13
VESPASIA STOOD in the morning room staring out of the window at the yellow roses in full bloom at the far side of the lawn. The moment had come when she could no longer avoid facing the question which hurt her the most profoundly. She was afraid of what the answer would be, but she had always believed courage to be the cornerstone of all virtues. Without it integrity perished; even love could not survive, because love was risk, and somewhere, at some time or place, it would always hurt.
She had loved Mario for half a century. It had brought her the deepest, most complete joy and the greatest pain she had known—but never disillusion. She tried to tell herself it would not do so now.
She was still there when the maid came to say that Mrs. Pitt had called to see her.
For once Vespasia would have preferred to not be interrupted. It was an excuse to put the issue from her mind, but she did not wish for one. It changed nothing. But she would not refuse Charlotte.
“Invite her to come in,” she replied, turning away from the roses. It must be something urgent to bring Charlotte at such an early hour. It was barely past breakfast.
As soon as she saw Charlotte’s face she knew her assumption was correct. The younger woman was pale except for two bright splashes of color on her cheeks, as if she were feverish, and she came into the room in a hurry and closed the door behind her. She rushed straight into speech with barely a gesture to her usual courtesy.
“Good morning. I apologize for calling at such an hour, but yesterday Juno Fetters and I discovered Martin’s papers, the ones he hid. He was planning a revolution in England, a violent one to overthrow not only the throne but the whole government as well … the Parliament, everything, and set a senate and a president in its place. He expected violence. There are figures quoted for the deaths they foresaw, and the outline of a new constitution, full of reforms.”
“Indeed,” Vespasia said softly. “It does not surprise me that such papers should exist. I had not realized Martin Fetters would be involved if he knew of the violence. I had believed him a reformer, not a revolutionary. The consent of the people is at the heart and soul of all honest government. I am sorry to hear it.” And she was. It was a bitter knowledge, the loss of one more man she had admired.
Charlotte was standing close to her, her eyes dark with hurt.
“So am I,” she said with a sad little smile. “I only know him by his writings, but I liked him so much. And it was devastating for Juno. The man she had loved did not really exist.” She searched Vespasia’s face, her eyes troubled, frightened.
“Sit down.” Vespasia indicated one of the chairs and took another herself. “I assume you wish to do something about this.”
“I have already done it.” Charlotte’s voice caught in her throat. “Juno could see straightaway that this information showed why John Adinett killed him and why he could not say so to anyone, even to save himself. After all, whom could he trust?”
Vespasia waited, the idea uneasy in her mind.
“So she decided she must, in honor, make it known,” Charlotte concluded.
“To whom?” Vespasia asked, fear opening sharp and bright like a knife inside her.
It was reflected in Charlotte’s face also.
“To Charles Voisey,” she answered. “We went yesterday evening. She told him most of what was in the papers, but not all.”
“I see …”
“No!” Charlotte was white now, her eyes wide. “No, you couldn’t … because just before we left he spoke of it, to persuade Juno to destroy the book rather than cause public alarm by making the conspiracy known, when we cannot name the people involved. And that makes sense,” she hurried on. “But in the heat of his argument, he mentioned things we did not tell him! Aunt Vespasia, he is Inner Circle—I think he may even be the head of it. As you know, they wouldn’t trust anyone lesser with so much of the information.” She shook her head a little. “They don’t. They are all in little groups so they cannot be betrayed, each one knowing only what he has to.”
“Yes …” Vespasia’s mind was racing. What Charlotte had said made a terrible sense. Charles Voisey was just the man to emerge as head of state for a new, revolutionary England. He had served as a judge of appeal for many years, been seen to uphold justice, reverse wrong decisions, stand apart from personal or party gains. He had a wide circle of friends and colleagues and yet had stood apart from political controversy so he was not associated in the public mind with any vested interest.
Thinking of all she knew of him, what Charlotte had said was totally believable. Many other things made sense, pieces of conversation she had overheard, things Pitt had told her, even her meeting with Randolph Churchill.
Other things came to mind also, and the tiny, bright sliver of doubt that she had been clinging to vanished at last.
“Aunt Vespasia …” Charlotte said quietly, leaning forward in her chair.
“Yes,” Vespasia repeated. “Most of what you say is true. But it seems to me that you have one fact mistakenly interpreted, and if you are able to tell Mrs. Fetters, it will comfort her greatly. But her safety is of the utmost importance, and if she has that book then I fear they will not let her be.”
“She hasn’t,” Charlotte said quickly. “She burnt it, right there in Voisey’s fire. But what have I got wrong? What have I misunderstood?”
Vespasia sighed, frowning a little. “If Adinett was suddenly made aware of the book, and of Martin Fetters’s part in a conspiracy to cause revolution, and this occurred that day in the library, why did he not take the book with him?” she asked.
“He didn’t know where it was, and he had no time to search,” Charlotte replied. “It was extremely well concealed. Martin bound it to look exactly like …” Her eyes widened. “Oh … yes, of course. If he saw it then he knew where it was. Why didn’t he take it?”
