artifices spread out so uselessly now. It was ridiculous to identify with her so much, and yet the knowledge did not dispel the feeling.
There was underwear, as she would have expected, infinitely prettier and newer than her own-probably much the same as Emily’s. But there was nothing about it in which she could see any deeper meaning, no paper or article hidden underneath. She tried the jewel case, and lingered in a moment’s envy for a rope of pearls and an emerald clasp. But again the bare objects told her nothing, gave her no clue as to whether they were more than the ornaments any wealthy and loved woman might have.
She stood in the center of the floor, staring round at the pictures, the curtains, the enormous four-poster. Surely there must be something.
Under the bed! She knelt down quickly and threw up the long counterpane to see. There was a trunk for clothes, and beside it, in the shadow, a small vanity case. Instantly she hauled it out, and still kneeling, tried the lid. It was locked.
“Damn!” she swore fiercely. “Damn, damn,
Where did she keep her own keys? In the jewel case, of course, in the space underneath the tray for earrings. That was where she kept her own suitcase keys, not that she traveled very often these days. She scrambled to her feet, tripping over her skirt, and landed half on top of the dressing-table stool. It was there, a little brass key about an inch long, in with the gold chains.
It opened the vanity case on the floor, and with fingers fumbling with excitement Charlotte pushed back the lid and saw the pile of letters and two little white kid-bound books. One had ADDRESSES written on the front. She looked at the letters first. They were love letters from William, and after the first one she checked only the names. They were passionate, tender, written with a delicacy of wording that brought back to her mind
She hated herself for doing it. They were all from William; there was nothing else, nothing from George-but then George was not a man who wrote love letters, and any other man’s would surely be clumsy and inarticulate beside these.
She picked up the unmarked book. It was a diary begun some years ago in an ordinary notebook, no dates printed, no headings except those Sybilla had written herself.
Charlotte opened it at random and saw the notation,
William has been painting all day. I can see it is brilliant, but I wish he would not spend so much time on it, leaving me alone with the family. The old woman is still asking me when I propose to become a “real woman” and bear a family, an heir for the Marches. There are times when I hate her so much I would gladly kill her if I knew how. Perhaps I would regret it afterwards, but it could hardly be worse than the way I feel now. And Eustace sits there talking about what a waste William is-painting life instead of living it. And he looks at me unctuously, all the time I feel as if his eyes see through my clothes. He has such manhood! How can I ever have been insane enough to let him make love with me? I would give anything on earth to have refused him-but that is a pointless thought, we are both locked in it, and I dare not tell anyone. Tassie would be appalled, not for her father-sometimes I think she has no love for him anyway-but for William, whom she loves so much, and with such gentleness. More than most sisters, I think.
Dear God! I’m so miserable I don’t know what to do. But cowardice won’t help. I have always been able to charm men. I will find a way out.
Charlotte was shaking, and in spite of the heat in the closed room there were trickles of sweat chilling on her body. Was that what it was all about with George? Not a grand passion at all, not even the vanity of a beautiful woman, but a protection from Eustace? The thought made her feel sick.
She flicked through more pages of the little book till she came to the end. She read the last entry.
I can hardly believe it! Nothing seems to shatter his appetite or frighten him! I am almost driven into thinking it was a nightmare as he tried to make us all believe. I have to look at Jack to make myself sure.
Poor Jack. Grandmother Vespasia looks at him with such disappointment; I think she really liked him. He is just the sort of man I fancy she would have led a rare dance when she was young. And Charlotte! She is disgusted, and it shows so plainly in her face. I imagine that is on Emily’s account. I wish I had a sister who cared for me so much. I never before felt as if I needed one, someone to trust, who would defend me. But I do now.
Perhaps my screaming will be enough. Please God. Eustace did look truly horrified, just for a moment, before he thought what to say when everyone came running. I don’t think he really believed I would, until I opened my mouth.
And, so help me God-if he comes again I shall scream again, I don’t care what anyone thinks-and I told him I would.
Now he has a black eye and Jack a split lip.
Jack must have gone to his room and thrashed him. Dear Jack.
But what on earth can I do when he leaves?
Please, God, help me.
And there it ended. There had not been another morning for Sybilla to write.
But why had she not told William?
Because William already had no love for his father, and she was afraid of what he would do in rage and the depth of his hurt and revulsion. Or perhaps because in any battle between William and Eustace, she was afraid Eustace would always win. No wonder she hated him.
There was a noise outside the door-not the light trip of a housemaid, but a heavy tread. A man’s step.
There was no time to escape; the footsteps stopped and someone touched the doorknob. In a panic she threw the vanity case back under the bed and rolled in after it, banging against something hard, snatching her skirts after her and pulling down the counterpane just as the door opened and, after a moment, closed again. He was in the room, whoever he was.
She was huddled up against the trunk, the vanity case digging into her back, but she dared not move. She thought of Sybilla lying stiff and cold a few feet above her on the bed; there was only the thickness of the springs and the mattress between them.
Who was it? He was opening and closing drawers, searching through them. She heard the wardrobe door squeak just as it had for her, and then the rustle of taffeta, a swish of silk. Then it closed again.
Dear heaven! Was he looking for the little book she still had in her hand? His feet were moving back this way. She would have given a lot to know who it was, but she dared not lift the counterpane even an inch to look. Whoever it was might be facing this way, and he would surely see. And then what? Haul her out and, at best, accuse her of robbing the dead-
The vanity case was digging into her, its edges bruising her back. The feet had not moved. There was a faint sound-of shifting weight, and rustling cloth-what was it?
The answer was instant. The counterpane was whipped away and she was staring, paralyzed, into Eustace’s red face and round eyes.
For a long, terrible second he was as transfixed as she was. Then he spoke, his voice a parody of its usual self.
“Mrs. Pitt! Is there anything whatsoever you can say to explain yourself?”
Had he any idea what was written in Sybilla’s book? She clung to it so hard her fingers were white. She tried to speak, but her throat was dry, and she was so frightened she could not move. She could not even crawl backwards, because of the trunk. If he decided to attack her, to get back the damning book-and that was surely what he had been looking for-then the only escape she had was to stay here, where he could not reach her. It was too low for his thick body to get in.
That was preposterous. She could hardly remain under the bed until someone else came to coax her out.
“Mrs. Pitt!” Eustace’s face was hard now, his eyes dangerous. Yes, he had seen the little white leather book in her hand, and guessed what it was, if he did not already know. She stared back at him like a rabbit.
