may find that you are with child, which will have consequences for the rest of your life, because the child is a person, and one you have brought into the world. You will love him, or her, but the child will also remind you of what happened.”
Jemima stared at her, blinking slowly, tears on her cheeks.
“And as you have already heard, people will tend to blame you,” Charlotte continued. “They will say that somehow it was your own fault. You were dressed in such a way that he thought you were willing, or that you invited him and only said ‘no’ at the last moment. Or he may even say you were perfectly happy at the time, but that you are now claiming it is his fault now so that you are not to blame for losing your virginity, and therefore your reputation.”
“I think I might kill myself too,” Jemima said slowly.
“There will be no need,” Charlotte told her steadily. “It will not happen to you. You will not see young men alone until you are a very great deal older, by which time you will also be wiser and more able to make your own wishes known, unmistakably. No one ever treated me that way, nor will they treat you less than as the woman you choose to be.”
Jemima nodded. “And Papa will catch the man who did that to Mrs. Quixwood, won’t he?”
“Mrs. Quixwood is not his case, but he will help how he can. I fear, though, that it will not be easy, and it may take some time.”
Jemima smiled. “We’re lucky, aren’t we, to have Papa to look after us?”
“Yes, we are. But you will still not see young men alone, no matter who they are.”
“But …” Jemima began.
Charlotte raised her eyebrows slightly.
“But with others? If Fanny Welsh is there too, it’s all right?” Jemima insisted.
“I will take it under advisement, and let you know,” Charlotte replied.
CHAPTER 12
Narraway hated prisons, but it had quite often been necessary in the past for him to visit people awaiting trial, and sometimes even afterward when they were convicted. However, seeing Alban Hythe was more personal, and therefore painful in a quite different way.
Hythe looked ill. He was clearly exhausted and he seemed undecided as to whether he should even try to appear calm. He greeted Narraway courteously, but with fear jumping in his eyes.
Narraway tried to dismiss the overwhelming pity from his mind. He needed clarity of thought if he was to be of any help. They sat opposite each other across a scarred wooden table. Narraway had to use considerable influence to gain access and be left alone with Hythe, while the barrel-chested jailer remaining outside the door.
“I haven’t seen that brooch, and I never received love letters from Catherine!” Hythe said urgently. His voice shook a little. “We were friends. That’s all! Never more than that. Maris is the only woman I’ve loved.”
“Did they show you the letter?” Narraway asked him.
“Yes, but I swear it’s the first time I ever saw it!” Hythe was barely in control. His hands twitched and there was a wild desperation in his eyes.
“Do you believe she wrote it?” Narraway pressed. “They say it is undoubtedly her handwriting, but is it also the kind of language she would’ve used?”
“I’ve no idea! The letter is all about love, and we didn’t speak of love. We only-” He stopped abruptly.
“What?” Narraway asked. “What did you talk about? This is not the time to be modest or circumspect. You’re fighting for your life.”
“I know!” Hythe shivered uncontrollably.
Narraway leaned forward. “Then tell me, what did you talk about? If it wasn’t you who did this, then who else could it have been?”
“Don’t you think I’ve racked my brain to remember anything she said that could help me?” Hythe was close to panic.
Narraway realized he had made a tactical error in frightening Hythe by bringing up the stakes so soon. He moderated his voice. “Have you any idea how often you met? Once a week? Twice a week? Her diaries suggest at least that.”
Hythe looked down at the scarred tabletop. His voice when he spoke was quiet. “The first time we met by chance, at a dinner party. I forget where. It was a business matter, and rather tedious. Then a little while later I was at an art gallery, filling time before meeting a client for luncheon. I saw Catherine and recognized her. It seemed quite natural that we should speak.”
“What did you discuss?” Narraway asked.
Hythe smiled for the first time, as if a pleasant memory had given him a few moments’ respite from reality. “Pre-Raphaelite paintings,” he answered. “She wondered what the models were thinking about, sitting still for so long while the artist drew them in such fanciful surroundings. We thought about where they had actually been- some studio or just an ordinary room-and if they even knew the legends and dreams into which they were painted.
“Catherine was very funny. She could make one laugh so easily. Her imagination was … quite unlike that of anyone else I have ever known. She always had the right words to make one see the absurdity of things, but she was never mocking. She liked eccentricity and wasn’t afraid of anything.” His expression became sad. “Except loneliness.”
“And Quixwood never noticed that, clearly,” Narraway observed.
“A clever man, but with a pedestrian soul,” Hythe answered without hesitation. “Her soul had wings, and she hated being made to spend her time with her feet in the dust.” He bent his head suddenly. “I’m sorry; my judgment is unwarranted and cruel. She was just so alive; I hate whoever did this to her. They have spoiled something that was lovely and destroyed a friend I cared about. She was … she was good.” He seemed to want to add more. It was in that moment that Narraway knew Hythe was lying, in essence if not in word.
“Just a friend?” he asked skeptically.
“Yes!” Hythe jerked his head up. “Just a friend. We talked; we looked at pictures painted from great imaginations, at pages from books written on papyrus from the very first poets and dreamers in the world. We saw carvings of grace made by artists who died before Christ was born. She escaped from her loneliness, and I from my world of facts and figures, interest on loans, duty on imported treasures, and prices of land.”
His voice trembled.
“Haven’t you ever had friends, Lord Narraway? People you like enormously, who enrich your world, and without whom you would be poorer in a dozen ways-but you are not in love with them?”
Narraway instantly thought of Vespasia.
“Yes, I have,” he said honestly, feeling the warmth himself, for a moment.
“Then you can understand.” Hythe looked relieved. The ghost of a smile returned to his pale face.
Narraway felt a sudden stab of surprise, a question in his mind. What exactly did he feel for Vespasia? She was older than he by several years. He had been elevated to the House of Lords because of his skills, and possibly as a sop to his pride for being dismissed from his position as head of Special Branch. She had been born into the aristocracy. They had become friends by circumstance. He had begun a little in awe of her, and he was quite aware that she had never been in awe of him-nor perhaps of anyone else either.
But she could be hurt. He had realized that only recently. Her feelings were far deeper than he had imagined, and she was not invulnerable. Was she also, occasionally, as lonely as Catherine Quixwood had been?
He forced it out of his thoughts. He was concerned with Alban Hythe, and whether the younger man was guilty or not, and what it was he still lied about, even though the shadow of the noose hung over him.
“Did you ever write to her?” Narraway asked a little abruptly.
“No,” Hythe said urgently. “We met by chance, or …”
“Or what?” Narraway demanded. “For God’s sake, man, they’ve charged you with rape, and the victim died.
