sufficient.”
“John did?” Her husky voice lifted in surprise. “How very unusual. You almost make me think it was me Dr. Shaw spoke ill of.”
Hatch colored furiously and his breath quickened; his large hands were clenched by his sides.
Standing well within earshot, Charlotte was certain that it had indeed been Maude Dalgetty Shaw had spoken ill of, truly or not, and she wished intensely there were some way to learn what he had said, and why.
Hatch moved a little, turning his back half towards Charlotte. Since she did not wish to be conspicuous in her interest, she allowed herself to be excluded, and drifted towards Lally Clitheridge and Celeste. But before she reached them they separated and Lally accosted Flora Lutterworth, circumspectly but very definitely.
“How good of you to come, my dear Flora.” Her tone was at once warm and acutely condescending, like a duchess interviewing a prospective daughter-in-law. “You are charmingly softhearted-a nice virtue in a girl, if not carried to indiscretion.”
Flora stared at her, opened her mouth to reply, and was lost for any words that would express her feelings.
“And modesty as well,” Lally continued. “I am so glad you do not argue, my dear. Indiscretion can be the ruin of a girl, indeed has been of many. But I am sure your father will have told you that.”
Flora blushed. Obviously the quarrel had not yet been healed.
“You must heed him, you know.” Lally was equally perceptive, and placed her arm in Flora’s as if in confidence. “He has your very best interest at heart. You are very young, and inexperienced in society and the ways in which people assess each other. An unwise act now, and you may well be considered a girl of less than complete virtue-which would ruin all the excellent chances you have for a fine future.” She nodded very slightly. “I hope you understand me, my dear.”
Flora stared at her. “No-I don’t think I do,” she said coolly, but her face was very tight and her knuckles were white where she clasped her handkerchief.
“Then I must explain.” Lally leaned a little closer. “Dr. Shaw is a very charming man, but at times rather too outspoken in his opinions and rash in his respect for other people’s judgment. Such things are acceptable in a man, especially a professional man-”
“I find Dr. Shaw perfectly agreeable.” Flora defended him hotly. “I have received nothing but kindness at his hands. If you disagree with his opinions, that is your affair, Mrs. Clitheridge. You must tell him so. Pray do not concern me with the matter.”
“You misunderstand me.” Lally was plainly annoyed. “I am concerned for your reputation, my dear-which is frankly in some need of repair.”
“Then your quarrel is with those who speak ill of me,” Flora retorted. “I have done nothing to warrant it.”
“Of course not!” Lally said sharply. “I know that. It is not what you have done, it is your indiscretion in appearance. I warn you as your vicar’s wife. He finds the matter difficult to discuss with a young lady, but he is concerned for your welfare.”
“Then please thank him for me.” Flora looked at her very directly, her cheeks pink, her eyes blazing. “And assure him that neither my body nor my soul are in any jeopardy. You may consider your duty well acquitted.” And with a tight little smile she inclined her head politely and walked away, leaving Lally standing in the center of the room, her mouth in a thin line of anger.
Charlotte moved backward hastily in case Lally should realize she had been listening. As she swung around, she came face-to-face with Great-Aunt Vespasia, who had been waiting until she had her attention, her eyebrows raised in curiosity, her mouth touched with humor.
“Eavesdropping?” she said under her breath.
“Yes,” Charlotte admitted. “Most interesting. Flora Lutterworth and the vicar’s wife, having a spat over Dr. Shaw.”
“Indeed? Who is for him and who against?”
“Oh, both for him-very much. I rather think that is the trouble.”
Vespasia’s smile widened, but it was not without pity. “How very interesting-and wildly unsuitable. Poor Mrs. Clitheridge, she seems worthy of better stuff than the vicar. I am hardly surprised she is drawn elsewhere, even if her virtue forbids she follow.” She took Charlotte by the arm and moved away from the two women now close behind them. She was able to resume a normal speaking voice. “Do you think you have learned anything else? I do not find it easy to believe the vicar’s wife set fire to the house out of unrequited love for the doctor-although it is not impossible.”
“Or Flora Lutterworth, for that matter,” Charlotte added. “And perhaps it is not unrequited. Flora will have a great deal of money when her father dies.”
“And you think the Worlingham money is not sufficient for Dr. Shaw, and he has eyes on Lutterworth’s as well?” Vespasia asked.
Charlotte thought of her conversation with Stephen Shaw, of the energy in him, the humor, the intense feeling of inner honesty that still lingered with her. It was a painful idea. And she did not wish to think Clemency Shaw had spent her life married to such a man. And surely she would have known.
“No,” she said aloud. “I believe it may all have to do with Clemency’s work against slum owners. But Thomas thinks it is here in Highgate, and that really it was Dr. Shaw himself who was the intended victim. So naturally I shall observe all I can, and tell him of it, whether I can see any sense in it or not.”
“Very proper of you.” Now Vespasia did not even attempt to hide her amusement. “Perhaps it was Shaw himself who killed his wife-I imagine Thomas has thought of that, even if you have not.”
“Why should I not think of it also?” Charlotte said briskly, but under her breath.
“Because you like him, my dear; and I believe your feeling is more than returned. Good afternoon, Dr. Shaw.” As she spoke Shaw had come back and was standing in front of them, courteous to Vespasia, but his attention principally upon Charlotte.
Aware of Vespasia’s remarks, Charlotte found herself coloring, her cheeks hot.
“Lady Cumming-Gould.” He inclined his head politely. “I appreciate your coming. I’m sure Clemency would have been pleased.” He winced as if saying her name aloud had touched a nerve. “You are one of the few here who have not come out of curiosity, the social desire to be seen, or sheer greed for the best repast the Worlinghams have laid out since Theophilus died.”
Amos Lindsay materialized at Shaw’s elbow. “Really, Stephen, sometimes you do yourself less than justice in expressing your thoughts. A great many people are here for more commendable reasons.” His words were directed not to curbing Shaw but to excusing him to Vespasia and Charlotte.
“Nevertheless we must eat,” Shaw said rather ungraciously. “Mrs. Pitt-may I offer you a slice of pheasant in aspic? It looks repulsive, but I am assured it is delicious.”
“No thank you,” Charlotte declined rather crisply. “I do not feel any compulsion to eat, or indeed any desire.”
“I apologize,” he said immediately, and his smile was so unforced she found her anger evaporated. She felt for his distress, whatever the nature of his love for Clemency. This was a time of grief for him when he would probably far rather have been alone than standing being polite to a crowd of people of widely varying emotions, from family bereavement, in Prudence, right to social obligation like Alfred Lutterworth, or even vulgar curiosity, as was ill-hidden on the faces of several people whose names Charlotte did not know. And it was even possible one of them might be Clemency’s murderer.
“There is no need,” she said, answering his smile. “You have every cause to find us intrusive and extremely trying. It is we who should apologize.”
He reached out his hand as if he would have touched her, so much more immediate a communication than words. Then he remembered at the last moment that it was inappropriate, and withdrew, but she felt almost as if he had, the desire was so plain in his eyes. It was a gesture of both gratitude and understanding. For an instant he had not been alone.
“You are very gracious, Mrs. Pitt,” he said aloud. “Lady Cumming-Gould, may I offer you anything, or are you also less than hungry?”
Vespasia gave him her goblet. “You may bring me another glass of claret,” she answered graciously. “I imagine it has been in the cellar since the bishop’s time. It is excellent.”
