“Doubts?” Hallam stared into the bottom of his empty glass and turned it upside down. A single drop fell out onto the floor. “I wish I had doubts. A doubt would at least include room for a hope, wouldn’t it?”
Seven
The Soiree was a success; the poet spoke brilliantly. He knew exactly how much to titillate with excitement, to hint at daring and change, to provoke thoughts of the wildest criticism of others, and yet at the same time never to insist on the truly unpleasant disturbance of conscience in oneself. He provided the thrill of intellectual danger without any of its pain.
He was received rapturously, and it was obvious he would be talked about for weeks to come. Even next summer the affair would be recalled as one of the more interesting events of the Season.
But after it was all over and the last guests had taken their leave, Emily was too tired to savor her victory. It had been more of a strain than she expected. Her legs were tired from so much standing, and her back ached. When she finally sat down, she found she was shaking a little, and it no longer seemed to matter a great deal that she had given a party that was a resounding success. The realities had not changed. Fanny Nash was still violated and murdered, Fulbert was still missing, and none of the answers were any kinder or easier to bear. She was too weary to delude herself any longer that it was some stranger with no claim on their lives. It was someone in the Walk. They all had their trivial or sordid little secrets, the ugly sides of life that most people could continue to hide forever. Of course, they were guessed at; no one but a fool thought the surface smile was all there was to anyone. But for other people, where there was no crime, no investigation, they could be allowed to fester silently in the dark places where they had lain hidden, and no one willfully uncovered them. There was a mutual conspiracy, to overlook.
But with the police, especially someone like Thomas Pitt, whether the real crime was discovered or not, all the other grubby little sins would be turned over sooner or later. It was not that he would wish to, but she knew from the past, from Cater Street and Callander Square, that people have a habit of betraying themselves, often in their very anxiety to conceal. It is so easily done, only a word or a panicky, thoughtless action. Thomas was clever; he sowed seeds and allowed them to grow. His subtle, humorous eyes saw so very much-too much.
She lay in her chair, stretching her back, feeling the stiffness in it. Could the child within her make so much difference already? There was a dragging, an awkwardness. Perhaps Aunt Vespasia was right and she would have to loosen her stays. That would make her look thick. She was not tall enough to carry the extra weight gracefully. Funny, Charlotte had looked all right when she was carrying Jemima. But then Charlotte had not had fashionable clothes anyway.
Across the room George was sitting fiddling with the newspaper. He had congratulated her on the party, but now he was avoiding looking at her. He was not reading it; she knew that from the angle of his head, the curiously fixed stare he held. When he was really reading, he moved, his expression altered, and every so often he would rattle the sheets as if he were having a conversation with them. This time he was using the paper as a shield, to avoid the necessity of speaking. He could at once be both absent and present.
Why? There was nothing she wanted so much as to talk, even if it was about nothing, simply to feel that he wished to be with her. He could not possibly know that the solution would be all right, that it would not go on hurting, and yet she wanted him to say so, to tell her all the comforting words. Then she could repeat them all to herself over and over, till they drove out reason and doubt.
He was her husband. It was his child that made her feel so tired and lumpy and strangely excited. How could he sit there a few feet away and be totally unaware that she wanted him to speak, to say something foolish and optimistic to silence all the clamor inside her.
“George!”
He affected not to have heard.
“George!” Her voice was growing higher and there was a thread of hysteria in it.
He looked up. At first his brown eyes were innocent, as if his thoughts were still on the paper. Then slowly they clouded, and understanding could not be denied. He knew she was demanding something.
“Yes?”
Now she did not know what to say. Reassurance you have to ask for is no reassurance at all. It would have been better if she had said nothing. Her brain told her that, but her tongue would not keep still.
“They haven’t found Fulbert yet.” It was not what she was thinking, but it was something to say. She could not ask him why he was afraid, what it was that Pitt might find out. Would it destroy her marriage? Not anything like divorce, no one divorced, at least, no one decent. But she had seen any number of empty marriages, polite arrangements to share a house and a name. When she had first determined to marry George, she had thought that friendship and acceptance would be enough-but they were not. She had grown used to affection, to shared laughter, little understanding secrets, long, comfortable silences, even habits that became part of the security and rhythm of life.
Now all this was sliding away, like the tide going out, leaving stretches of empty shingle.
“I know,” he replied, with a little frown of puzzlement. She knew he did not realize why she had made such an obvious and silly remark. She had to say something more to justify herself.
“Do you think he’s run away completely?” she asked. “Like to France, or something?”
“Why ever should he?”
“If he killed Fanny!”
His face fell a little. Obviously he had not really considered that.
“He wouldn’t kill Fanny,” he said firmly. “I should think he’s probably dead himself. Maybe he went into town to gamble or something, and had an accident. People do sometimes.”
“Oh, don’t be so stupid!” At last she lost her temper completely. It surprised and alarmed her that she should so suddenly snap. She had never dared speak to him like that before.
He looked startled and the paper slid to the floor.
Now she was a little frightened. What had she done? He was staring at her, his brown eyes very wide. She wanted to apologize, but her mouth was dry and her voice would not come. She took a very deep breath.
“Perhaps you had better go upstairs and lie down,” he said after a moment. He spoke quite quietly. “You’ve had a very heavy day. Parties like that are exhausting. Maybe in this heat it was too much for you.”
“I’m not sick!” she said furiously. Then to her horror the tears started to run down her face, and she found herself crying like a silly child.
There was a second of pain in George’s face, then suddenly the solution washed over him with a wave of relief. Of course, it was her condition. She saw it in him as clearly as if he had spoken it. It was not true! But she could not explain. She allowed him to help her to her feet and gently out into the hallway and up the stairs. She was still boiling, words falling over themselves inside her, and dying before she could make them into sentences. But she could not control the tears, and it was warm to feel his arm around her, and so much better not to have to make all the effort herself.
But when Charlotte called the next morning, largely to inquire how she was after the soiree, Emily was in an unusually sharp temper. She had not slept well and, lying awake in her bed, had thought she had heard George moving around in the next room. More than once she considered getting up and going to him, to ask him why he was pacing, what worried him so much.
But she did not yet feel she knew him well enough to take the rather forward action of going into his room at two o’clock in the morning. She knew he would consider it ingenuous, even immodest. And she was not even sure she wanted to know. Perhaps most of all she was afraid he would lie to her, and she would see through the lies and be haunted by truths she only guessed at.
So when Charlotte appeared looking slender and fresh, her hair shining, unbearably cool, although she was wearing only wash-cotton, Emily was in no mood to receive her graciously.
“I suppose Thomas still knows nothing?” she said acidly.
Charlotte looked surprised, and Emily knew what she was doing, but still could not hold her tongue.
“He hasn’t found Fulbert,” Charlotte answered, “if that’s what you mean?”
“I don’t really care whether he finds Fulbert or not,” Emily snapped. “If he’s dead, I can’t see that it matters
