as an old lady, she had forgotten that as a young woman she could be so different—and yet after a second look, so much the same.
The other pictures were of a girl of perhaps twenty, very pretty, but heavier boned, thicker of jaw and shorter nosed. The resemblance was there, and something of the charm, but not the mettle, not the fire of imagination. It must be Olivia, Vespasia’s daughter, who had married Eustace March, and died after bearing him so many children. Charlotte had never known her, but she remembered Eustace vividly, with both anger and pity.
The third picture was of an elderly aristocratic man with a high-boned, gentle face and eyes that looked into a far distance, beyond the camera into some world of his own vision. There was sufficient resemblance to Vespasia for Charlotte to guess from the faintness, the fashion of the dress and the style of the photograph that it was Vespasia’s father.
It was interesting that she should choose to keep in her favorite room a memory of her father, not her husband.
Charlotte was looking at the books in the carved bookcase when she heard a murmuring in the hall and footsteps across the parquet flooring. Quickly she turned around and moved towards the window, so that when the door opened and Vespasia came in, she was facing her, smiling.
Vespasia looked full of energy, as if she were about to go somewhere she anticipated with excitement, not as if she had just returned. Her skin glowed from the brisk wind, her back was straight and her shoulders squared, and she was dressed in the softest grape blue, a gentle color neither navy nor purple, nor yet silver. It was subtle, expensive and extremely flattering. There was almost no bustle, in the most up-to-the-moment fashion, and the cut was exquisite. No doubt she had left a sweeping brimmed hat in the hall.
“Good morning, Aunt Vespasia,” Charlotte said with surprise and a very definite pleasure. She had never seen Vespasia in such health since before the death of Emily’s first husband, Vespasia’s nephew and the only reason they could count her as a relative. Today she seemed to have shed the years that grief had added to her and to be the vigorous woman she had been before. “You look most excellently well.”
“There is considerable justice in that,” Vespasia replied, but her satisfaction was obvious. “I
“No—no, of course not. I came to see you, and I have nothing else to do immediately. Mama is at home, and will care for everything that may arise.”
“Oh dear.” Vespasia sat down gracefully, arranging her skirt with a flick of her hand. “Is she still enamored of the actor?”
Charlotte smiled ruefully and sat down opposite her. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”
Vespasia’s arched eyebrows rose. “Afraid? Does it matter so much? She is free to do as she pleases, is she not? If she has a little romance—why not?”
Charlotte drew in a deep breath, her mind full of all sorts of excellent reasons why not. But as she came to enumerate them, despite the intensity of her emotions about it, spoken aloud, they seemed silly and of no worth.
Vespasia’s lips curled in amusement. “Just so,” she agreed. “But you are concerned that this unfortunate man may be suspected of having some involvement with the death of Kingsley Blaine?”
“Yes—at least, no. Thomas seems to think there is nothing more to learn in that, and Stafford was simply trying to find enough evidence to persuade Tamar Macaulay to let the matter drop at last.”
“But you don’t?” Vespasia asked.
Charlotte raised her shoulders fractionally. “I don’t know. I suppose it could have been the widow, but—I find it hard to accept. I was with her, holding her hand, when he died. I really cannot believe she clung onto me like that, watching him, and she had poisoned him herself. Apart from that, it would be so stupid—and so unnecessary!”
“The Farriers’ Lane murder again,” Vespasia said thoughtfully. “I did speak to Judge Quade about it. I have been remiss in not letting you know what I learned.” Extraordinarily there was a faint touch of pinkness in her cheeks, and Charlotte noticed it with surprise. She had never seen Vespasia self-conscious before. She waited for an explanation, but none was offered. Instead Vespasia launched into recounting what her enquiry had elicited, very casually, and yet with a precise care for each word.
“Judge Quade found the case most distressing, not only for the facts of the murder, but because the public emotion ran so high, and was so extremely ugly, that the whole matter was conducted in a fever and a haste in which it was not easy to ensure that the law was administered honorably, let alone that justice was done.”
“Does he think it was not?” Charlotte asked quickly, both hope and fear rising inside her.
Vespasia’s gray eyes were perfectly steady. “He thinks that justice was done,” she replied gravely. “But not well done.”
“You mean Aaron Godman was guilty?”
“I am afraid so. It was the atmosphere which troubled Thelonius, the fact that even Barton James, the counsel for the defense, seemed to believe his client guilty, and his handling of the trial was adequate, but no more. The whole city had worked itself into such a pitch of hatred that there was violence in the streets towards Jews who had nothing to do with it, simply because they were Jews. It would have been impossible to find an impartial jury.”
“Then how could the trial be fair?” Charlotte protested.
“I daresay it could not.”
“Then why did he allow it to proceed? Why did he not do something?”
For once there was no spark of humor or indulgence in Vespasia’s eyes. She was quick to defend.
“What would you suggest he do?”
“I—I’m not sure.” Then Charlotte realized the change in her tone, the subtle difference in her eyes. She could not bear to quarrel with her, and she remembered that Thelonius Quade was an old friend. Inadvertently she had questioned the honor of a man for whom Vespasia had regard. Perhaps it was a high regard? “I’m sorry,” she said
