So she wrote and rewrote guest lists, and asked questions in roundabout ways. Two days after lunching with Victor Narraway, she had found what she believed was the event at which Angeles had been raped. Obtaining details was more difficult. She pondered for some time whom she could ask to give her an account of the evening, who was willing and observant enough. More than that, what reason could she offer for making such a request?
And who would be discreet enough afterward to keep their own counsel and not mention it to anyone at all? How could she even suggest to whoever it was that the matter must remain confidential? To most people, the very secrecy of it would be a spur to gossip. Each retelling would grow and mutate in the exercise.
She studied more closely the list of those who had been present at that event. There seemed to have been a considerable number of young people. It was in observing how many that the answer came to her.
It was far easier making such inquiries face-to-face than on a telephone. Accordingly she arranged to have luncheon with Lady Tattersall; the following day they sat pleasantly chatting over a dessert apple flan, and far more cream than was good for either of them. Vespasia introduced the name of a fictitious sociable friend.
“She heard the party was a great success, and knew she would have to make hers equally delightful,” Vespasia said, broaching the subject at last. “She does not know anyone who was there whom she might approach, so I promised her I would ask you.”
“Of course,” Lady Tattersall said agreeably. “What would she like to know?”
Vespasia smiled. “I think a simple account of how it went would be excellent, perhaps with a little detail, particularly as to how the younger guests responded to the evening. That would serve very well, and be most kind of you.”
Lady Tattersall was delighted to recount everything she could remember. Vespasia had been careful enough to make her fictitious friend live quite out of the way, in Northumberland, so the absence of word of such a party ever taking place would not be noticed. She learned a great deal: a vivid firsthand account of a large but outwardly successful event. The only person less than happy had been Angeles Castelbranco, but her distress had been put down to her youth, and her foreign blood.
Vespasia left, certain in her own mind that Neville Forsbrook had raped Angeles at Mrs. Westerly’s party, exactly as she and Charlotte had feared. Now the question was what to do with that knowledge, besides informing Thomas Pitt.
In the late morning of the day after her luncheon with Lady Tattersall, Vespasia was taken very much by surprise when her maid announced that Mr. Rawdon Quixwood had called and asked if he might take a few moments of her time. He had a matter of some importance he wished to discuss with her.
She gave the maid permission to ask him in. A moment later he was standing in her quiet sitting room with its view onto the garden. It was in full summer bloom, hot colors of roses and, in the background, the cool blue spires of delphinium.
Quixwood was a stark contrast to the gaudy profusion beyond the windows. He was smartly dressed, but in black, relieved only by the white of his shirt. His thick hair was combed and his shave immaculate, yet his face was that of a man haunted by grief. His skin was pale and the lines around his mouth furrowed deep.
Vespasia struggled to think of anything to say that would not be banal.
“Good morning, Mr. Quixwood,” she began. “May I offer you tea, or-if you would prefer it-something more?”
“That is kind of you, Lady Vespasia, but I shall return to my club for luncheon. I am presently living there. I … I cannot yet face returning to my home.”
“I can imagine not,” she agreed quickly. “I would not find it hard to understand if you never did. I am sure there are other properties that would be equally agreeable, and convenient for you.”
He smiled very slightly. “You are quite right. Forgive me for intruding on you without warning. If the matter were not of some urgency and moral importance, I would not do so.”
She indicated the chair opposite her and, as he sat down, she resumed her own seat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Quixwood?” she invited.
He looked down, smiling very slightly in a wry expression of amusement and pain.
“I have heard from a friend of mine that you have been making certain inquiries about Pelham Forsbrook’s son, Neville, after the tragic night where young Angeles Castelbranco met her death.” He winced. “It is … it is a painful reminder of my own wife’s death.” His voice was husky and he clearly found mastery of his emotions almost impossible.
Vespasia tried to think of something to ease his awkwardness, but she had no idea what he meant to say, so nothing appropriate came to mind.
He looked up at her. “I don’t know how to say this graciously.” He bit his lip. “I know that young Neville behaved in a manner that can be described only as crass when he teased the poor girl. If he were my son, I hope I would have raised him to be more sensitive, more aware of the feelings of others, no matter how much wine he might have taken. His behavior was disgusting. There can be no argument on that. I imagine he will regret his cruelty for the rest of his life.”
His eyes searched her face. “But I know that he did not assault her, seriously or even trivially, at Mrs. Westerley’s party. I was there myself, when young Angeles appeared looking a trifle disheveled, and her face tearstained. I assumed at the time that she had had some youthful quarrel, perhaps even an unexpected rejection. I’m afraid I thought no more of it than that, and possibly I was horribly wrong.” Now his face was filled with distress. “Since I … since …” He faltered to a stop.
Vespasia was overwhelmed with pity for him. He must feel doubly guilty, for not being able to protect his wife, and now for having failed to see Angeles’s terrible distress, masked by her own need to hide it, and his assumption that youthful tears came and went easily.
She leaned forward a fraction. “Mr. Quixwood,” she said very gently, “no sane person would have assumed otherwise in the circumstances. Of course girls her age both laugh and cry over things they barely remember the day after. There was nothing you could, or should, have done.” She hesitated, and then continued, “It is natural when there has been a tragedy that we relive the time before, wondering how we could have averted it. In most cases there was nothing at all to be done, but we torture ourselves anyway. We want to have helped. Above all we want to do over the past with greater wisdom, more kindness; but as the pain settles, we know we cannot. Only the future can be changed.” She wanted to comfort him regarding Catherine as well, but there was no comfort to give.
His smile was now rueful. “I am beginning to realize that, Lady Vespasia, but slowly, and I am some distance from acceptance. What I came to say, which matters, and why I took the liberty of disturbing you, was that whatever happened to Angeles Castelbranco, I know it was not Neville Forsbrook who caused it. I was with him when she left the company and went to look at the paintings in the gallery. It was not Neville she went with, although I admit I don’t know who it was.”
Vespasia drew in her breath to ask him if he was certain, then realized it would be pointless and a trifle insulting. Of course he was certain. He had come out of his grief and his cocoon of protection to say so.
“Thank you, Mr. Quixwood,” she said gravely. “It would be monstrous to blame the wrong person, even for a day. Whispers are not easily silenced. You have told me this before I had the chance to speak to anyone, and perhaps have saved me from a profound error. I am grateful to you.”
He rose to his feet, moving with stiffness, as if he hurt inwardly.
“Thank you for seeing me, Lady Vespasia. Thank you for your wisdom. In time it will be of comfort.” He bowed, just a gesture of the head, and went to the door.
She sat for several minutes afterward without moving, thinking, in the silent, sunlit room, how desperately fragile the illusion of safety could be.
CHAPTER 7
Pitt found it extremely difficult to forget the tragedy of Angeles Castelbranco’s death. Every time he heard the clink of glass or the sound of someone’s laughter, it took him back to that terrible party. In his mind he saw the
