“Of course,” Veronica agreed and the words were such a relief Charlotte could feel the blood rush back into her face and she felt like laughing. They would put her down as a hysteric! For goodness sake, she must get out of the room and upstairs.
“I’ll call Amelia,” Veronica said quickly, going to the bell. “If you are quite sure?”
“Oh yes!” Charlotte said too loudly. “Quite!”
Five minutes later Charlotte was upstairs in Emily’s small, cold attic bedroom. She looked at Emily, and pulling a face, she slipped out of the gray and white dress. Emily presented her with the glowing dress of almost violent cerise.
“Oh Lord!” Charlotte closed her eyes.
“Come on,” Emily urged. “Get into it. You’ve already made up your mind; don’t waver now.”
Charlotte stepped into it and pulled it up. “Cerise must be a remarkable woman to look ravishing in this! Fasten me up. Come on, I’ve only ten minutes to get to the conservatory. Where’s the wig?”
Emily finished the fastening and passed her the black wig. It took them several minutes to get it right and to apply the rouge Charlotte had brought. Emily stood back and looked at her critically.
“You know that’s not bad,” she said with considerable surprise. “In fact, you look quite dashing, in a garish sort of way.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said sarcastically, but her hands were shaking and her voice was not quite level.
Emily was watching her closely. She did not ask if Charlotte still wanted to go on with it.
“Right,” Charlotte said more firmly. “See if the passage is clear. I’d hate to meet the parlormaid on the stairs.”
Emily opened the door and looked out, took half a dozen steps—Charlotte could hear her feet on the boards— then came back again. “Come on! Quick. You can get down these stairs, and if there’s anyone coming we’ll duck into Veronica’s room.”
They scuttled along the corridor, down the stairs, and onto the main landing; then Emily stopped sharply and held up her finger in warning. Charlotte froze.
“Amelia?” It was a man’s voice. “Amelia? I thought you were looking after Miss Barnaby?”
Emily started down again. “Yes I am. I’ve come to get her a tisane.”
“ ’Aven’t you got any upstairs?”
“Not peppermint. Would you get me some? I’ll stay here in case she calls—I don’t think she’s well at all. Please, Albert.”
Standing above her, at the head of the stairs, Charlotte could hear the smile in her voice and picture the soft look. She was not in the least surprised when Albert agreed without a murmur, and the next moment Emily was back at the bannister again, whispering fiercely to her to hurry.
Charlotte came down so rapidly she almost fell on the last step. She catapulted across the open hallway and through the conservatory door into the blessed dimness of the sparse, yellow night-lights. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, she felt as if her whole body must be shaking, and no effort could fill her lungs with enough air.
She stood under the ornamental palm at the far end of the pathway, so she could see the door to the hall. If anyone came she could step forward and the light would catch primarily her shoulder and skirt, showing that burning color; her face would remain in the shadow of the overhanging frond.
But would anyone come? Perhaps Cerise never made assignations by letter. Or maybe her writing or the words she used were utterly different from what Charlotte had written, and the recipients would recognize that instantly. She had given Julian Danver the earliest time. If he were going to come he should be here any moment. In fact, he was late. How long had she been here?
She could hear the faintest sound of footsteps somewhere in the house—probably Albert in the hall. They were not coming this way. Closer to her there was a steady dripping of moisture from one leaf to another, and finally onto the damp earth beneath. The smell of vegetation was overpowering.
She tried to occupy her mind and failed utterly. Every train of thought dissolved into chaos, driven out by the tension that was tightening like the slow turning of a ratchet. Her hands were sticky and felt like pins and needles. Was she going to stand here in the dark under a potted palm half the night?
The whisper startled her so violently it could have been at her shoulder—she did not even know what the words had been.
He was standing just inside the doorway, eyes wide, the yellow light making his cheeks look unnaturally haggard and chiseling his nose more finely.
Charlotte stepped forward just enough to present a clear silhouette against the green, and for the light to catch the searing pink dress.
He was surprised when he saw the color, the smoothness of her bare shoulder and the slender curve of her neck, the black wig. For an instant the pain in him was totally naked. It was too late to call it back—Garrard Danver had loved Cerise. The storm of it had left the wrack in his face. In spite of himself, he came towards her.
She had no idea what to do—conspiracy, infatuation she had been half prepared for, but not such pain.
Unconsciously she backed towards the palm, and the light above her fell on her bosom.
Garrard stopped. His eyes were hollow, he was like a caricature, ugly and beautiful; even in his despair there was self-knowledge, a shaft of irony.
Then she understood. Of course: everyone had said Cerise was thin, nearly flat-chested, and Charlotte was rather well endowed. Even with a tight dress and unflattering camisole she still could not pass for the elegant leanness Cerise was said to have.
