be intrusive. She could see quite well how he had gained his reputation with women. It would serve George right if she fell as much in love with Radley as George had with Sybilla!
“Are you sure?” he repeated.
“Quite,” she answered expressionlessly. “Thank you.” And she went up the stairs as rapidly as she could without appearing to run. She was only on the landing when she heard the conversation resume, the laughter peal again, the gay lilt of people who are still in the spell of totally carefree pleasure.
She woke to find herself alone and the sunlight streaming in through a crack in the imperfectly drawn curtains. George was not there, nor had he been. His side of the enormous bed was immaculate, the linen crisp. She had intended to have her breakfast sent up, but now her own company was worse than anyone else’s, and she rang sharply for her maid, refusing morning tea and sending her off to draw a bath and set out Emily’s clothes for the morning.
She put a wrap round her shoulders and knocked sharply on the dressing room door. After several moments it was opened by George, looking sleepy and rumpled, his thick hair falling loosely, his eyes wide and dark.
“Oh,” he said, blinking at her. “Since you weren’t well I thought I’d not disturb you, so I had them make up the bed in here.” He did not ask if she was better. He merely looked at her, at her milky skin with its faint blush and her coil of pale honey hair, came to his own conclusion, and retreated back to prepare himself for the day.
Breakfast was grim. Eustace, as always, had thrown all the dining room windows open. He was a great believer in “muscular Christianity” and all the aggressive good health that went with it. He ate pigeons in jelly with ostentatious relish, and piles of hot buttered toast and marmalade, and barricaded himself behind the
Vespasia, to Eustace’s eternal disapproval, had her own newspaper.
“There has been a murder in Bloomsbury,” she observed over the raspberries.
“What has that to do with us?” Eustace did not look up; the remark was intended as a criticism. Women should not have newspapers, let alone discuss them at breakfast.
“About as much as anything else that is in here,” Vespasia replied. “It is to do with people, and tragedy.”
“Nonsense!” old Mrs. March snapped. “Probably some person of the criminal classes who thoroughly deserved it. Eustace, would you be good enough to pass me the
Sybilla colored, a stiff, painful red. Her eyes were bright. She stared straight back at her grandmother-in-law with an expression which might have been any of a dozen things.
“We shall have to see whether it is a boy or a girl before we consider a school,” she said very clearly.
William stopped, his fork halfway to his mouth, incredulous. George drew in his breath in a little hiss of surprise. Eustace lowered his paper for the first time since he had sat down, and stared at her with amazement, then slow dawning jubilation.
“Sybilla! My dear girl! Do you mean that you are … er …?”
“Yes!” she said boldly. “I would not have told you so soon, but I am tired of Grandmother-in-law making such remarks.”
“You cannot blame me!” Mrs. March defended herself sharply. “You’ve been twelve years about it. It is not surprising I despaired of the March name continuing. Heaven knows, poor William has had his patience strained to breaking point waiting for you to give him an heir.”
William’s head came round to glare at his grandmother, his cheeks burning, his eyes hot blue.
“That is absolutely none of your affair!” he said abruptly. “And I find your remarks inexpressibly vulgar.” He pushed his chair back, rose, and walked from the room.
“Well, well.” Eustace folded his newspaper and poured himself another cup of coffee. “Congratulations, my dear.”
“Better late than never,” Mrs. March conceded. “Although I doubt you will have many more,
Sybilla still looked flushed, and now thoroughly uncomfortable. For the only time since her arrival, Emily felt sorry for her.
But the emotion was short-lived. The next few days passed in the customary fashion of Society during the Season. In the mornings they rode in the park, at which Emily had taught herself to be both graceful and skilled. But she had not the outrageous flair of Sybilla, and since George was a natural horseman it seemed almost inevitable that they should more often than not end up side by side, at some distance from the others.
William never came, preferring to work at his painting, which was his profession as well as his vocation. He was gifted to the degree that his works were admired by academicians and collected by connoisseurs. Only Eustace affected to find it displeasing that his only son preferred to retire alone to the studio arranged for him in the conservatory and make use of the morning light, rather than parade on horseback for the fashionable world to admire.
When they did not ride, they drove in the carriage, went shopping, paid calls upon their more intimate friends, or visited art galleries and exhibitions.
Luncheon was usually at about two o’clock, often at someone else’s house in a small party. In the afternoon they attended concerts or drove to Richmond or Hurlingham, or else made the necessary, more formal calls upon those ladies they knew only slightly, perching awkwardly around withdrawing rooms, backs stiff, and making idiotic chatter about people, gowns, and the weather. The men excused themselves from this last activity and retired to one or another of their clubs.
At four there was afternoon tea, sometimes at home, sometimes out at a garden party. Once there was a game of croquet, at which George partnered Sybilla and lost hopelessly amid peals of laughter and a sense of delight that infinitely outweighed Emily’s, who won. The taste of victory was ashes in her mouth. Not even Eustace, who partnered her, seemed to notice her. All eyes were on Sybilla, dressed in cherry pink, her cheeks flushed, her eyes radiant, and laughing so easily at her own ineptitude everyone wished to laugh with her.
Again Emily drove home in bitter silence before going leaden-footed up the stairs to change for dinner and the theater.
By Sunday she could bear it no longer. They had all been to church in the morning; Eustace insisted upon it. He was the patriarch of a godly family, and must be seen to be so. Dutifully, because they were guests in his house, they went-even Jack Radley, to whom it was far from a natural inclination. He would much rather have spent his summer Sundays in a good gallop in the park, with the sun sparkling through the trees and wind in his face, scattering birds, dogs, and onlookers alike-as indeed so would George, normally. But today George seemed positively happy to sit on the hard pew next to Emily, his eyes always wandering to Sybilla.
Luncheon was spent discussing the sermon, which had been earnest and tedious, dissecting it for “deeper meaning.” By the time they came to the fruit Eustace had pronounced that its real subject was the virtue of fortitude, and of bearing all affliction with a stiff upper lip. Only William was either sufficiently interested or sufficiently angry to bother to contradict him and assert that, on the contrary, it was about compassion.
“Nonsense!” Eustace said briskly. “You were always too soft, William. Always for taking the easy way out! Too many sisters, that’s your trouble. Should have been a girl yourself. Courage!” He banged the table with his fist. “That’s what it takes to be a man-and a Christian.”
The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. The afternoon was spent reading and writing letters.
The evening was even worse. They sat around striving to make conversation suitable to the Sabbath, until Sybilla was invited to play the piano, which she did rather well and with obvious enjoyment. Everyone except Emily was drawn in, singing ballads, and occasionally, more serious solos. Sybilla had a very rich voice, a little husky with a slight catch in it.
Upstairs at last, her throat sore with the effort of not crying, Emily dismissed her maid and began to undress herself. George came in and closed the door with an unnecessarily loud noise.
