Caroline had picked up her linen again. Emily was doing nothing, and Grandmama was staring at Charlotte with disgust.
What were they thinking?
Grandmama was blaming everyone for the decline in morals. Caroline was concentrating on her sewing. Emily also would be thinking of something practical. Sarah had defended Chloe; and Charlotte had wept for her.
How well did he know any of them?
Dominic continued to go out to his club, and to other places to dine and generally enjoy himself. On several occasions he saw George Ashworth, and found him easy and pleasing company.
He fully expected Sarah to forget the silly affair with Emily and the accusation she had made against Charlotte and himself, but apparently she had not. She said nothing further, but the coolness remained. The distance between them grew greater, if anything.
It was an icy evening in November, fog swirling in the streets and swathing the gas lamps in wreaths of mist. It was clammy and bitterly cold, and he was glad when his cab turned the corner from Cater Street into his own road and a few moments later stopped and set him down. He paid, and heard the horse’s hooves clopping away on the stones, muffled by sound-deadening fog within minutes. He was marooned on a small island of one gas lamp; everything else was impenetrable darkness. The next lamp seemed very far away.
It had been an excellent evening, warm in both wine and companionship. Standing alone in the fog, however, he could think of nothing but women alone in the street, footsteps behind them, perhaps even a face or a voice they knew. Then they would feel a cutting pain in the throat, and darkness, bursting lungs, and death-a limp body to be found on the wet stones in the morning by some passer-by, then examined by the police.
He shivered as the cold cut into his bones and his spirit. He hurried up the steps and knocked sharply on the door. It seemed like an age passed before Maddock opened it and he was able to push beyond him into the warmth and the light. He was even pleased when it was closed behind him, shutting out the street with its fog and darkness and God knew what unspeakable creatures.
“Miss Sarah has retired, sir,” Maddock said from behind him. “But not long since. Mr. Ellison is in his study, reading and smoking, but the withdrawing room is empty, if you wish me to bring you something? Would you prefer a hot drink, sir, or brandy?”
“Nothing, thank you, Maddock. I think I’ll go to bed myself. It’s infernally cold outside, and the fog is coming down pretty thick.”
“Most unpleasant, sir. Would you care for me to draw you a hot bath?”
“No, that’s all right, thank you. I’ll just go to bed. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Upstairs everything was silent; only a small night-light burned on the landing. He went into his dressing room and took off his clothes. Ten minutes later he opened the door to the bedroom. “There’s no need to creep,” she said coldly.
“I thought you might be asleep.”
“You mean you hoped I might be!”
He did not understand. “Why should I care one way or the other? I merely did not wish to disturb you if you were.”
“Where have you been?”
“At my club.” It was not precisely the truth, but near enough. There was no lie in it that mattered.
She raised her eyebrows in sarcasm. “All evening?”
She had never questioned him before. He was too surprised to be annoyed. “No: I went on to a few other clubs. Why?”
“Alone?”
“Well, I certainly wasn’t with Charlotte, if that’s what you had in mind,” he snapped.
“I can’t imagine Charlotte being seen in that sort of place, even to be with you.” She was staring at him icily.
“What on earth’s the matter with you?” His confusion was growing. “I was out with George Ashworth. I thought you approved of him!”
She looked away. “I went to see Mrs. Lessing today.”
“Oh,” he sat down on the dressing stool. He was not in the least interested in whom she had visited, but obviously she was leading up to something.
“I did not realize until today how well you knew Verity,” she went on. “I knew you were well acquainted with Chloe, but Verity was a surprise to me.”
“What does it matter? I only spoke with her a few times. I think she liked me. But the poor child’s dead. For heaven’s sake, Sarah, you can’t be jealous of a dead girl. Think where she is now!”
“I hadn’t forgotten where she is, Dominic, nor that Chloe is there also.”
“And Lily, and Bessie. Or are you jealous of the maids as well?” He was getting really angry. He had not looked at Charlotte, except as a sister, and it was bad enough that Sarah should have accused him of involvement with her- but
Sarah was sitting upright in the bed.
“Who’s Bessie? The Hiltons’ maid? I didn’t even know her name. How did you know it?”
“I don’t know! What the hell does it matter? She’s dead!”
“I know that, Dominic. They’re all dead.”
He looked at her. She was staring at him with wide eyes, as if he were a stranger and she had seen him for the first time, as if he had come out of the fog with a wire in his hands.
Now why did he think of something horrible like that? Because it was in her face. She was afraid of him. She was all knotted up, sitting there on the bed with her shoulders hunched. He could see the strain across her neck, in the muscles of her throat.
“Sarah!”
Her face was frozen, stiff, and unable to speak.
“Sarah! For God’s sake!” He moved towards her, sitting on the bed, leaning forward to put his hands on her bare arms. Her flesh was rigid underneath his fingers. “You can’t think-Sarah! You know me! You can’t think I could have. . ” he trailed off, his voice dying. There was no response in her.
He let go. Suddenly he did not want to touch her. He was cold inside, as if he had received a wound and could see the horror of it. But shock kept the wound numb. The pain would come later, perhaps tomorrow.
He stood up.
“I’ll sleep in the dressing room. Good night, Sarah. Lock the door if it’ll make you feel safer.”
He heard her speak his name, quietly, hoarsely, but he shut the door behind him without turning. He wanted to be alone, to absorb it, and to sleep.
Chapter Ten
Of course, Charlotte knew nothing about Dominic’s feelings, or what had passed between him and Sarah on his return from the club. But the following day she could not help but be aware that there was a deep strain between them, deeper than anything accountable for by Sarah’s standing suspicion about Dominic and herself.
The whole matter was swept violently from her mind in the afternoon, however, when she was alone in the house, copying out a folder of recipes for Mrs. Lessing. She had just turned to the window to look at the clouds massing; everyone else was out visiting and Charlotte was thinking that they would get wet-when there was a timid, urgent rapping at the door.
“Come in,” she said absently. It was too early for tea. It must be some problem with the preparations for dinner.
It was Millie, the new maid, and she looked terrified. Charlotte’s immediate thought was that she had been outside on some errand, perhaps only as far as the areaway, and had either been molested herself, or seen something or someone that had put the hangman into her mind.
“Come in, Millie,” Charlotte said again. “You had better sit down. You look dreadful. What is it?”
