“I don’t know. I liked her. I look forward to knowing her a little better.” Then suddenly she was serious again. “Thomas, does Blantyre matter to you? Is he going to help you?”
“I hope so,” he replied. “Jack arranged it.”
A hurt inside her slipped away. “Good. Good. I’m glad.”
She wished he were free to tell her what troubled him, apart from the burden of taking on Narraway’s job. She wanted to assure him that he was equal to it, but such assurances would be meaningless, because she had very little idea what it was that bothered him in the first place. She did not know whether his skills matched Narraway’s, or even if they ever could. They were very different from each other. Until their experience in Ireland, she had thought of Narraway as intellectual, and happy to be alone. Whether that was natural to him or he had learned it, it had become his habit. Only when he lost his position in Special Branch had she seen any vulnerability in him, any need at all for the emotional warmth of others. How blind she had been. It was something she thought of now with a dull ache of guilt. She preferred to put it from her mind. That would be easier for Narraway too. He would not wish to think she remembered every emotion in his face, perhaps regretted now. Some things should remain guessed at, but unspoken.
Regardless of such moments, there was a professional ruthlessness in Narraway that she believed would never be natural to Pitt. Indeed, she hoped it would not.
That was part of the difficulty. Two of the things she loved most in Pitt were his empathy and his love of justice, which would make leadership and its terrible decisions more difficult for him.
She had not yet found any way in which she could help him. Blind support was all she could offer, and it had a very limited value. It was, in some ways, like the love of a child; in the dangerous and painful decisions, he was essentially alone.
She looked at him now, standing in the middle of the kitchen as Daniel came in with his homework, and she saw the deliberate change of expression as he turned to his son. She knew the effort it cost him to put aside his worry, saw his hands clenched in frustration even as he smiled at Daniel and they spoke of history homework, and how best to answer a complicated question.
“But how is that the Holy Roman Empire?” Daniel asked reasonably, pointing to the map in his schoolbook. “Rome is way down there!” He put his finger on the middle of Italy. “It isn’t even in the same country. That’s Austria. It says so. And why is it holier than anywhere else?”
Pitt took a deep breath. “It isn’t,” he said patiently. “Have you got a map of where the old Roman Empire used to be? I’ll show you where it became the Eastern and the Western Empires.”
“I know that, Papa! And it wasn’t up there!” He put his finger on Austria again. “Why is all that bit part of the Holy Empire?”
Charlotte smiled and left Pitt to do his best with conquest and Imperial politics. No one else had ever been able to give a morally satisfying answer, and she knew Daniel well enough to expect a long argument.
Charlotte dressed for the dinner as she had done in her early twenties, before her marriage, when her mother had been trying desperately, and unsuccessfully, to find her a suitable husband.
She had chosen a color and style that flattered the warmth of her skin and the hints of auburn in her hair. The cut of her dress showed the soft curves of her figure to their best advantage. It was fashionable enough to feel up to date, but not so much that in a few months it would be outmoded. She had Minnie Maude help her coil and pin her hair so it had no chance of slipping undone. To have one’s hair falling out of its coiffure would be deemed just as disastrous as having one’s clothing fall off! And rather more difficult to put right again.
In the lamplight, she was not sure if she observed one or two gray hairs, or if it was only a nervous imagination. Her mother, many years her senior, had only a few. And of course there was a remedy for it. Apparently iron nails steeped in strong tea for fifteen days make an excellent dye for darker hair! Rinsing the hair in tea was, she considered, good for it every so often anyway.
She wore very little jewelry. This was not only as a matter of style, but also because she owned very little, a fact she did not wish to make obvious. Earrings were sufficient. There was natural color in her face, but she added a little rouge, very, very discreetly, and put a tiny dab of powder on her nose to take away the shine. Once she was satisfied that it was the best she could do, she would forget it entirely and focus on whoever she was speaking to, listen with attention, and answer with warmth, and if possible, a little wit.
They had hired a carriage for the evening. To keep one all the time was an expense they could not afford, nor was it needed. If that day were to come in the future, perhaps it would be after they had moved to a house with stables. It would be exciting to make such an upward climb in society, but it would also force her to leave behind a place in which they had known much joy. Charlotte was perfectly happy not to have such a burden at the moment. She sat back in her seat, smiling in the dark as they were driven through Russell Square, its bare trees thrashing in the heavy wind. They turned left up Woburn Place, past Tavistock Square, open and windy again, then along the shelter of Upper Woburn Place and into the flickering lamplight of Endsleigh Gardens.
The carriage stopped and they alighted at the Blantyres’ house, where they were welcomed in by a liveried footman. He showed them immediately to a large withdrawing room where a blazing fire shed red and yellow light on leather-upholstered chairs and sofas, and a carpet rich in shades of amber, gold, and peach. The gaslamps were turned low, so it was difficult to see the details of the many paintings that decorated the walls. In a quick glance all Charlotte noticed was their ornamental gold frames, and the fact that they seemed to be mostly land- and seascapes.
Adriana Blantyre came forward to welcome them, a step ahead of her husband. She was dressed in burgundy velvet. Its glowing color emphasized the fairness of her face and the amazing depth of her eyes. She looked both fragile and intensely alive.
Blantyre himself greeted Charlotte with a smile, but his glance returned to his wife before he offered his hand.
“I’m so pleased you could come. How are you, Mrs. Pitt?”
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Blantyre,” she replied. “Good evening, Mrs. Blantyre. It is such a pleasure to see you again.” That was not merely good manners. On the brief occasions she had met Adriana, she had found her to be quite different from most of the society women she knew. She possessed a sparkling energy and a dry sense of humor that lay more in what she did not say than in any quick ripostes.
They sat and talked casually: light comments on the weather, the latest gossip, rumors that were of no serious consequence. Charlotte had time to look at the paintings on the walls, and the very beautiful ornaments that graced the mantel and two or three small tables. One was a porcelain figurine of a woman dancing. It had such grace that it seemed as if, at any moment, it would actually move. One of the largest ornaments was a huge statue of a wild boar. It stood with its head lowered, menacing, yet there was a beauty in it that commanded admiration.
“He’s rather fine, isn’t he?” Blantyre remarked, seeing her gaze. “We don’t have boar here anymore but they still do in Austria.”
“When did we have them here?” Charlotte asked, not really because she wanted to know, but because she was interested in drawing him into conversation.
His eyes opened wide. “An excellent question. I must find out. Have we progressed because we no longer have them, or regressed? We could ask that question of a lot of things.” He smiled, as if the possibilities amused him.
“Have you hunted boar?” Charlotte asked.
“Oh, long in the past. I lived for several years in Vienna. The forests around there abound with them.”
Charlotte gave an involuntary little shiver.
“I imagine you would greatly prefer the music and the dancing,” he said with certainty. “It is a marvelous city, one where almost anything you care to dream of seems possible.” He looked for a moment at Adriana, and there was an intense tenderness in his face. “We first met in Vienna.”
Adriana rolled her dark eyes and a flash of amusement lit her expression. “We first
“I remember the moonlight on the Danube!” he protested.
“My dear,” she said, “it was the Adriatic. We didn’t speak, but we saw each other. I knew you were watching me.”
“Did you? I thought I was being so discreet.”
