to exasperation. “Where is Cassian? He is late. A certain amount of latitude may be allowed, but one must exercise discipline as well.” She reached out her hand and rang the little silver bell.
Almost immediately a footman appeared.
“Go and fetch Master Cassian, James. Tell him he is required at luncheon.”
“Yes ma'am.” And obediently he left.
Randolph grunted, but spoke no words, and addressed himself again to his food.
“I imagine the newspapers write well of General Carlyon.” Hester heard her own voice loud in the silence, sounding clumsy and terribly contrived. But how else was she to serve any purpose here? She could not hope any of them would say or do something in which she could find meaning, simply eating their luncheon. “He had a brilliant career,” she went on. “They are bound to have written of it.”
Randolph looked at her, his heavy face puckered.
“He did,” he agreed. “He was an outstanding man, an ornament to his generation and his family. Although what you can possibly know about it, Miss latterly, I fail to see. I daresay your remark is well meant, and intended as a kindness, and for your civility, I thank you.” He looked anything but grateful.
Hester felt as if she had trespassed by praising him, as though they felt he was their particular property and only they might speak of him.
“I have spent a considerable time in the army myself, Colonel Carlyon,” she said in defense.
“Army!” he snorted with quite open contempt. “Nonsense, young woman! You were a nurse, a skivvy to tend to the slops for the surgeons. Hardly the same thing!”
Her temper frayed raw, and she forgot Monk, Rathbone and Alexandra Carlyon.
“I don't know how you know anything about it,” she said, mimicking his tone savagely and precisely. “You were not there. Or you would be aware that army nursing has changed a great deal. I have watched battles and walked the field afterwards. I have helped surgeons in field hospitals, and I daresay I have known asrmany soldiers in the space of a few years as you have.”
His face was turning a rich plum color and his eyes were bulging.
“And I did not hear General Carlyon's name mentioned by anyone,” she added coldly. “But I now work nursing a Major Tiplady, and he knew of General Carlyon, because he had also served in India, and he spoke of him in some detail. I did not speak without some knowledge. Was I misinformed?”
Randolph was torn between the desire to be thoroughly rude to her and the need to defend his son, his family pride, and to be at least reasonably civil to a guest, even one he had not invited. Family pride won.
“Of course not,” he said grudgingly. “Thaddeus was exceptional. A man not only of military brilliance, but a man without a stain of dishonor on his name.”
Felicia kept her eyes on her plate, her jaw tight. Hester wondered what inner grief tore at her at the loss of her only son, grief she would keep hidden with that same rigid discipline which had no doubt sustained her all her life, through the loneliness of long separations, perhaps service abroad in unfamiliar places, harsh climate, fear of injury and disease; and now scandal and devastating loss. On the courage and duty of such women had the soldiers of the Empire leaned.
The door opened and a small boy with fair hair and a thin, pale face came into the room; his first glance was to Randolph, then to Felicia.
“I'm sorry, Grandmama,” he said very quietly.
“You are excused,” Felicia replied formally. “Do not make a habit of it, Cassian. It is impolite to be late to meals. Please take your place, and James will bring your luncheon.”
“Yes, Grandmama.” He skirted wide around his grandfather's chair, around Peverell without looking at him, then sat in the empty seat next to Damaris.
Hester resumed eating her meal, but discreetly she looked at him as he kept his eyes down on his plate and without relish began his main course. Since he was too late for soup he was not to be spoiled by being permitted to catch up. He was a handsome child, with honey fair hair and fair skin with a dusting of freckles lending tone to his pallor. His brow was broad, his nose short and already beginning to show an aquiline curve. His mouth was wide and generous, still soft with childhood, but there was a suikiness to it, an air of secrecy. Even when he looked up at Edith as she spoke to him, and to request the water or the condiments, there was something in his aspect that struck Hester as closed, more careful than she would have expected a child to be.
Then she remembered the appalling events of the last month, which must have scarred his senses with a pain too overwhelming to take in. In one evening his father was dead and his mother distraught and filled with her own terrors and griefs, and within a fortnight she was arrested and forcibly taken from him. Did he even know why yet? Had anyone told him the full extent of the tragedy? Or did he believe it was an accident, and his mother might yet be returned to him?
Looking at his careful, wary face it was impossible to know, but he did not look terrified and there were no glances of appeal at anyone, even though he was with his family, and presumably knew all of them moderately well.
Had anyone taken him in their arms and let him weep? Had anyone explained
Or had they not even thought about it at all? Were food and clothes, warmth and a room-of his own, considered to be all a boy his age required?
The conversation continued desultorily and Hester learned nothing from it. They spoke of trivialities of one sort or another, acquaintances Hester did not know, society in general, government, the current events and public opinion of the scandals and tragedies of the day.
The last course had been cleared away and Felicia was taking a mint from the silver tray when Damaris at last re.-turned to the original subject.
“I passed a newsboy this morning, shouting about Alex,” she said unhappily. “He was saying some awful things. Why are people so-so vicious? They don't even know yet if she did anything or not!”
“Shouldn't have been listening,” Randolph muttered grimly. “Your mother's told you that before.”
“I didn't know you were going out.” Felicia looked across the table at her irritably. “Where did you go?”
“To the dressmakers',” Damaris replied with a flicker of annoyance. “I have to have another black dress. I'msureyou wouldn't wish me to mourn in purple.”
“Purple is half mourning.”- Felicia's large, deep-set eyes rested on her daughter with disfavor. “Your brother is only just buried. You will maintain black as long as it is decent to do so. I know the funeral is over, but if I find you outside the house in lavender or purple before Michaelmas, I shall be most displeased.”
The thought of black all summer was plain in Damaris's face, but she said nothing.
“Anyway, you did not need to go out,” Felicia went on. “You should have sent for the dressmaker to come to you.” A host of thoughts was plain in Damaris's face, most especially the desire to escape the house and its environs.
“What did they say?” Edith asked curiously, referring to the newspapers again.
“They seemed to have judged already that she was guilty,” Damaris replied. “But it isn't that, it was the-the vicious-ness of it.”
“What do you expect?” Felicia frowned. “She has confessed to the world that she has done something quite beyond understanding. It defies the order of everyone's lives, like madness. Of course people wilLbe… angry. I think
She signaled peremptorily for the footman to remove the plate. “Heaven knows, 'Alexandra had nothing untoward to have to endure, but if she had then she should have done so, like thousands of other women before her, and no doubt after. No relationships are without their difficulties and sacrifices.”
It was something of an exaggeration, and Hester looked around at their faces to see if anyone was going to reason with her. But Edith kept her eyes on her plate; Randolph nodded as if he agreed totally; and Damaris glanced up, her eyes on Hester, but she said nothing either. Cassian looked very grave, but no one seemed to
