Charlotte was stunned into silence. Even Caroline fumbled for words and found none. Only Emily’s unrelenting social discipline carried her through.
“No expression of our sympathy could possibly meet such distress as you must feel,” she said quietly. “But do be assured we grieve for you, and in time if there is anything we may do to be of comfort, we would be only too willing.”
“Thank you,” Eloise replied without expression. “That is generous of you.” It was as if she were hardly aware of them, only of the need to reply or at least to acknowledge each time someone spoke. Her sentences were formal, things she had prepared herself to say.
Charlotte searched her mind for anything at all that did not sound idiotic.
“Perhaps presently you would care for a little company,” she suggested. “Or if you have somewhere to go, perhaps you would prefer not to go alone?” It was a suggestion for Emily or Caroline rather than herself, since she had neither frequent opportunity to visit Rutland Place nor a carriage available.
Eloise’s eyes met hers for a moment, then slid away into something frighteningly like complete vacancy, as if all the world she knew was inside her head.
“Thank you. Yes, I expect that may be. Although I fear I shall hardly be pleasant company.”
“My dear, that is not at all true,” Caroline said. She lifted her hands as if to reach forward, but there was some barrier around Eloise, an almost tangible remoteness, and she let them fall again without touching her. “I have never known you anything but sympathetic,” she finished helplessly.
“Sympathetic!” Eloise repeated the word, and for the first time there was emotion in her voice, but it was hard, stained with irony. “Do you think so?”
Caroline could do nothing but nod.
Silence closed in on them again, stretching as long as they would suffer it to exist.
Again Charlotte racked her mind to think of something to say, just for the sake of sound. But it would be offensive, almost prurient, to inquire how Tormod was faring, or what the doctor might have said. And yet to speak of anything else was unthinkable.
The moments ticked on. The room seemed to grow enormous and the rain outside far away; even the sound of it was removed. The nightmare horses galloped through all their minds, the wheels crashed.
Eventually, when Charlotte was just about to say something, however absurd, to break the pressure, the maid returned to announce Amaryllis Denbigh. Much as Charlotte disliked Amaryllis, she felt a rush of gratitude merely to be relieved of the burden.
Amaryllis came a few steps behind the maid. She stood in the doorway and stared from one to the other of them aghast, although surely she must have seen the carriage outside.
Her eyes fastened on Charlotte accusingly. She was white-faced, and her usually lush hair was awry and the pink salve on her lips smudged.
“Mrs. Pitt! I had not expected to find you here!”
There was no civil reply to this, so Charlotte attributed it to natural distress and ignored it altogether.
“I am sure you have called in sympathy, as we have,” she said levelly. She waited a second or two for Eloise to say something; then, as she did not, Charlotte added, “Please do sit down. This sofa is most comfortable.”
“How can you talk of comfort at such a time?” Amaryllis demanded in a sudden gust of fury. “Tormod will get better, of course! But he is in agony.” She shut her eyes and hot tears ran down her cheeks. “Absolute agony! And you sit there as if you were at a soiree and talk about comfort!”
Charlotte felt anger and pain well up inside her, because Amaryllis spoke out of her own passion, without thought for the pain she must be causing Eloise.
“Then stand, if you prefer to,” she said tartly. “If you imagine it will be of some conceivable service, I’m sure no one will mind.”
Amaryllis seized a chair and sat down, her silk skirts everywhere.
“At least if he will get better, then that is hope,” Emily said, trying to ease the electric harshness a little.
Amaryllis swung round, opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Eloise was sitting perfectly motionless, her face blank, her hands lifeless in her lap.
“He will not,” she said without a shadow of expression, as if she had faced death itself and grown accustomed to it and accepted it without hope. “He will never stand again.”
“That’s not true!” Amaryllis’ voice rose almost to a shriek. “How dare you say anything so dreadful? That is a lie! A lie! He will stand, and in time he will walk. He will! I know it.” She stood up, went over to Eloise, and stopped in front of her, shaking with emotion, but Eloise neither looked up nor flinched.
“You are dreaming,” Eloise said very quietly. “One day you will know the truth. However long it takes, it is always there, and it will come to you.”
“You’re wrong! You’re wrong!” The color flamed up Amaryllis’ face. “I don’t know why you’re saying all this. You have your own reasons—God in heaven knows what they are!” There was accusation in her voice, shrill and ugly—frightened. “He will get better. I refuse to give in, to surrender!”
Eloise looked at her as if she were transparent or of no importance, as if she were unreal, as inconsequential as a magic-lantern slide.
“If that is what you wish to believe,” she said quietly, “then do so. It really makes no difference to anyone, except I would ask you not to keep repeating it, especially if the time should come when Tormod is well enough to receive you.”
Amaryllis’ body became rigid, her arms like wood, her bosom high.
“You want him to lie there!” she cried, almost gulping the words. “You evil woman! You want to keep him a
