with laughter, even if her mouth showed some indecision on just how much pity she felt for the hapless girls herded like competing livestock one after another, dressed in hundreds of guineas’ worth of gowns for their entrance into “Society.” Honor demanded they find a suitable husband before the Season’s end.
The dishes were cleared away and the next course served: chicken in aspic. The color and texture of it reminded Balantyne of dead skin, and in a flash of memory the present footman’s face was replaced by Max’s as he bent forward to offer the silver dishes.
Suddenly he did not wish to eat. There was no more food on the table than usual, but it seemed too much. He thought of the cold body on the mortuary slab. That was meat, too: gray-white flesh, like fowl, all the red blood settled to the back and buttocks. And yet even robbed, emasculated, Max had not seemed anonymous in death, as most men he had seen. That heavy face was too similar to his memory of the man in life.
Augusta was staring at him. He could not possibly explain to her what was in his mind. Better force himself to eat, even if it stuck in his throat. He would be able to wash it down with the Chablis, and the physical discomfort was easier than the continuing constrictions of trying to explain.
“I rather liked Miss Ellison, too,” Brandy said, out of nowhere. “She was one of the most individual women I have ever met.”
“Miss Ellison?” Augusta looked nonplussed. “I don’t think I know any Ellisons. When was she presented?”
“Never, I should think.” Brandy smiled broadly. “She was the young woman who helped Papa put his papers in order when he began writing his military history of the family.”
“For goodness’ sake, why ever should we talk about her!” Christina shot him a contemptuous glance. “She was the most ordinary creature. The only possible thing remarkable about her was a good head of hair. And even parlormaids can have good hair!”
“My dear girl, parlormaids have to have good hair,” Brandy answered scornfully. “And all the other physical attributes as well. Any house with pretensions to quality chooses its parlormaids for their looks. But you know that as well as I do.”
“Are we really to be reduced to discussing the appearance of parlormaids?” Augusta’s nostrils flared as if at some faintly unpleasant odor.
Balantyne was compelled to defend Charlotte-or was it his memory of her? A thing that mattered to him needed safeguarding. “Miss Ellison was hardly a parlormaid,” he said quickly. “In fact, she was not a servant at all-”
“She certainly was not a lady!” Christina snapped back a shade too rapidly. “I can tell the difference, even if Brandy cannot! Really, sometimes I think anything the least bit handsome in a skirt, and some men lose whatever judgment they once had!”
“Christina!” Augusta’s voice was like ice cracking and her face was whiter than Balantyne could remember ever having seen it before. Was she so angry for him because his daughter had insulted him at his own table? Or was it for Jemima, who had once been so little more than a servant? Oddly, he would rather believe it was for Jemima.
He turned to stare at his daughter. “One of the qualities of a lady, Christina,” he said quietly, “is that she has good manners and does not, even accidentally, cause offense to others by her clumsiness.”
Christina sat perfectly still, her eyes glittering, her cheeks bloodless, fist clenched over her napkin.
“On the contrary, Papa, it is servants-and social climbers-who do not give offense, because they know they cannot afford to.”
There was a ruffle of embarrassment round the table. It was Alan Ross who spoke, laying his fork down beside his plate. He had good hands-strong, without excess of flesh.
“Servants do not give offense because they dare not, my dear,” he said quietly to his wife. “A lady would not wish to. That is the difference. It is people who are obliged to no one, but have not the mastery of themselves, nor sufficient sensitivity to understand the feelings of others, who offend.”
“You have everything worked out so neatly, don’t you, Alan!” She said it as though it were a challenge, even an insult, implying he had curtailed thought with some preconceived answer.
Balantyne felt a cold wave of unhappiness, and pushed his plate away from him. Alan Ross was dignified; he had a sense of decency. He did not deserve this ill-behavior from his wife. Mere beauty was not nearly enough. One hungered for gentleness in a woman, no matter how splendid her wit or her face, or even her body. Christina had better learn that before it was too late and she forfeited Alan’s affection beyond retrieval. He must have Augusta speak to her about it. Someone should warn her-
Brandy jarred him back to an even uglier subject. “It was Max Burton, who used to be our footman, who was killed in the Devil’s Acre, wasn’t it?” He looked at them in turn.
His remark had the presumably desired effect of stopping the previous conversation utterly. Augusta’s hands hung paralyzed over her plate. Christina dropped her knife. Alan Ross sat motionless.
A petal fell from one of the flowers onto the tablecloth, whiter, purer than the starched linen.
Christina swallowed. “Really, Brandy, how on earth would we know? And, for that matter, why should we care? Max left here years ago, and it’s all completely disgusting!”
“The Devil’s Acre and its occupants are not of the least concern to us,” Augusta agreed huskily. “And I refuse to have them or their obscenities discussed at my table.”
“I disagree, Mama.” Brandy was not impressed. “As long as everybody refuses to talk about them-”
“I imagine half the city is talking of little else,” Augusta cut him off. “There are plenty of people whose nature wallows in such things. I do not intend to be among them-and neither will you while you are in my house, Brandon!”
“I’m not thinking of the details.” Brandy leaned forward, his face earnest. “I’m talking about the general social conditions in our slums. Apparently, Max was a pimp. He procured women for prostitution-”
“Brandon!”
He ignored the interruption. “Do you know how many prostitutes there are in London, Mama?”
Balantyne looked across at Augusta’s face and thought he would not forget her expression as long as he lived.
Her eyebrows rose and her eyes widened. “Am I to assume, Brandon, that you do?” she inquired in a voice that could have chipped stone.
The color came up Brandy’s cheeks slightly, but his face set in the same defiance that echoed as far back as nursery days over such trivialities as rice pudding and talcing naps. He swallowed. “Eighty-five thousand.” To have added “approximately” would have diminished the impact. “And some of them are no more than ten or eleven years old!”
“Nonsense!” she snapped.
For the first time, Alan Ross joined in. “I am sorry, Mama-in-law, but that is true. Several people of some reputation and quality have been espousing the cause of these people lately, and there has been much investigation.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Christina laughed, but it was a high sound, without happiness. “Mama is perfectly correct. How could a person of any quality whatsoever take up such a cause? That’s preposterous. It really is not worth discussing. We are descending to absurdity, and it is most unpleasant.”
Balantyne wondered at Christina’s agreeing so readily with her mother; it was not like her. He was surprised to hear his own voice. “Eighty-five thousand unfortunates in London!” He had unconsciously used the current euphemism for prostitution. It made the whole dark, amorphous misery seem less terrible; it allowed one to think that people were moved by compassion.
“Unfortunates!” Brandy’s eyes were narrow with scorn. He ripped Balantyne’s thought apart exactly as if he had read it from his mind. “Don’t make it sound as if we had some kind of pity for them, Papa. We don’t even want to know about them! We’ve just said they are not suitable conversation for our table. We prefer to pretend they don’t exist, or that they are all doing it quite happily and sinfully, because they want to-”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Brandy!” Christina snapped. “You know nothing about it. And Mama is perfectly correct. It is most disagreeable, and I think you are ill-mannered to force it upon us. We have already made it as plain as we can that we don’t care to learn of such coarse subjects! Jemima.” She stared across the table. “I’m sure you don’t wish to hear about prostitutes over your dinner, do you?”
Balantyne leaned forward, wanting to defend Jemima. She was peculiarly vulnerable. She was in love with
