The play was superb, subtle, intelligent, and funny. Many times she found herself laughing aloud. During the first interval she glanced across and saw Mr. and Mrs. Marchand, smiling and at ease. She was too far away to read their expressions in detail, but their gestures made their pleasure evident.
Suddenly Caroline was aware of hurt, even defensiveness. She did not want them to be disturbed; she liked them and understood them, she wanted their friendship and perceived both its values and its limitations. And yet complacency was a kind of death. Something that did not stir thought, awaken new emotions or challenge preconceptions was agreeable, but no more than that. And she knew that Joshua would despise himself if that was all he did. He did not wish merely to entertain. That was at least in part why he admired Cecily Antrim so profoundly. She had the courage to say what she believed, whether one agreed with it or not.
The second act was swifter moving, and it was almost over before she realized there were deeper emotions drawn from her than in the first, and becoming more complex. It was painful, and it was also a kind of relief. She began to think again of Mariah Ellison and how the sudden knowledge of her suffering and anger over all these years had changed her own life.
Twenty-four hours ago she would not have believed that civilized people would even think of the things the old lady had said Edmund Ellison had forced on her most nights of her married life. And yet even sitting here in this exquisite theatre, watching drama so perfectly performed, acted, pretended with consummate skill, surrounded in the half dark by hundreds of exquisitely dressed people, she did believe it. That darkness might lie behind any number of these calm, smoothly groomed faces. She would never know.
She thought of the old lady sitting in growing terror every time Samuel called, then at last planning her terrible, destructive escape. Had she thought that if Joshua left Caroline, threw her out for immorality, just what that would mean? Surely she had. And yet she had known nothing but bitterness and humiliation in marriage, and she could not live with the thought that her family, to whom she had perpetuated the lie for so many years, would at last know that.
What terrible isolation, what loneliness and fear all the time that Caroline had never guessed, horror that had never entered her imagination.
Perhaps some of these things needed to be said, emotions stirred and disturbed, painful questions asked, so a thread of understanding could be woven between people who would never experience for themselves the things that tortured others who sat only a few feet away.
She leaned forward to watch the third and final act of the play.
Afterwards she went backstage to his dressing room, as she always did after a major performance. She was as nervous as if she herself was about to step out in front of the audience and she did not know her lines.
She had rehearsed a dozen times what she was going to say to him, but what if he would not see her? What if he would not listen? She would have to make him. . insist. She could be as determined as Cecily Antrim or anyone else. She loved Joshua, wholly and completely, and she was not going to lose him without fighting with every skill and strength she possessed.
The dressing room door was closed. She could hear laughter inside. How could he laugh, when he had left her in the morning without speaking?
She knocked. She would not go in uninvited. She might see something she would prefer not to. That thought was like ice inside her. It made her feel sick.
There were footsteps and the door opened. Joshua stood there in a robe, half changed from his costume. He looked startled, then his face softened a little. He pulled the door wide without saying anything. There were two other people inside, a man and a woman.
Relief flooded over Caroline, and guilt. He had not been alone with anyone.
They were actors she knew from other plays, and they welcomed her. She congratulated them all on the performance, quite honestly. She could hardly believe how normal her voice sounded.
They seemed to talk endlessly. Would they never leave? Could she say anything to suggest they did? No. . that would be unforgivably rude.
Then the words were out. “I’m so glad I came, it was so much richer than I could have guessed,” she said distinctly. “There is something about a first night that can never be repeated exactly. And I nearly didn’t.” She avoided Joshua’s eyes. “My mother-in-law is staying with us at the moment, and she was not at all well today. Something. . happened. . which distressed her more than I would have thought possible.”
The others expressed their concern.
“Should you be home early?” the man asked.
Caroline looked at Joshua at last.
“Is she ill?” he said. His voice was unreadable.
The other two excused themselves, graciously, and left.
“Is she?” Joshua repeated.
“No,” Caroline replied. He was tired, and the mood was too fragile between them to play with words. “She did something wicked, and today I discovered it, and when I faced her she told me why.”
He looked puzzled. He did not really want to know. He tolerated the old lady because he felt he should, perhaps for Caroline’s sake.
“Wicked?” he said dubiously.
She must continue. “Yes, I think so. She wrote a very forward letter to Samuel Ellison, inviting him to call yesterday afternoon, and signed it with my name.” Why did he not say something? She hurried on. “When he arrived she deliberately left the room, which she has never done before, then sent Joseph to fetch you.”
“Why?” he said slowly. “I know she disapproves of me because I am an actor and a Jew, but as much as that?”
The tears stung her eyes and she felt her throat ache. “No!” She wanted to touch him, but it would be wrong now. He might see it as pity. “No! It has nothing to do with you. She is afraid that Samuel knows something about his own mother which was true about Mariah also, something dreadful, of which she was so ashamed she could not bear anyone else to know. She worried that he would tell me, and so she wanted you to throw him out so he would never return. Then her secret would be safe. She was so terrified of it she did not care if she ruined my happiness. She would do anything to stop me knowing, and of course the rest of the family as well. She felt she could not live if we did.”
He stared at her in amazement. He was very pale, but it was not anger in his face, it was horror.
“I know what it is,” she said quietly. “And I think I can forgive her for what she has done. If you don’t mind, I would rather not tell you what she suffered, but I will if I must.”
His face relaxed. He was too tired, perhaps too shaken to smile, but there was a gentleness in him she did not mistake.
“No,” he said softly. “No, I don’t want to know. Let her keep her secret.”
The tears spilled down her cheeks and she found herself sniffing and swallowing hard. “I love you,” she whispered, and sniffed again.
He stood up and reached out a little tentatively. Suddenly she realized how much he had been hurt. He had doubted. . feared.
She put her arms around him and held him so hard she felt him wince. “I’m sorry I didn’t behave so you knew that,” she said into his shoulder.
His arms tightened until he was holding her just as closely as she held him. He did not say anything, just moved his lips over her hair, slowly.
CHAPTER TEN
Pitt and Tellman still pursued the matter of Henri Bonnard and his quarrel with Orlando Antrim. Frankly, Pitt was not certain that they would learn anything useful from it, even if they were to discover the entire truth of the matter. If Bonnard had disappeared of his own volition it might well be worrying, and extremely irritating to the French Embassy, but it was not a police matter. The only real connection with Cathcart’s death was photography. Their resemblance to one another was coincidental and he could see no importance in it. He was perfectly certain that the body found at Horseferry Stairs was Cathcart and that it was Bonnard with whom Orlando Antrim had
