Silence in Hanover Close: A Charlotte and Thomas Pitt Novel (Book Nine)

Charlotte seized the chance. She smiled shyly. “That is most kind of you, Mrs. York. I shall be sure to take your advice. A woman’s reputation can be so quickly ruined.”

“Quite,” Loretta agreed. “Pray do be seated, Miss Barnaby.”

Charlotte thanked her and sat carefully on a stiff-backed chair, arranging her skirt. For a moment she was reminded with unpleasant clarity of the time before her marriage when she had often been in situations something like this. She had been escorted by her mother to all the right functions, shown off to best advantage in the hope that some eligible man would be attracted and a suitable marriage arranged. Always she had ended by expressing too forceful an opinion upon something, or laughing inappropriately, or being altogether too willful and failing to charm—quite often on purpose. But then she had thought herself in love with her elder sister’s husband, and the idea of marrying anyone else had been unspeakable. How long ago, how girlish, that seemed now! Nevertheless she remembered the relentless good manners, the pursuit of fashion, and all directed towards finding a husband.

“Have you been in London before, Miss Barnaby?” the elder Mrs. York was inquiring, her cool gray eyes summing up Charlotte’s very handsome figure and noting the tiny needle holes where the bodice had been let out.

For once Charlotte did not mind. This was only a part she was playing. And she must remember to observe closely, so as to have something to report back to Emily.

“Oh yes, but not for some time, owing to my aunt’s illness. Happily she is quite recovered, and I am free to take up my own life again. But I do feel I have missed so much. I imagine a great deal has happened in Society since.”

“No doubt,” Mrs. York said with a tiny smile. “Although there is a certain sameness in events from year to year, and only the people’s names change.”

“Oh, I think the people are quite different also,” Veronica argued. “And certainly the theater is.”

Mrs. York shot her a glance that Charlotte noted with interest: critical, then instantly muted; there was no gentleness in it. “You know very little of the theater,” she pointed out. “You have scarcely been till this year.” She turned to Charlotte. “My daughter-in-law is a recent widow. Naturally she has remained in mourning until quite lately.”

Charlotte had already decided to pretend complete ignorance of the affair in Hanover Close and anything to do with it. She put on an instant expression of sympathy.

“I am so sorry. Please accept my deepest condolences. I should not have troubled you had I known.” She turned to Jack, who studiously avoided her eye.

“It has been three years,” Veronica said into the rather awkward silence. She looked not at her mother-in-law’s face but downward to the rich wine-colored brocade of her own skirt, then back at Charlotte. “We too are taking up our lives again.”

“You are.” Mrs. York’s tone made the distinction delicate, but perfectly plain. It was charged with emotion, but try as she might, Charlotte could not define it. Was she reminding the younger woman that her own loss of a son was irreplaceable, and somewhat deeper than the loss of a husband, since Veronica planned to remarry? There seemed more in her face than awareness of her daughter-in-law’s pain, or even envy, or anything so vulnerable as self-pity. Her small, strong hands were white in her lap, and her eyes were glittering and sharp. Had not such an idea been so out of place, even ridiculous, Charlotte might have thought it a warning of some sort. But that was groundless, and an inaccurate observation.

Veronica’s full lips curved upwards in a tiny smile. Clearly she understood the significance of the reply.

“Indeed, Mr. Radley, you may congratulate me,” she said, looking up at him. “I am to be married again.”

In that instant Charlotte made a mental note that Veronica York and Jack Radley had certainly had a friendship that was more than merely amicable, at least on her part.

Jack smiled as if it were a happy surprise to him. “I hope you will have every blessing and good fortune.”

“And so do I,” Charlotte added. “I hope sadness will be completely in the past for you.”

“You are something of a romantic, Miss Barnaby,” Mrs. York remarked with her eyebrows raised. She was almost smiling, but there was a coldness in her that was palpable, something hard deep inside that was unresolved. Perhaps it was an old wound, and nothing to do with this. One never knew what pain or disillusion lay in other people’s lives, what lost hopes. Charlotte must endeavor to meet the Honorable Piers York at some time; it might explain much that she could only guess at now.

She smiled as dazzlingly at Mrs. York as she could. “Oh, but of course. Even if the reality is not always as one would wish, I hope for the best.” Was that the right sort of naivete, or had she overdone it? She must not sit here for the brief half hour that was socially acceptable, and then leave again without having learned a thing. It would be some time before she could call again.

“So do I,” Veronica reassured her. “And it is most kind of you. Mr. Danver is an excellent man, and I am sure I shall be very happy.”

“Do you paint, Miss Barnaby?” Mrs. York asked, changing the subject abruptly, this time without looking at Veronica. “Perhaps Mr. Radley might take you to see the winter exhibition at the Royal Academy. I daresay it may interest you.”

“I don’t paint very well.” Let them take that as modesty, or the truth, as they chose. Actually, like all well-bred young ladies, she had been taught to paint, but her brush was never equal to her imagination. Since she had married Pitt and had two children, her only hobby had been meddling in his cases and detecting a great deal. She had a gift for it—even Pitt admitted so—but she could hardly own to that now!

“I had not supposed you to enter a work, Miss Barnaby, merely to observe,” Mrs. York replied with a small gesture of her hand, a wry dismissal of foolishness that stung Charlotte. But in her role as Miss Barnaby she was helpless to retaliate. “No skill would be required,” Mrs. York continued, “except to look elegant and speak modestly. I am sure you could do both of those with the greatest of ease.”

“You are very kind,” Charlotte said between her teeth.

Veronica leaned forward. She really was a beautiful woman, her face combining both fragility of bone with strength of mouth and eye. Her manner was as friendly as if they had known each other for some time. Charlotte found herself hoping Pitt would find her blameless enough to satisfy the people at the Foreign Office. The thought of their judgments lit a spark of anger inside her.