Tellman smiled bleakly. “Nor do I want to get the wrong man,” he added grudgingly. “Though God knows who the right one is.”
Emily’s concentration was torn in two directions. It was of primary importance that she give every possible help to Jack, even if all their efforts were almost certainly in vain. But she was also deeply concerned for Pitt. She had heard the remarks of various people with connections in government and political circles, and she knew the climate of fear and blame that prevailed. No one had any ideas to offer, and certainly no assistance, but the incessant public clamor had made them frightened for their own positions, and consequently quick to blame others.
Now that the by-election date had been announced there were speeches and articles to be delivered, and now and then a public appearance of a more social nature at a ball or a concert. Some of these were very formal, such as receptions for foreign ambassadors or visiting dignitaries, some of a more casual kind, such as the soiree this evening. Since Mina Winthrop was obviously in mourning, she could not be invited, similarly Dulcie Arledge, but Emily had done the next best thing by asking Victor Garrick to play the cello as part of the entertainment for her guests, and then naturally as he was there, Thora Garrick was invited as well. Emily was not sure what that might accomplish, but one did not require to see an end in order for it to be achieved.
The guests were almost all included for political purposes, people of influence of one sort or another, and the whole event would be hard work. There would be no time for the pleasant indulgence of gossip. Every word must be watched and weighed. Emily stood at the top of the stairs and gazed across the sea of heads, the men’s smooth, the women’s all manner of elaborate coiffeur, many of them bristling with feathers, tiaras and jeweled pins. She tried to compose her mind. There were at least as many enemies here as friends—not only Jack’s enemies, but Pitt’s as well. Many of them would be members of the Inner Circle, some peripheral, as Micah Drummond had been, hardly even knowing what it really meant. Others would be high in its rungs of power, able to call on debts and loyalties of staggering proportions, even of career or future if need be, and able to pronounce terrible punishments if disobedience or treachery were suspected. But no outsider knew which was which; it could be any innocent, smiling face, any courteous gentleman passing polite inanities, any harmless-seeming man with white hair and benign smile.
Involuntarily she shivered, not only with fear but with anger.
She saw the fair hair of Victor Garrick shining under the chandeliers and began her way down to greet him.
“Good evening, Mr. Garrick,” she said as she reached the bottom and approached him, standing with his cello held very carefully. It was a beautiful instrument, warm polished wood the color of sherry in sunlight, and richly shaped. Its curves made her want to reach out and touch it, but she knew it would be an intrusion. He held the instrument almost as if it were a woman he loved. “I am so grateful to you for consenting to come,” she went on. “After hearing you play at Captain Winthrop’s memorial service I could not think of anyone else.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Radley.” He smiled, meeting her eyes with unusual frankness. He seemed to search beneath the easy surface to know if she meant what she said, if she had any understanding of music and its meaning, its textures and values, or if she were simply being polite. He was apparently satisfied. A slow smile curved his lips. “I love to play.”
She sought for something further to say; the situation seemed to invite it.
“It is a very beautiful instrument you have. Is it very old?”
His face darkened immediately and a look of acute pain filled his eyes. “Yes. It’s not a Guanerius, of course; but it is Italian, and about the same period.”
She was confused. “Is that not good?”
“It’s exquisite,” he said in a soft, fierce whisper. “It’s priceless; money is nothing, meaningless beside this sort of beauty. Money is just so much paper—this is passion, eloquence, love, grief, everything of meaning. This is the voice of man’s soul.”
She was about to ask him if someone had insulted him by giving it a monetary value when her eye caught a blemish on the perfect smoothness of the wood, a bruise. She felt a sudden distress herself. The instrument had so many of the qualities of a living thing, and yet not the great gift of healing itself. That mark would remain forever.
She lifted her eyes and met his and saw them full of a blistering rage. There was no need to say anything. For that moment she shared with him all the helplessness and the loathing of the artist face to face with the vandal, the senseless damaging of irretrievable loveliness.
“Does it affect the sound?” she asked, almost certain in her heart that it did not.
He shook his head.
They were joined by Thora, looking extremely handsome with cascades of ivory lace from her shoulder to elbow, and swathed across a deep decolletage. The skirt was smooth and boasted only the smallest bustle. Altogether it was highly fashionable and most becoming. She looked at Victor with a slight frown.
“You are not distressing Mrs. Radley with that miserable accident, are you, dear? Really it is best forgotten. We cannot undo it, you know.”
He stared at her with an unwavering gaze.
“Of course I know, Mama. When a blow is struck, it can never be undone.” He turned to Emily. “Can it, Mrs. Radley? The flesh is bruised, and the soul.”
Thora opened her mouth to say something, and then changed her mind. She looked at the cello, and then at her son.
Victor seemed to be waiting for a reply.
“No,” Emily said hastily. “Of course it can never be undone.”
“Do you think we should pretend it didn’t happen?” Victor asked, still looking at Emily. “When friends inquire, we should smile bravely and say everything is well—even tell ourselves it does not really hurt, it will all mend soon, and doubtless it was an accident and no one intended any harm.” His voice had been growing harsher and there was a note of something like an inner panic in it.
“I am not sure I agree,” Emily replied, weighing her answer for something between honesty and tact. “An inordinate fuss helps no one, but I do think that whoever damaged your cello, accident or not, owes you a considerable debt and I can see no reason at all why you should pretend otherwise.”
