quite shattered. They are very close. They have always been so fond of each other.”
Charlotte tried to imagine what it would be like to love someone so dearly and have to watch him day after day, mutilated beyond reparation, awake and sane, and be unable to help. But imagination stopped short of any sort of reality. She could remember Sarah’s death, of course, but that had been quick— violent and horrible, to be sure— but thank God, there had been no lingering, no stretching out of pain day after day.
“What can we possibly do?” she asked helplessly. “Just to call and say we are sorry seems so wretchedly trivial.”
“There isn’t anything else,” Caroline answered quietly. “Don’t try to think of everything today. Perhaps in the future there may be something—at least companionship.”
Charlotte received that in silence. The sunlight streaming across the carpet, picking out the garlands of flowers, seemed remote, more like a memory than anything present. The bowl of pink tulips on the table looked stiff, like an ornamental design, hieratic and foreign.
The maid opened the door. “Lady Ashworth, ma’am.” The maid bobbed a curtsy, and immediately behind her Emily came in, looking pale and less than her usually immaculate self.
“Mama, what a fearful thing! How ever did it happen?” She caught hold of Charlotte’s arm. “How did you hear? Thomas is not here, is he? I mean it’s nothing—”
“No, of course not!” Charlotte said quickly. “Mama sent the carriage for me.”
Caroline shook her head in confusion. “It was an accident. They were out driving. It was fine, and they had had a picnic somewhere and returned late, by a longer and more pleasant way. It’s all perfectly ridiculous!” For the first time there was anger in her voice as the futility of it struck her. “It need never have happened! A skittish horse, I suppose, or some wild animal cutting across a country road, frightening them. Or maybe it was an overhanging branch from some tree.”
“Well, that’s what one keeps woodsmen for!” Emily said in an explosion of impatience. “To see that there are no overhanging branches across carriageways.” Then equally quickly her anger vanished. “What can we do to help? I don’t really see what there is, except one’s sympathy. And little use that will be!”
“It is still better than nothing.” Caroline moved toward the door. “At least Eloise will not feel that we are indifferent, and then if there comes a time when she wishes something, even if it is only company, she will know that we are ready.”
Emily sighed. “I suppose so. It seems like offering a bucket to bail out the sea!”
“Sometimes merely to know you are not alone is some comfort,” Charlotte said, as much to herself as to them. Out in the hallway Maddock was waiting.
“Shall you be returning for afternoon tea, ma’am?” he inquired, holding Caroline’s coat for her.
“Oh yes.” Caroline nodded and allowed him to put it around her shoulders. “We are merely going to call upon Miss Lagarde. We will hardly be long.”
“Indeed,” Maddock said gravely. “A most terrible tragedy. Sometimes these young men drive most rashly. I have always believed that racing was a highly dangerous and foolish exercise. Most conveyances are not designed for it.”
“Were they racing?” Charlotte asked quickly, turning to face him.
Maddock’s features were without expression. He was a servant and knew his place, but he had also been with the Ellisons since Charlotte was a young girl. Little she did could surprise him.
“That is what they are suggesting, Miss Charlotte,” he replied impassively. “Although it would seem a somewhat foolish occupation along a country road, and almost bound to cause injury to someone, even if only the horses. But I have no idea if it is true or merely backstairs speculation. One cannot prevent servants from exercising their imaginations about such a disaster. No amount of chastisement will silence them.”
“No, of course not,” Caroline said. “I wouldn’t waste time trying—as long as it is not quite irresponsible.” She raised her eyebrows a little. “And they are not neglecting their duties!”
Maddock looked faintly hurt. “Naturally, ma’am, I have never permitted that in my house.”
“No, of course not.” Caroline was mildly apologetic for having thoughtlessly insulted his integrity.
Emily was standing at the door, and the footman opened it for her. The carriage outside was already waiting.
The distance to the Lagardes’ was only a few hundred yards, but the day was wet and the footpath running with water, and this was the most formal of calls. Charlotte climbed in and sat in silence. What on earth could she say to Eloise? How could a person reach from her own happiness and safety across such a gulf?
None of them spoke before the carriage stopped again and the footman handed them down. Then he remained standing at the horses’ heads, waiting in the street as a mute sign to other callers that they were there.
A parlormaid, minus her usual white cap, opened the door and said in a tight little voice that she would inquire whether Miss Lagarde would receive them. It was some five minutes before she returned and conducted them into the morning room at the back of the house, overlooking the rainswept garden. Eloise rose from the sofa to greet them.
It was excruciating to look at her. The translucent skin was as white as tissue paper, with the same lifeless look. Her eyes were sunken and enormous, seeming to stretch till the bruises beneath were part of them. Her hair was immaculate, but had obviously been dressed by the maid, as had she; her clothes were delicate and neat, but she wore them as if they were artificial, winding-sheets on a body for which the spirit no longer had any use. She seemed even thinner, her laced-in waist more fragile. The shawl Charlotte had previously seen her wear was gone, as if she no longer cared if she was cold or not.
“Mrs. Ellison.” Her voice was completely flat. “How kind of you to call.” She might have been reading a foreign language, without any comprehension of its meaning. “Lady Ashworth, Mrs. Pitt. Please do sit down.”
Uncomfortably they obeyed. Charlotte felt her hands chill, and yet her face hot with a sense of embarrassment at having intruded into something too exquisitely painful even for the rituals of pride and the need for privacy to cover. She was overwhelmed by anguish like this; it filled the room.
