what he might say and how she should answer.
She gulped. “Have you?”
He wished he could comfort her, reassure her, but he dared not-not yet.
“I’m going to ’ave to go away to look into it.”
“Oh!” She looked startled, then disappointed. Then as she saw the pleasure in his face and realized she had betrayed herself, she straightened so stiffly her back was like a ramrod, and her chin so high her neck hurt. “Indeed, an’ I suppose that’s your duty, Mr. Stripe.” She did not trust herself to go on. It was ridiculous to be upset over a policeman, of all things!
“I may be quite a time,” he went on. “Might even find the solution-and not come back again.”
“I hope you do. We don’t want terrible things like this happening and no one caught.” She moved as if to turn back to the cake tin and the rows of tea caddies, but changed her mind. She was confused, not certain whether she was angry with him or not.
Pitt’s admonition was ringing in his ears. Time was sliding by. All must be won or lost now. He screwed up his courage and plunged in, staring at the Chinese flower design on the jar behind her. “So I came to say as I’d like it very much if I could call on you, personal, like.”
She drew in her breath quickly, but since he was not looking at her he could not judge the reason.
“Perhaps you’d come with me for a walk in the park, when the band’s playing? It can be …” He hesitated again and met her eyes at last. “Most pleasant,” he finished, cheeks hot.
“Thank you, Mr. Stripe,” she said quickly. Half of her told herself she was crazy, walking out with a policeman! What on earth would her father have said? The other half was tingling with delight-it was what she had wanted most in the world for about three days. She swallowed hard. “That sounds very agreeable.”
He beamed with relief, then, collecting his composure, remembered a little dignity and stood to attention.
“Thank you, Miss Taylor. If my duties take me away I’ll write you a letter and”-in a wave of triumph-“I’ll call for you at three o’clock on Sunday afternoon!” And he left before she could demur.
She waited only until his footsteps had died away. Then she jammed the rest of the tea she was sorting all into one jar, and ran upstairs to tell Tassie, a remarkable amount of whose own secrets she herself shared.
Charlotte sat on the edge of her bed struggling with her growing desire to escape going down to dinner altogether. Pitt had gone with the address book to pursue the names in it and she felt a chill without him. Facing Eustace across the table would be appalling. He must surely know beyond question that she had shown the diary to Pitt, and that Pitt must be weighing whether to make it public.
And what of William? His own father, who so clearly despised him, with the wife to whom he had written such love letters! It would be unbearable. It was that which hardened in her mind the already half-made decision not to tell Emily. Let no one know who did not have to. It was not certain beyond any other possibility that Eustace had murdered George in a passion of jealousy; after all, he could hardly imagine any claim on Sybilla. If he was driven by jealousy it could only be if she had refused him in George’s favor.
Then a coldness drenched her, much stronger, more sure in its grasp. Of course. Sybilla dared not look to William for protection, both because she would not wish him ever to know of her first weakness-lunacy, as she had called it-and because she was afraid for him if he and Eustace quarreled. Eustace might in malice make sure everyone else knew he had cuckolded his own son. She could imagine the old lady’s face if she heard-and Tassie, who loved William with such sensitivity.
No. Far better, far wiser for Sybilla to seek her defense in George, who could be so startlingly considerate at times, when he understood the wound. He was loyal, without judgment; he would have helped her and kept silent.
Only he had done the unforeseen and become enchanted with her himself, and there had begun the unraveling of all the plan.
And then Jack-Jack had understood and helped her as well. But understood how much?
She would tell Emily nothing. Not yet.
But, dear heaven, she did not want to go through the charade of dinner! How could she excuse herself? To the company it would be easy: she had a headache, she was unwell. There would be no need to explain that; women were always getting headaches, and she had certainly had enough to justify one.
Aunt Vespasia would be concerned for her and send Digby with medicines and advice. Emily would miss her at table, and what excuse would satisfy her, or Thomas? He would not accept a headache. He would expect her to go down, and watch, and listen. That was the reason she had given him for remaining here at all. Ladies with servants might take to their beds with the vapors; working women were expected to keep on, even with fevers or consumption. He would see it for an attack of cowardice-exactly as it was. On the whole, facing Eustace was the lesser evil.
At least, she thought so until she sat down at the table, determined not to look at him, and in her very consciousness of him ended by meeting his eyes precisely when he was staring at her. She averted her gaze instantly, but it was too late. The chicken in her mouth turned to wet sawdust, her hands were clammy, and she all but dropped her fork. Surely everyone else must be looking at her, too, and wondering what on earth was the matter with her. It could only be politeness that kept them from asking. She was staring at the white ice sheet of the tablecloth, away from the dazzling facets of the chandeliers and the light on the cut glass of the cruet sets, but all her mind saw was Eustace’s face.
“I think the weather is going to break,” old Mrs. March said joylessly. “I hate wet summers; at least in winter one can sit by a decent fire without feeling ridiculous.”
“You have a fire all through the year anyway,” Vespasia replied. “That boudoir of yours would suffocate a cat!”
“I don’t keep cats,” Mrs. March replied instantly. “I don’t like them. Insolent creatures, don’t care for anyone but themselves, and there is more than enough selfishness in the world already without adding cats to it. But I did have a dog”-she shot a look of intense hatred at Emily-“until somebody killed it.”
“If it hadn’t preferred George to you it wouldn’t have happened.” Vespasia pushed her plate away in disgust. “Poor little creature.”
“And if George hadn’t preferred Sybilla to Emily, none of it would.” Mrs. March was not to be beaten, especially not at her own table in front of strangers whom she despised, and not by Vespasia, whom she had resented for forty years.
“You said before that it was because Emily preferred Mr. Radley,” Charlotte interrupted, looking at the old lady with raised eyebrows. “Have you discovered something that changed your mind?”
“I think the less you have to say the better, young woman!” Mrs. March flicked a scornful eye over her and continued eating.
“I thought perhaps you had learned something new,” Charlotte murmured. Then, impelled by an inner compulsion, she looked sideways at Eustace.
It was an extraordinary expression she surprised on his face-not exactly fear-something that had superceded it, half curiosity. He was the supreme hypocrite, self-important and insensitive, plowing on in his obsession with dynasty, regardless of the trampling of subtle and private emotions. But she realized with uncomfortable surprise that he did not lack courage. He was beginning to regard her in a way quite different from the uninterested condescension which had possessed him before. She read in that one glance that she had become not only an adversary, but a woman. The passage in the diary came back to her as sharply as if it were on the tablecloth in front of her-
“Have you discovered something?” Tassie added with distressing perspicacity.
“No!” Charlotte denied too quickly. “I don’t know who it was-I don’t know at all!”
“Then you’re a fool,” Mrs. March said viciously. “Or a liar. Or both.”
“Then we are all fools or liars.” William laid his napkin beside his untouched plate. Where others had pushed the food around and eaten a mouthful or two, he had not even pretended.
