piece go again?”
“Shall you be at Henley? I do love regattas. Such a delightful thing for a hot day, don’t you agree?”
“I prefer Goodwood. There is something about the races-all the silks, don’t you know!”
“But my dear, what about Ascot?”
“I rather care for Wimbledon, myself.”
“I haven’t a
“Wasn’t the Royal Academy too frightful this year!”
“My dear, I do agree! Perfectly tedious!”
Clumsily, she survived nearly half an hour of such greetings and comments before at last finding herself alone in her carriage with George beside her, stiff and more distant than a stranger.
“What on earth is the matter with you, Emily?” George said after they had sat in silence for ten minutes, while carriages ahead of them picked up their owners. Finally the way ahead was clear down the Strand.
Should she lie, evade the moment of commitment to the quarrel which she knew he would hate? George was tolerant, generous, of an easy nature, but he wanted emotion only at times of his own choosing, and most certainly not now, when he was full of the echoes of such civilized enjoyment.
Half of her wanted to face him, let all her scalding hurt burst out, demand he explain himself and his wounding and outrageous behavior. But just as she opened her mouth to reply, cowardice overcame her. Once she had spoken it would be too late to draw back; she would have cut off her only retreat. It was so unlike her-she was usually mistress of herself so coolly, with such measured reaction. It was part of what had first drawn him to her. Now she betrayed all that and took the easy lie, despising herself, and hating him for reducing her to it.
“I don’t feel very well,” she said stiffly. “I think perhaps the theater was a little hot.”
“I didn’t notice it.” He was still annoyed. “Nor did anyone else.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to point out how profoundly he had been otherwise engaged, but again she avoided the crisis.
“Then maybe I am feverish.”
“Spend tomorrow in bed.” There was no sympathy in his voice.
He just wants me to stay out of the way, she thought, before I become even more of a nuisance and an embarrassment to him. Tears prickled in her eyes, and she swallowed hard, painfully grateful to be in the close, sharp darkness of the carriage. She said nothing, in case her voice betrayed her, and George did not pursue the subject. They rode through the summer night, their way lit by the hundred yellow moons of the gas lamps, hearing nothing but the steady
When they reached Cardington Crescent the footman opened the doors, and Emily climbed down and went up the steps under the portico and in through the front door without even glancing to see if George was behind her. It was customary to attend a dinner party before the opera and a supper party afterwards, but old Mrs. March did not feel her health equal to both-although in fact there was nothing whatsoever wrong with her except age-so they had forgone the supper. Now a late meal was served in the withdrawing room, but Emily could not face the laughter, the bright lights of the chandeliers, and the probing eyes.
“If you will excuse me,” Emily said to no one in particular, “it has been a delightful evening, but I am rather tired and I would prefer to retire. I wish you all a good night.” Not waiting for a reply, she continued straight on to the foot of the stairs before anyone’s voice held her back. It was not George, as she ached for it to be, but Jack Radley, only a pace behind her.
“Are you all right, Lady Ashworth? You look a little pale. Shall we have something sent up to you?” Already he was at her elbow.
“No, thank you,” she said quickly. “I am sure I shall be quite well when I have rested.” She must not be seen to be rude-it was so childish. She forced herself to turn and look at him. He was smiling. He really did have the most remarkable eyes; he contrived to look intimate even when she barely knew him, and yet it was not quite enough to
