amusing in a way that Alan Ross had never been. He was a graver man, deeper and infinitely harder to win.
“I never met him,” Balantyne went on. “Do you think he was where they found him of his own accord?”
Ross smiled slightly and his blue eyes met Balantyne’s. “I should be surprised. He seemed eminently normal on the occasions I saw him.”
“You mean he flirted a great deal?”
Ross’s smile widened tolerantly. “No more than usual for a young man who feels the noose of matrimony closing round him, and wishes to taste of freedom to the full while he still may. Miss Woolmer’s mother has a fearsome grip.”
Balantyne remembered his own last few weeks of freedom, before he had asked Augusta’s father for her hand. He had known he was going to, of course, but it was still sweet to play with the idea that he might not, to savor in imagination all sorts of other possibilities he would never indulge.
He looked across and caught Ross’s eyes. They understood each other perfectly. “I suppose Christina is very distressed by his death.” It was more an observation than a question. It would account for the strain he saw in her. She hated mourning and would absorb the sorrow in her own way.
“Not especially, though she was rather fond of him,” Ross replied. Ross had turned away and his face was tight. “She was fond of a number of people,” he said quietly.
Balantyne felt the sweat prickle on his skin. Fond of? Was that a euphemism for something much coarser, more promiscuous? Or was it only his own rush of feeling for Charlotte, the strong physical desire that made his face burn at the memory, that put in his mind far uglier thoughts of Christina? Had she been drenched with that hunger, but without the love?
He looked at Ross’s face, still turned toward the fire. As he had observed before, it was a private face, strong-boned but with a very vulnerable mouth. To intrude into his emotions would be unforgivable.
In that moment Balantyne believed he understood what Ross would never say: Christina was a loose woman. How it had come about he would never know. Perhaps Ross had expected too much of her, a maturity, a delicacy of which she was not capable. Perhaps he had compared her with Helena Doran. A mistake-you should never compare one woman with another. And yet, dear God, how easy to do when you have loved! Was there not at the back of his own mind, painful and bright, a memory of Charlotte’s eyes looking at him that would forever be a comparison with every other relationship-and a damning of it?
He must think of Christina. Christina as a young bride would have been confused, hurt, not knowing in what way she had failed to please Ross. A man should teach a woman gently, be prepared to wait while she learned such an utterly new life … the physical… His thoughts stopped. Or was it new to Christina? Memories floated back from the time of the murders on Callander Square, things Augusta had refused to discuss. She had dealt with so much, been so competent-and never told him.
Was Christina seeking from other men the reassurance that she was desired because the husband she loved had rejected her, shut her out? Or was she simply a vain and immoral woman for whom one man was not enough?
But whatever the desire, surely faithfulness …
What sort of faith did he keep with Augusta? It was the knowledge of hurting Charlotte that had kept him from excess yesterday, from touching her, from holding her-and … And what? Anything-everything! And it was selfishness, fear of the rejection he would see in Charlotte’s eyes, her horror when she understood what he really felt. It was not any thought of Augusta.
And, more than that, Charlotte would have been irreparably hurt to know what storms she had created in him. He would lose her; she would certainly never come to Callander Square again, never be alone with him to share even the sweetness of friendship. Would she think him ridiculous? Or, worse, pitiful? He thrust the thought away; there was nothing absurd in loving.
But what about Christina? Had she inherited from him this betraying hunger? He had never talked to her of fidelity or modesty; he had left all that sort of thing to Augusta. It was a mother’s duty to instruct her daughter in the conduct of marriage. For him to have done so would have been indelicate, and would have caused only embarrassment.
But he could have spoken of chastity-simple morality. And he had never done so. Perhaps he owed Christina a great deal? And heaven knew what he owed Alan Ross! … He looked up and saw Ross’s eyes, waiting for him. Could he have any idea what had been passing through his thoughts?
“She knew Adela Pomeroy,” Ross said with a slight frown, as if it puzzled him.
The name meant nothing to Balantyne. “Adela Pomeroy?” he repeated.
“The wife of the last man who was murdered in the Acre-the schoolteacher,” Ross explained.
“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “How on earth did Christina come to know a schoolteacher’s wife?”
“She’s a pretty woman,” Ross answered painfully. “And bored. I think she sought diversion in”-he moved his hand slightly-“in wider company.”
Whatever did he mean by that? Thousands of women were probably bored now and then. You could not simply extend your social circle upward unless you were remarkably pretty, and willing to … Then was Adela Pomeroy another loose woman? But if so, why was it Ernest Pomeroy who was killed? It should have been Adela. And Bertie Astley-had he been Adela’s lover? And what connection had the doctor with any of them?
Were they all victims of the same lunatic? Or perhaps was one a crime fitted in and made to look like the others, an opportunity taken brilliant advantage of: to inherit a title and an estate; or to be rid of a tedious husband; or-and the sweat broke out on his body at the thought-to avenge a cuckolder of one’s bed, one’s home.
“What was the doctor’s wife like?” he asked huskily, swallowing.
Ross looked away. “I’ve no idea. Why?”
Balantyne’s face was stiff. “No reason. My mind was wandering,” he said lamely. He forced the thought away; it was unworthy of such a man.
Ross offered him the sherry, but he declined it. Its warmth did not reach deep enough inside him. He noticed that Ross himself took none either. How long had he known Christina’s nature? He cannot have understood it when he married her. Had the knowledge come slowly, a gathering pain? Or in a single act of discovery, like a sharp wound?
He looked at Ross’s face. It would be unpardonable to discuss the subject with him. It was his own private grief, and no matter what Balantyne might guess, he must be silent. He could not bear Ross to know-even for an instant-the thoughts that had come to him.
He wanted to run away, to exist in some fantasy land where he could be with Charlotte, talk with her, see her face, touch her, learn to share a multitude of things.
No doubt Alan Ross would like to be in just such a place, with someone clean and generous. But he understood duty, and so far he had found the courage to fulfill it.
Balantyne sat quite still. His mind fumbled for something to say, anything that would let Ross know that he was not alone; that, far from pity, he felt the most intense admiration for him, and a regard that was perhaps as close to love as one man comes for another. But no words were right; they had all been used too lightly. None of them conveyed the reality of the pain.
The two men sat for a long time, the untouched sherry decanter between them, the logs settling in the hearth. Finally, Balantyne stood up. Christina would doubtless soon be arriving home, and he did not wish to see her.
His goodbyes were trivial, the same things he always said, and Ross gave the same replies. But once, as they shook hands, he had the feeling for a moment that perhaps the unsaid things had been understood after all-at least the good things. And there would be other times, other chances to show a gentleness, to allow Ross to perceive that he cared, not blindly, but because he suffered some of the same loneliness, the same ties to duty that would destroy him if he let them go.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Ross said with a faint smile. “Thank you for calling.”
“Good afternoon, Alan. Pleasure to see you.”
Neither of them mentioned the women. There was no message, no regards.
Balantyne turned and walked away into the sharp winter afternoon. He had not brought the carriage. He preferred the isolation and the exercise, the wind hard on his face, and it would take longer to get home.
