“I should ask her,” she said quickly. “I believe she is lying down upstairs. She is grieving very much for Sarah, you know.”
He stood up. “Yes, I know. I don’t think I realized how much she meant to me either.” He put his arm round her and kissed her gently, on the brow. She found herself suddenly clinging to him, crying for Sarah, for herself, for everybody, because it was all too much to bear.
In the late afternoon George Ashworth called to express his condolences. Naturally these were extended to the entire family, and therefore he was seen formally in the withdrawing room by Edward. It was necessary that afternoon tea should be offered, and equally necessary that it be refused. Afterwards Ashworth asked if he might speak with Emily.
She received him in the library, as somewhere where they might be sure not to risk interruption.
He closed the door behind him. “Emily, I’m so sorry. Perhaps I should not have come so soon, but I could not bear to let you think I was unaffected, that I was not concerned for your grief. I suppose it is foolish to ask if there is anything I can do?”
Emily was touched and surprised that he should have feelings deeper than those required by good manners. She had desired, indeed planned, to marry him for some time; indeed she quite genuinely liked him, but had not perceived in him such sensitivity. It was a pleasant revelation, and curiously robbed her of some of the control she had just recently managed to acquire.
“Thank you,” she said carefully. “It is kind of you to offer, but there really isn’t anything to be done; except endure it, until we can feel it is time to take up our lives again.”
“I suppose they still have no idea who?”
“I don’t think so. I’m beginning to wonder if they ever will. In fact I heard some silly servant the other day suggest that it was not a human being at all, but some creature of the supernatural, a vampire or a demon of some sort.” She made a little choking sound, which was intended as a laugh of scorn, but died away.
“You haven’t entertained the idea?” he asked awkwardly, “have you?”
“Of course not!” she said with disgust. “He is someone from Cater Street or nearby, someone who is afflicted with a terrible madness that drives him to kill. I don’t know whether he kills people for any reason, or just because they happen to be there when his madness strikes. But he’s perfectly human, of that I’m sure.”
“Why are you so sure, Emily?” He sat down on the side of one of the armchairs.
She looked at him curiously. This was the man she intended to marry, to spend the rest of her life dependent upon. He was uncommonly handsome and, far more importantly, he pleased her-the more today because of his unexpected concern for her.
“Because I don’t believe in monsters,” she said frankly. “Evil men, certainly, and madness, but not monsters. I daresay he would like us to believe he is such, for then we could cease to look for him among ourselves. Perhaps we would even cease to look for him at all.”
“What a practical creature you are, Emily,” he said with a smile. “Do you ever do anything foolish?”
“Not often,” she said frankly, then smiled also. “Would you prefer me to?”
“Great heavens, no! You are the ideal combination. You look feminine and fragile, you know when to speak and when to remain silent; and yet you behave with all the excellent sense of the best of men.”
“Thank you,” she said with a flush of genuine pleasure.
“In fact,” he looked down at the floor, then up at her again, “if I had any sense I should marry you.”
She took in her breath, held it for a second, then let it out.
“And have you?” she said very carefully.
His smile widened into a grin. “Not usually. But I think on this occasion I shall make an exception.”
“Are you making me a proposal, George?” She turned to look at him.
“Don’t you know?”
“I would like to be quite sure. It would be uncommonly silly to make an error in a matter of such importance.”
“Yes, I am?” He made it a question by the expression in his eyes. He looked vulnerable, as if it mattered to him.
She found herself liking him even more than she had thought.
“I should be most honoured,” she said honestly. “And I accept. You had better speak to Papa in a few weeks’ time, when it is more suitable.”
“Indeed I shall,” he stood up. “And I shall make perfectly sure he finds my offer acceptable. Now I had better take my leave, before I have outstayed propriety. Good afternoon, Emily, my dear.”
Chapter Thirteen
That evening Edward decided that he would no longer require Caroline to attempt to soothe Grandmama or to put up with her criticism and bad humour. He sent Maddock with a message to Susannah that as soon as possible Grandmama would be dispatched with her necessary clothes and toiletries, and that they did not look to see her return until such time as they should feel themselves recovered from their bereavement. It would be no pleasure for Susannah, but that was one of the burdens of family life, and she would have to make the best of it.
Grandmama complained with bitter self-pity and at least one dizzy spell, but no one paid her the least attention. Emily was in a world of her own. Edward and Caroline seemed at last to have come to terms with the whole subject of Mrs. Attwood. The previous evening they had talked for a long time, and Caroline had learned many things, not only about Edward, but about loneliness, about the feeling of being outside a close circle of dependence, and about herself. Now there was a new perception between them, and they seemed to have much to say to each other.
Dominic for once exercised none of his usual diplomacy, and Charlotte was even less than ordinarily inclined to mince her words. Accordingly, the following morning Caroline and Emily assisted Grandmama with her packing, and at ten o’clock accompanied her in the carriage to Susannah’s.
Charlotte was thus alone when the vicar and Martha Prebble came to formally convey their sympathy and deep shock at the loss of Sarah. Dora showed them in.
“My dear Miss Ellison,” the vicar began solemnly, “I can hardly find words to express our grief to you.”
Charlotte could not help hoping he would continue to fail to find them, but such was far from the case.
“What a monstrous evil walks among us,” he went on, taking her hand, “that could strike down a woman like your sister, in the prime of her life, and leave her husband and her family bereft. I assure you all the righteous men and women of the parish join me in extending all our deepest condolences to you, and your poor mother.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte withdrew her hand. “I am quite sure of the best wishes of you all, and I shall inform my parents and my sister, and of course my brother-in-law, of your kindness.”
“It is our duty,” the vicar replied, apparently unaware that his remark would rob the visit of any value in Charlotte’s eyes.
“Is there anything we can do?” Martha offered.
Charlotte turned to her in relief, but it was short-lived. Martha’s face was more haggard than she had ever seen it before. Her eyes were bedded in dark hollows, her hair hanging like string in loops over her ears.
“Your sympathy is the greatest help,” Charlotte said gently, moved to a profound pity for the woman. Surely to live with such a duty-suffocated creature as the vicar must be almost more than any human, caring woman could stand?
“When will it be convenient for me to consult with your father about the-er-arrangements?” the vicar went on without looking at Martha. “These things must be done, you know; a proper order preserved. We return to the dust from which we came, and our souls to the judgement of God.”
There was no answer to that, so Charlotte returned to the first question.
“I have no idea, but I would have thought it appropriate to speak with my brother-in-law, at least to begin with.” She was delighted to find some point of propriety on which to correct him. “If he feels unable to do so, then, of course, I’m sure Papa will deal with the matter.”
