have been disastrous for me to have married.”
Charlotte drew in her breath to ask if the choice Vespasia had made in the end had been so much better. Then she realized how appallingly intrusive that would be. From the little she knew of Vespasia’s life, her marriage had been tolerable, but not a great deal more than that. The great love she had known had been elsewhere, brief and ending in all but memory when she returned from Italy to England. What Vespasia had felt Charlotte did not know and did not wish to. There are many things that should remain private.
Charlotte watched a bumblebee meander lazily through the blossoms.
“I thought I would die when Dominic Corde married my elder sister, Sarah,” she said candidly, turning the conversation back to her own feelings. “I cherished an impossible infatuation with him for years. I don’t think he ever knew, thank heaven.”
“Perhaps Angeles Castelbranco likes someone rather better than she liked her fiancé, and finds it difficult to reconcile herself to keeping her promise,” Vespasia said, smiling a little in the sun and watching the same bee as it settled in the heart of a scarlet poppy. “Life can tend to lurch from one wild emotion to another at that age. Of course, with a lot of laughter, excitement, and soaring hopes in between. I don’t think I could bear all that anguish again.”
Charlotte looked at her quickly. Vespasia was still beautiful, but-in spite of her poise, her wit, and all her accomplishments-perhaps she was also still vulnerable. Certainly she was very much alone. Charlotte had never thought of it before, but it struck her now with the force of a blow. Had Vespasia ever known the safety of heart that Charlotte took so much for granted?
She changed the subject quickly, before her face betrayed her thoughts.
“Perhaps we are being too fanciful about Angeles,” she remarked. “I expect there is no grand passion for someone else and no betrayal by her fiancé with another woman. I am more bored with Society than I had remembered, and I can see that the devil has made more work for idle minds than he ever does for idle hands. Sometimes I wish Thomas were back in the regular police instead of in Special Branch, where all his cases are secret. I can’t help anymore because he can’t even tell me what they are about.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Vespasia warned gently. “It may not be so pleasant if you are granted it.”
Charlotte glanced at her and, seeing the gravity in her eyes, changed her mind about responding. Instead she said, “By the way, I was listening to a piece of gossip just now, and they mentioned Pelham Forsbrook possibly marrying again. They hinted at some tragedy regarding his first wife. I had no idea what they were referring to.”
Vespasia’s face filled with a sudden sadness. “Eleanor,” she said quickly. “I knew her only slightly, but she was charming and funny and very kind. I’m afraid she was killed in a traffic accident. Something startled the horse and it bolted. One of the wheels was caught and the whole carriage was overturned. Poor Eleanor was crushed. I think she died instantly, but it was an appalling thing to happen.”
Charlotte was taken aback. “I’m sorry. Was it long ago?”
“About four years. I don’t think Pelham has ever considered marrying again but, of course, I could be mistaken. I never knew him well.” She smiled, dismissing the subject. “I should like you to meet Lady Buell. She is ninety if she’s a day, and has been everywhere and met everyone. You will find her most entertaining.”
An hour later Charlotte was looking for somewhere to set down her empty cup. She went into the big marquee, which had been erected for the unlikely event of rain, or for those who wished more adequate shelter from the sun than even the most excellent parasol could offer.
She placed her cup down and was moving toward the entrance again when she saw Angeles Castelbranco four or five yards away, on the other side of a table set with samovars for tea, which partially concealed her from view.
Angeles was holding her cup and saucer and was also facing the door when a young man came in. He was tall and fair-haired, and when he smiled at Angeles he was good-looking enough to be considered handsome.
“Good afternoon,” he said warmly. “Geoffrey Andersley. May I pour more tea for you, Miss …?” He hesitated, waiting for Angeles to introduce herself.
She took a step backward, holding on to her cup and saucer.
He reached for it and his fingers brushed her hand.
She dropped the cup instantly and it fell to the grass.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, as if it had been his fault. He bent to pick it up, moving closer to her to reach it.
Angeles jerked backward as though he had in some way threatened her.
He looked embarrassed as he rose to his feet again and straightened up.
“I say, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She shook her head, her face flushed with color, her breathing heavy, as if she had been running. She began to speak and then stopped.
“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously. “Would you like to sit down?” He held out a hand as if to steady her.
She flinched and backed farther away, knocking against a table set with glasses and clean cups and saucers. They clattered against one another and half a dozen tall champagne flutes fell over.
Angeles swung around, distressed by her own clumsiness. Now her face was scarlet.
“I’m perfectly all right, Mr…. Mr. Andersley. If you will allow me to pass, I would like to go outside and get a little air.”
“Of course,” he agreed, but he did not move.
“Let me pass!” she repeated, her voice rising, wobbling a little, out of control.
He took a small step closer to her, his face creased with concern. “Are you sure you are all right?”
Charlotte decided to intervene, even though it was possibly tactless and certainly none of her concern.
“Excuse me.” She came out from behind the samovars and moved toward Angeles.
Angeles saw her and her face filled with relief.
“Perhaps you don’t remember me, Miss Castelbranco,” Charlotte said smoothly. “We met the other evening. I am Mrs. Pitt. I should so like you to meet my great-aunt, Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. Would you care to come with me?”
“Oh, yes!” Angeles said immediately. “Yes. I would be delighted.” She stepped closer to Charlotte.
Charlotte looked at Andersley and smiled. “Thank you for your courtesy. I hope you have a pleasant afternoon.”
“Mrs. Pitt.” He bowed and stepped back to allow them both to pass, giving them room for their wide skirts. Even so, Angeles was obliged to pass within a yard of him. Her face was pale as she did so, and she moved hastily and without looking at him.
Outside in the sun Charlotte kept up the pretense while they walked side by side the hundred yards or so to where Vespasia had just left another conversation. She was standing in the sun, her face lifted a little to its light, looking more like the Italians with whom she had stood at the barracks in ’48 than the English aristocrat she was now. Charlotte wondered what memories were in her mind or her heart.
Charlotte and Angeles approached Vespasia. They went through with the charade, the polite smiles, the affected interest, the trivial exchange of words, until convention was satisfied. Then Angeles excused herself and Vespasia looked at Charlotte.
“I think perhaps you had better explain,” she invited.
Charlotte told her briefly what she had observed, adding no comment, watching Vespasia’s face for her reaction.
“Oh dear.” Vespasia’s eyes were sad, her face in an expression of profound gravity.
Charlotte waited, fear beginning to grow inside her. She had been clinging to a hope that she was being unnecessarily alarmed, and now it was melting away.
“What is it you think?” she said at last.
Still Vespasia hesitated. “I think that Angeles Castelbranco has had a terrible experience,” she said at last.
It was exactly what Charlotte had thought also, though she had hoped she was being melodramatic. “How
