There was a faint tinge of color on the general’s high cheekbones. “Good evening, Miss Ellison.” He caught something in his throat and coughed. “How pleasant to see you again. I was thinking of you only the other day-” He stopped. “That is-a certain event brought you to mind.”
“I have remembered you often.” Charlotte wanted to rescue him, and what she said was almost true. She never heard or read of any military event without in one way or other associating it with him.
Christina’s raised eyebrows showed her amazement. “Oh dear! I had no notion we had become so fixed in your mind, Miss Ellison-or perhaps you are referring only to Papa?”
Charlotte wanted to hurt her. “The circumstances of our meeting were not common enough in my life for me to forget anything of them,” she said, meeting Christina’s eyes icily. She saw Christina pale at the memory of murder. “But of course I learned to admire the general very much as I became acquainted with his memoirs. I am sure, knowing him so much better, you must share my regard.”
Christina’s face tightened. “Naturally-but then he is my father! That is an entirely different thing-Miss Ellison.”
The color deepened in Balantyne’s face, but he seemed to find nothing to say.
“You never read your father’s military papers, my dear.” It was Alan Ross who rescued them. “A daughter’s affection is quite a different emotion from the respect of someone quite impartial.”
The pink drained out of Balantyne’s cheeks and he turned away quickly. “Of course it is,” he said with some tartness. “I cannot imagine you meant that as it sounded, Christina. Miss Ellison was merely being courteous.” He did not look at Charlotte, but settled himself talking instead to George.
Emily engaged herself with Christina, leaving Charlotte to try to balance an awkward conversation with Alan Ross and Lady Augusta. She was immensely relieved when dinner was announced.
The table was rich, and Charlotte noticed Emily looking it over and probably adding up what she judged it to have cost. Emily knew the quality of crystal, silver, and napery to a nicety, and she was also precisely aware of what a cook was worth. Charlotte caught her eye a few moments after they had sat down, and from the slight incline of one fair brow, she gathered that in Emily’s opinion Christina was being extravagant.
The first course was served, and the general conversation turned to the kind of polite trivia appropriate to the importance of taking the first edge from appetite, and at the same time maintaining a degree of elegance. Charlotte took no part in it; she was not acquainted with the people referred to, and could not comment upon the likelihood of one person marrying another, or what a disaster it would or would not be.
She found her gaze straying toward General Balantyne, the only other person uninvolved, either from ignorance or lack of interest. She was a little discomforted to find him watching her, in spite of the fact that Christina was speaking with great animation.
There was a ripple of laughter around the table, and suddenly Christina became aware that her wit had left two of the company untouched. She looked directly at Charlotte, pulling a little face.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Ellison. Of course I forgot you cannot know Miss Fairgood, or the Duke’s grandson. How very unkind of me. You must feel so left out. Do please forgive me!”
Nothing she might have said would be better calculated to make Charlotte’s exclusion more obvious. The conversation was tedious and Charlotte had not cared before, but now she felt her face burning with self- consciousness. She remained silent, because if she spoke she would be rude and thus give Christina yet another victory.
“I do not know Miss Fairgood either.” Balantyne picked up his glass. “I cannot say that I have been aware of the loss. And I am as indifferent as Miss Ellison as to whom the Duke’s grandson should marry. However,” he turned to Charlotte, “I have recently come upon some letters of a soldier who served in the Peninsular War. I think you might find them interesting, and most encouraging when one realizes how far we have progressed since then. I remember your admiration for Miss Nightingale’s work in organizing care for the wounded in the Crimea.”
Charlotte did not have to feign interest. “Letters?” she said eagerly. “Oh, that is so much more exciting than a history book.” Without a thought for Emily’s strategy, she leaned forward a little. “I should be so pleased if I might see them. It would be like-like holding a piece of the real past in my hands, not merely somebody else’s judgment of it! What do you know of him-the soldier who wrote the letters, I mean?”
The stern lines of Balantyne’s face softened and some reserve within him released itself. He put the glass down. He ignored the formality of saying that of course she might see the letters, as if that should be assumed and need not be put into words between them.
“He was a person of considerable intelligence,” he said intently. “It seemed he served as an enlisted man instead of as an officer by his own choice, and he was obviously well able to read and to write. His observations are most sensitive, and betray a compassion I admit I find very moving.”
“It is hardly an uplifting conversation for the dinner table.” Augusta looked at them with disfavor. “I cannot imagine that we wish to know of the sufferings of some pathetic common soldier in-wherever it was!”
“The Spanish peninsular,” Balantyne explained, but she ignored him.
“I should think they are quite as uplifting as the matrimonial aspirations of Miss Fairgood,” Alan Ross said dryly.
“To whom, for goodness’ sake?” Christina asked caustically.
“To me,” Ross replied. “To your father, and-unless she is being more courteous than others have been so far this evening-to Miss Ellison.”
Charlotte caught his eye, and looked down quickly at her plate. “I am afraid I cannot claim credit for such delicacy, Mr. Ross,” she said, forcing her face to remain modestly composed. “I am most genuinely interested.”
“How quaint,” Christina murmured. “Lady Ashworth, you were saying that you have lately made the closer acquaintance of Lavinia Hawkesley. Don’t you find her quite the most entertaining creature? Although I am not at all sure how much she has any intention of being!”
“I fancy the poor soul is bored to weeping,” Emily replied with a furious glance at Charlotte. “And I cannot say that I entirely blame her. Sir James is a man fit to bore anyone. He must be thirty years older than she is, at the very least.”
“But extremely wealthy,” Christina pointed out. “And with any decency at all, he will the before another ten years are past.”
“Oh!” Emily rolled her eyes heavenward. “But what can she possibly do for another ten years?”
A small smile flickered across Christina’s face. “She is not without imagination-”
“And that is her misfortune!” Augusta interrupted sharply. “She would be much better off if she had none at all. And whatever your fancy begets, Christina, it would be more discreet if you were not to speak of it. We do not wish to be the prognosticators of other people’s misdeeds.”
Christina took a deep breath. That was obviously precisely what she had wished to be, but curiously she did not argue. In fact, Charlotte thought she saw a momentary pallor, a tightening of her face, but whether it was pity or temper she could not judge.
“I suppose she might occupy herself in some charitable work,” George suggested hopefully. “Emily frequently tells me how much there is to be done.”
“And that is it!” Christina was suddenly savage. “When a gentleman is bored, he may gamble at his club at dice or cards, go to the races, or drive his own pair if he wishes! He may go shooting or play billiards, or go to theaters-and worse places-but if a lady is bored she is expected to occupy herself with charitable works-going round and visiting the hungry or the dirty, muttering soothing words at them and encouraging them to be virtuous!”
There was too much truth in her outburst for Charlotte to argue, and yet she found herself unable even to begin to tell Christina Ross of the sense of purpose and satisfaction she herself found from working to bring about parliamentary reform. There was a reality about it, an urgency to life, that would have made games, or even sports, seem divorced from the world and unbearably trivial.
She leaned forward, searching for a way to express her feelings. Everyone was staring at her, but nothing adequate came to her mind.
“If you are about to expound on the delights of Papa’s military histories, Miss Ellison, please do not bother,” Christina said freezingly. “I do not wish to know about cholera in Sebastopol, or how many wretched souls died in the charge of the Light Brigade. The whole thing seems to me to be an idiot game played by men who should be locked away in Bedlam where they can harm no one but themselves … and perhaps each other!”
For the only time in her life to that moment, Charlotte felt a rush of sympathy for Christina. “Can you think of
