admiring, and making perhaps an occasional remark of optimism and good nature. Of course, it was almost always acceptable to laugh, if one’s laughter was musical and not too loud; it should never be the rich mirth of one who understood the absurd or the farcical. Charlotte had lost the polish she had cultivated when her mother had tried so hard to marry her successfully. Now she sat primly on the edge of her chair with her hands folded in her lap and watched, speaking only when civility demanded.
Veronica had practiced the feminine graces so long it was second nature to her to find the words to courteously say nothing. But watching her face, which on the surface seemed so fragile until one looked at the balance of the bones and the strength of passion in the mouth, Charlotte could see her mind was occupied with other, more distressing thoughts. Her smile was brittle, and although she appeared to be listening to whomever was speaking at the moment, her eyes frequently flickered to Julian Danver’s face. More than once Charlotte had the feeling Veronica was uncertain of his attention to her. It seemed foolish to wonder whether such a lovely woman, already experienced in marriage and the object of sympathy for her bereavement, but never of the kind of pity reserved for the unmarried like Harriet or Aunt Adeline, could be unsure of herself. Julian Danver’s intentions were plain; all his actions, the way he conducted himself in front of others, made it obvious. No man would behave in such a manner unless he had promised marriage. To withdraw without the most drastic of reasons would open him to ruin. Such a promise once given was unforgivable to break.
So why did Veronica twine her fingers in her lap and keep glancing first at Julian, then at Charlotte? Why did she talk just a little too much, and with a fine, almost indiscernible edge to her voice, cutting Charlotte off in the middle of a remark and then smiling at her so frankly it was an apology? Charlotte thought she understood Harriet’s pain perfectly. It was very simple to explain: if she really loved Felix Asherson, whether he returned it or not, there was nothing she could do about it, nor would there ever be, unless Sonia Asherson died. And why should she die? Sonia was an almost offensively healthy young woman, buxom and serene as a good country cow. She would probably live to be ninety. She was far too well versed in the arts of survival, not to mention contented with her lot, to abandon all sense and give Felix cause to divorce her, and it was quite impossible she should divorce him, even if she discovered he loved Harriet. Yes, Harriet’s colorless face and quiet voice took no leap of the imagination to understand, and Charlotte grieved for her without being able to do anything at all; even compassion would only have been like vinegar to the wound, robbing her of the sole comfort of supposing her pain to be private.
Finally Charlotte could bear the tension no longer. She remembered seeing a doorway to the conservatory when they were shown in, and she turned to Julian.
“I believe I noticed your conservatory as we passed through the hall. I love conservatories so much. Perhaps you would be kind enough to show me? It would be like stepping in a moment from London’s winter into a foreign land full of flowers.”
Veronica drew in her breath with a sharp sound.
“How well you describe it. You have added instantly to my pleasure,” Julian said quickly. “I should be delighted to take you. We have some very fine lilies-at least, that is what I believe they are. I’m not good at names, but I can find you the most beautiful, and those with the richest perfume.” He stood up as he spoke.
Charlotte rose also. Veronica’s back was to Julian, so he could not see her face; Charlotte smiled directly at her, meeting her hot gaze steadily. It was full of anger and dark, wounded bitterness. Charlotte extended her hand, palm upward in invitation.
At last, and quite suddenly, Veronica grasped her meaning; she came quickly to her feet, her face first pale, then a deep pink. “Oh-oh yes,” she said awkwardly. “Yes.”
“If you will be kind enough to excuse us?” Charlotte asked Aunt Adeline and Harriet.
“Of course,” they murmured. “Yes, of course.”
It was successful immediately. The conservatory was quite large, and there were elegant ferns and vines hiding one walk from another, and a small green pool with flawless lotuses, which Charlotte stopped to admire without needing to feign delight. Julian then pointed out the fragrant lilies he had mentioned. After making all the right comments Charlotte at last caught Veronica’s eye, and with the tiniest smile, she turned and walked back to the lotus pool. After enough time had passed, she tiptoed back out into the hall again.
She could not return to the withdrawing room or she would betray the whole fabric of the excuse-not that anyone was deceived, but forcing the others to acknowledge it was another thing entirely. She felt foolish standing there in the hall, doing nothing. She walked over to a large painting of a landscape with cows and stopped in front of it as if she were regarding it closely. Actually it was very agreeable, of the Dutch school, but her mind was busy with all she knew of Veronica and the Danvers.
She stood for some time with her eyes on the peaceful scene. She could hear in her mind the chewing of the cud, and almost see the jaws’ gentle rhythm. They were beautiful creatures, oddly angular and yet graceful, the curve of their horns ancient as civilized man.
She turned away from the painting suddenly. She was not there to indulge her taste for art, nor even her friendship for Veronica. Veronica might be Cerise; she and Julian Danver might have murdered Robert York. Duty demanded that Charlotte creep back and attempt to overhear their conversation, distasteful as that was.
Just inside the conservatory door she stopped and solemnly regarded a red canna lily as if it held her interest. Then she sidled further in, glancing from the lilies on the ground up to the vines overhead and back again. She was several yards along the path and had nearly collided with a potted palm when she saw Veronica and Julian Danver in an embrace of such passion she blushed for having seen them. It was an intrusion which at any other time would have been inexcusable, and she could not possibly explain without betraying herself completely, and everything she hoped to achieve, even perhaps putting Emily in a position of the greatest embarrassment, culminating in social ruin.
Quickly she stepped back into the arms of a vine-and almost fainted with horror at the first instinctive thought that the clinging touch was human. She swallowed a shriek, realizing the truth, and with an effort pulled herself together and stepped out smartly, only to come face to face with Aunt Adeline. She swore under her breath, feeling idiotic and knowing her hair was disheveled, her cheeks scarlet.
“Are you all right, Miss Barnaby?” Adeline raised her eyebrows. “You look a little distressed.”
Charlotte took a deep breath. Only a really good lie would serve.
“I feel such a fool,” she began with what she hoped was a disarming smile. “I was trying to see a flower overhead, and I overbalanced. I do beg your pardon.” She put her hand to the trailing strands of her hair. “And then I got caught in a vine and I couldn’t get loose. But I haven’t hurt the plant.”
“My dear, of course you haven’t.” Adeline smiled bleakly, her eyes like brown velvet boot buttons. Charlotte had no idea whether the woman believed a word of what she had said. “I think perhaps it is time we had some tea. Shall I call Julian and Veronica, or will you?”
“I, er. .” Without thinking Charlotte moved to block the path. “I’m sure they’ll come in a few moments.”
Adeline’s gaze was steady and skeptical.
“I wondered if it was bougainvillea,” Charlotte said abruptly. “Such a wonderful shade of cerise. Is that not the color you said you saw Veronica wearing one night?”
Adeline looked startled. “That was not Veronica.” For once she dropped her usually clear, fine voice, perhaps her most attractive feature. “I’m perfectly sure of that.”
“Oh, I must have misunderstood you. I assumed …” Her words trailed away; she did not know how to finish. She had been trying to surprise something out of Adeline, while preventing her from going into the conservatory and seeing that wildly immodest embrace. And it was not only for Veronica she wished it, but for Adeline herself. Perhaps no one had ever held her so, or would do now.
“Oh no,” Adeline said with a tiny shake of her head. “Her walk was quite unlike Veronica’s. You can tell a great deal about a woman by the way she walks, and her walk was unique. There was a grace in it, a daring. She was a woman who had power and knew it-and yet, I think, she had much to be afraid of. If she were to allow herself to be afraid.”
“Oh,” Charlotte faltered. “Then-who?”
Adeline’s face reflected wisdom, pain, and the merest shadow of humor. “I do not know, Miss Barnaby, and I do not ask. There are many old loves, and old hates, that are better left unspoken.”
“You surprise me!” Charlotte’s words were suddenly sharp, almost accusatory. “I had thought you were more candid than that.”
Adeline’s plain, sensitive mouth tightened. “The time for candor is past. You have no idea what pain may lie behind these things. A little blindness can allow them to ease, where to speak may make answer inevitable.” She
