“Here, allow me to help.” Bart dropped his stick and hat on the settee and came forward, grasping the wet towel and holding it onto the burn while Charlotte wound dry cloth around it. His hands were sunburned brown, slender and strong, but he touched his sister’s arm as if it were fragile enough to break at the merest pressure.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pitt,” he said finally when it had been secured. “I think perhaps in view of the unpleasantness of the incident, Mrs. Winthrop should lie down for a while. She is not strong …”
“This is nothing,” Mina began, then stopped again, her face filled with fear. She glanced at Bart, then at Charlotte. “I have not even given Mrs. Pitt any tea,” she said helplessly, grasping at the trifling problem of etiquette when so obviously something of overwhelming magnitude filled her mind. “It was the tea I spilled.”
“I will give Mrs. Pitt tea, my dear,” Bart answered, staring at her with a penetrating gaze. “You go and lie down for a while. You will be far better able to keep that bandage upon your arm if you rest it on a pillow. If you insist upon sitting up for afternoon tea in the withdrawing room you are bound to loosen it.”
“I—I suppose you are right,” she agreed reluctantly, but still she did not leave. She looked at Bart, and then at Charlotte, anxiety deep in her face.
“Should you call a doctor?” Charlotte asked.
“No—no.” Bart shook his head with complete decision. “I am sure that will not be necessary. You appear to have done extremely well.” He flashed a smile, beautiful and sudden as April sun. “Now if Mina will lie down for a while, I shall be most happy to give you tea, Mrs. Pitt. Please come into the withdrawing room.”
There was no civil alternative but to do as she was invited, while Mina, equally obediently, went upstairs.
Charlotte followed Bart into the withdrawing room and sat down where he indicated. Apparently Gwynneth had already gathered that she was supposed to bring tea, or else possibly she always did so at that time of day, but it was only a few moments before she appeared again, very carefully balancing a tray in front of her, and put it down on the table, bobbed a curtsy and withdrew with more haste than grace.
When the formalities of pouring and passing had been completed, Bart leaned back and regarded Charlotte with careful, intelligent eyes.
“It is an unusual kindness to call upon someone who is in mourning, Mrs. Pitt,” he remarked.
She had been waiting for him to say something of the sort.
“I have been in mourning myself, Mr. Mitchell,” she replied quite lightly. “And found it very hard to bear, even though I had my mother and my sister in the house at the time. I wished profoundly to have a little conversation that was not in hushed tones and had nothing whatever to do with the dead.” She sipped her tea. “Of course I could not know if Mrs. Winthrop would feel the same, but it seemed very natural to give her the opportunity, should she wish to take it”
“You surprise me,” he said candidly. His expression was casual and charming, but his eyes did not leave her face. “Mina was devoted to Oakley. I think some people do not realize quite what courage it requires to maintain such a calm exterior to the world.”
How much was he lying? She had no doubt now that he had seen at least some of those bruises. How many more were there? Did he guess, or know?
“We each of us have our own way of dealing with grief.” She smiled back at him, her easy words belying the tension she felt. “For some of us, to resume normality is helpful. Mrs. Winthrop showed me the beautiful breakfast room, which I found quite delightful. I think it is one of the loveliest I have ever seen.”
His face tightened.
“Oh yes. Mina has a considerable gift with color and grace.” He was watching her very closely, weighing her reaction, judging why she had raised the subject in the first place.
“I am sure Captain Winthrop would have seen how charming it was once he had become accustomed to it,” she continued, watching him as frankly. Between them, unspoken but now almost palpable, lay the awful bruises, and Mina’s humiliation and embarrassment. What had she told him? And immeasurably more important, when? Before Winthrop’s death—or after?
He started to speak, and then changed his mind.
“I am in the process of moving house myself,” Charlotte said to fill the silence. “It is one of the most exhausting things I have ever done. The detail that requires to be attended to seems never ending.”
“Surely your builder is of assistance?” he asked, still watching her. The conversation was meaningless and they both knew it, but they had to speak of something. What thoughts were racing through his head?
She smiled. “Of course. But he leaves the matters of domestic decoration to me. Just at the moment I am torn between choosing one color because I think I care for it, and another because it may prove more practical.”
“A dilemma,” he agreed. “What is your decision?”
There was another silence between them. Ridiculous as it was, it seemed as if his question meant more than a trivial matter of color, as if he were also asking what she intended to do about the bruises—to carry the tale back, or to dismiss it.
She thought for several moments before replying. Then she met his remarkable eyes with total candor.
“I expect I shall consult my husband,” she answered at length.
His face was bare of all expression.
“I suppose I should have expected that,” he said levelly.
She was caught in a confusion of emotions, anger against Oakley Winthrop because it seemed he had been a bully, and if Gracie were correct, even a sadist; pity for Mina because she had first endured it, and now must walk in terror in case Bart had killed him, and were discovered; a fear both for Bart, and as he sat opposite her, even a twinge of fear for herself.
The silence was becoming oppressive.
“Since it is his home also, it would be only civil,” she said hollowly.
