The subject had been changed, and she realized that without the most extraordinary ill manners she could not pursue the topic further. Even if she did, it would be profitless now; she would betray herself and ruin all future plans.
“Oh, I certainly hope to,” she said eagerly. “Is there anything you recommend? It would be lovely to go to the theater, wouldn’t it, Jack?”
And so the meal concluded and nothing more was said that seemed to have any bearing upon Robert York’s life or death, or the Danver family’s relationship with the Yorks.
The ladies left the table before the port was brought in, and returned to the withdrawing room. Charlotte had expected the conversation to be stilted, as she sensed what Harriet’s feelings for Felix were. Whether Sonia was aware of them or not, they could not possibly feel at ease with each other. As for Felix himself, Charlotte had not yet decided whether he knew of Harriet’s love, or whether he returned it, and if so, with what sincerity or honor. Aunt Adeline’s sharp tongue and dull hearing were unlikely to help matters.
Charlotte was ready to do her best to smooth the awkwardness with small talk, but she found her assessment mistaken. Apparently they had all known each other long enough to have found their own accommodation. Either by trial or by instinct, they knew what harmless comments to make on fashion, what gossip of mutual acquaintances to exchange, and which short stories in the
Charlotte did not have the time, or the money, to take the
Finally Aunt Adeline stood up.
“Miss Barnaby, you expressed an interest in art. Perhaps you would care to see one of the landscapes in the boudoir? It was my sister-in-law’s favorite room, and she was quite fond of travel. She hoped to visit so many places.”
“And did she?” Charlotte asked, rising also.
Adeline led the way. “No. She died young. She was twenty-six. Harriet was barely walking; Julian was seven or eight.”
Charlotte was touched with a sudden sharp sense of loss for the woman whose life had ended when she was on the brink of so much—a husband and children, one a mere baby. How would she feel, if she had to leave Daniel and Jemima, and Thomas, to manage alone?
“I’m so sorry,” she said aloud.
“It was a long time ago,” Aunt Adeline replied half over her shoulder as she crossed the hall, going down a wide passage and opening the door into a lady’s sitting room, known as a boudoir. It was decorated in cream and a muted tone the color of dry sand, with touches of cool liquid green, and one splash of pale coral provided by a single chair. It was most unusual, and rather out of character with the rest of the house. It led Charlotte to a sudden thought that perhaps the young Mrs. Danver had not felt at home here; perhaps she had made this room into an island for herself, contrasting it with the other rooms as strongly as she dared?
On the wall opposite the fireplace was a painting of the Bosphorus, looking down from the Topkapi Palace on the Golden Horn. Fleets of little boats plied the blue-green waters, and in the distance, blurred by the haze of heat and the dazzle of the sun, loomed the shore of Asia. A strong man might easily swim as far, as Leander had done for Hero. Had young Mrs. Danver thought of that when she chose it?
“You say nothing,” Aunt Adeline remarked.
Charlotte was very weary of triteness. She wanted to discard the convention-imprisoned Miss Barnaby and be herself, especially with this woman, whom she liked more and more.
“What could I possibly say that could meet the loveliness of this, or all the ideas and the dreams one might find in it?” she demanded. “I refuse to add any more platitudes to the evening.”
“Oh my dear child, you are doomed to disaster!” Adeline said candidly. “You will take wings like Icarus, and like Icarus, fall into the sea. Society does not permit women to fly, as you will doubtless discover. For heaven’s sake, do not marry suitably; it may well be like walking into cold water, inch by inch, until it covers your head.”
Charlotte had a tremendous impulse to tell Adeline she had already married, highly unsuitably, and was extremely happy. Remembering Emily, she held her tongue at the last moment.
“Shall I marry unsuitably, if I can?” she asked with only half a smile; it was wry, and she knew it, a little painful.
“I don’t suppose your parents will allow it,” Aunt Adeline demurred. “Mine wouldn’t.”
Charlotte drew breath to say again that she was sorry, then knew it would sound too condescending. Adeline was not the sort of person for whom one should feel ever the most glancing touch of that pity which has no fellow feeling. She did not believe that Adeline Danver had shrunk from any decision out of cowardice; but even if she had, passing judgment on it now was none of Charlotte’s right, nor desire.
Instead, she drew a little on truth, remembering what had actually happened to her. “My grandmother is the one who would make the worst fuss,” she said.
Adeline smiled bleakly, but her eyes held no self-pity. She sat sideways on the arm of one of the big sand- colored chairs. “My mother enjoyed poor health. She played it for every second of obedience and attention she could extract from it. But when I was young we all believed she might die from one of her ‘turns.’ Eventually it was Garrard who called her bluff, for which I shall always respect him. But then it was too late for me.” She took a deep breath. “Of course, had I been a beauty, I should have lived a life of glamorous sin. But having never been asked, I am obliged to pretend that I would not have accepted.” Her brown eyes were brilliant. “Have you noticed how one condemns most self-righteously that which one has never had the opportunity to do?”
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed with a candid smile. “Indeed I have. It casts a new meaning upon ‘making a virtue of necessity.’ It is one of the hypocrisies that irritates me the most.”
“You’ll see a great deal of it. You’d do well to hide your feelings and learn to hold conversation with yourself.”
