“Go and change out of those wet boots,” Vespasia ordered. “We will take luncheon in here, and you may tell me about your child. What is it you have called her?”
“Jemima,” Charlotte answered obediently, standing up.
“I thought your mother’s name was Caroline?” Vespasia raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“It is,” Charlotte agreed. She turned at the door and gave her a dazzling smile. “And Grandmama’s name is Amelia. I don’t care for that either!”
The soiree was informal, and there was a great deal more conversation than listening to the music, which Charlotte rather regretted, since it was good and she was fond of the piano. She had never played it well herself, but both Sarah and Emily had, and this young man’s gentle touch brought back memories of childhood and Mama singing.
Dominic was surprised to see her, but either he did not notice the excellence of Vespasia’s gown on her, or he was too sensitive to comment on it, knowing that in her circumstances it would have to be borrowed.
Charlotte had not seen Alicia before, and her curiosity had been mounting from the time the first guest, who was Virgil Smith, arrived. As Vespasia had said, he was remarkably plain. His nose was anything but aristocratic; it appeared less like marble than warm wax, put on with a careless hand. His haircut might have been executed with a pair of shears round the edge of a basin, but his tailor was exemplary. He smiled at Charlotte with a warmth that lit up his eyes and spoke to her in an accent she would have loved to mimic, as Emily could have, to retail it to Pitt. But she had no skill in the art.
Sir Desmond and Lady Cantlay did not remember her or, if they did, chose not to acknowledge it. She could hardly blame them; when a corpse lands in the street in front of one, one does not recall the faces of the passersby, even those who offer assistance. They greeted her with the well-bred, mild interest of acquaintances who have nothing in common, so far as they know, except the place in which they meet. Charlotte watched them go and wondered nothing about them, except if they suspected Dominic or Alicia of having entertained murder.
Major Rodney and his sisters held no involvement for her either, and she murmured polite nonsenses to them that reminded her of standing beside her mother and Emily at endless parties when she was single, trying to sound as if she were totally absorbed by Mrs. So-and-so’s most recent illness or the prospects of Miss Somebody’s engagement.
She had already built in her mind very clearly how she expected Alicia to look: fair skin and hair that curled quite naturally-unlike her own-medium height and with soft shoulders, a little inclined to plumpness. Afterward she realized she was creating a vague picture of Sarah again.
When Alicia came she was utterly different. It was not so much a matter of description; she did have fair skin, and her hair waved so softly and asymmetrically it must surely be natural. But she was as tall as Charlotte, and her body was quite slim, her shoulders almost delicate. Far more than that, there was a completely different look in her eyes. She was nothing like Sarah at all.
“How do you do?” Charlotte said after only a second’s hesitation. She did not know whether she had expected to like her or not, but she was startled by the reality. In her own mind, because Dominic was in love with her, she had created a shadow of Sarah. She was unprepared for a different and independent person. And she had forgotten that to Alicia she would be a stranger and, unless Dominic had told her of Sarah and their relationship, one of no importance.
“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt?” Alicia replied, and Charlotte knew instantly that Dominic had not told her; there was no curiosity in her face. Alicia took a step away, saw Dominic, and stood perfectly still for a moment. Then she turned to Gwendoline Cantlay and complimented her on her gown.
Charlotte was still considering her own instinctive understanding of the moment when she realized she was being spoken to.
“I understand you are an ally of Lady Cumming-Gould?”
She looked round at the speaker. He was lean, with winged eyebrows and teeth that were a little crooked when he smiled.
Charlotte scrambled to think what he could mean. “Ally?” It must have something to do with the bill Aunt Vespasia was concerned with, to get children out of workhouses and into some sort of school. He would be the man who had driven Dominic to the street in Seven Dials and shown him the workhouse that had upset him so profoundly. She looked at him with more interest. She could understand Thomas’s care for such things; his daily life brought him the results of its tragedies, every sort of victim. But why did this man care?
“Only in spirit,” she said with a smile. Now she knew who he was, she felt assured; perhaps in all the room he was the one who discomfited her least. “A supporter; nothing so useful as an ally.”
“I think you underrate yourself, Mrs. Pitt,” he replied.
It stung her to be patronized. The cause was too real for trivia and meaningless flattery. She found herself resenting it, as if he did not consider her worthy of the truth.
“You do me no favor by pretending,” she said rather sharply. “I am not an ally. I have not the means.”
His smile widened. “I stand rebuked, Mrs. Pitt, and I apologize. Perhaps I was precipitate, making the wish the fact.”
It would be churlish of her not to accept his apology. “If you can make it a fact, I shall be delighted,” she said more gently. “It is a cause worthy of anyone’s effort.”
Before he could reply, they were introduced to more people. Lord and Lady St. Jermyn came in, and Charlotte found herself presented. Her first impressions of people were frequently wrong: most often the people she afterwards came to like, she felt nothing toward at first; but she could not imagine ever being anything but uncomfortable in the presence of Lord St. Jermyn. There was something about his mouth that repelled her. He was in no way ugly, rather the opposite, but there was a way his lips met that stirred half a memory, half imagination in her that was unpleasant. She heard her voice replying some inanity and felt Carlisle’s eyes on her. He had every right to reproach her with the very dishonesty for which she had just criticized him.
A little later Alicia joined them, with Dominic at her elbow. Charlotte watched them and thought how well they looked together, a perfect complement. Odd how that thought would have hurt and bewildered her a few years ago, and now it gave her no feeling at all except anxiety, in case the picture broke and there was nothing behind its perfection strong enough to stand an injury to the balance, an assault.
The conversation turned back to the bill. St. Jermyn was talking to Dominic.
“I hear from Somerset that you are a friend of young Fleetwood? With him on our side we would have an excellent chance. He has considerable influence, you know.”
“I don’t know him very well.” Dominic was nervous, beginning to disclaim. Charlotte had seen him twist a glass stem like that in Cater Street; she realized now how many times. She had never been conscious of it before.
“Well enough,” St. Jermyn said with a smile. “You are a good horseman, and an even better judge of an animal. That’s all it takes.”
“I believe you have a fine stable yourself, sir.” Dominic was still trying not to be pushed.
“Racing.” St. Jermyn waved his hand. “Fleetwood prefers a good carriage pair; likes to drive himself, and that’s where you excel. Heard you even beat him once.” He smiled, curling his long mouth down at the corners. “Don’t make a habit of it! He won’t like it more than the occasional time.”
“I was driving to win, not to please Lord Fleetwood,” Dominic said a little tartly. His eyes flickered over to Charlotte, almost as if he were aware of her thoughts and of what she herself would have said.
“That is a luxury we cannot afford.” St. Jermyn was not pleased, but he ironed it out of his face the moment after Charlotte had seen it, and a second later there was no trace at all. She judged that Dominic had not even noticed. “If we want Fleetwood’s help, it would not be clever to beat him too often,” St. Jermyn finished.
Dominic drew breath to retort, but Charlotte spoke before he did. He was not quick to anger, in fact, most agreeable; he seldom took a hard position on any issue, but on the rare occasions that he did, she could not recall his ever having changed it. It would be easy for him to commit himself now and then be unable to move when he regretted it.
“I don’t believe Mr. Corde will do that,” she said, forcing herself to smile across at St. Jermyn. “But surely Lord Fleetwood will take more notice of a man who has beaten him at least once? To come second to him hardly marks one from the crowd, or earns his interest.”
Dominic flashed her one of his beautiful smiles, and for an instant she remembered how she used to feel about him; then the present returned, and she was staring at St. Jermyn.
