Silence in Hanover Close Read online

  “I must ask Mrs. York about Paris,” she said, smiling dazzlingly at no one in particular. “I have never traveled, and I daresay I will not have the opportunity, but I love to hear about other people’s experiences.”

  “Mostly experiences of barbarous food and plumbing that doesn’t work.” Garrard looked at her with irony. “A much overrated occupation, I assure you, Miss Barnaby. You will usually be too hot or too cold, someone will mislay your baggage, the Channel crossing on the steamer will make you ill, and once you reach Calais you will not understand a word anyone says.”

  Charlotte was about to retort with asperity that she spoke French, when she realized she was being teased, and for his amusement, not hers. “Indeed?” She raised her eyebrows. “All experiences I am quite used to in England, except for the Channel crossing. Perhaps you have not lately left London, Mr. Danver?”

  “Bravo!” Aunt Adeline said with satisfaction. “She has your measure, my dear.”

  His smile touched only his mouth. “Indeed,” he said, but he left it more a question than a concession.

  “You shouldn’t spoil people’s dreams, Papa.” Julian began eating again slowly. “Anyway, Miss Barnaby may find things quite different if she comes to travel. I remember Robert’s mother used to enjoy it. She mentioned Brussels in particular.”

  “Was that recently?” Charlotte asked eagerly. “Perhaps things have improved since you were there, Mr. Danver.”

  His face hardened. The light shone on the smooth, tight skin of his cheeks, and Charlotte sensed a powerful anger inside him. Why on earth should he be abraded by something so trivial? No one had proved him mistaken, merely expressed a different opinion. Was his temper so unstable?

  “Perhaps my dreams will never be realized,” she said quietly, “but it is pleasant to have them.”

  “God preserve us from dreaming women!” Garrard raised his eyes to the ceiling, and there was an edge to his voice that Charlotte would ordinarily have called him to account for.

  “It is frequently the only way we can get anything,” Aunt Adeline said, picking up her glass and sniffing at her Chablis. “But of course, you wouldn’t realize that.”

  Everyone looked nonplussed. Felix glanced at Julian. Sonia’s face, with its regular features and flawless skin, registered what Charlotte was convinced was stupidity, although it was totally unfair to judge her so harshly. She was being too partisan towards Harriet and she knew it.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Danver?” Jack said with a frown.

  “Not at all your fault,” she said graciously. “I daresay you are in a similar position.”

  Jack turned to Charlotte, totally confused.

  “What are you talking about, Aunt Addie?” Harriet asked gently.

  “Scheming women.” Aunt Adeline’s eyebrows rose above her bright eyes, too round for beauty. “Aren’t you listening, my dear?”

  “Henderson!” Garrard called loudly. “For heaven’s sake, bring on the pudding, whatever it is!”

  “ ‘Dreaming women,’ Aunt Addie,” Julian said patiently. “Papa said ‘dreaming women,’ not ‘scheming.’ ”

  “Oh, really?” She smiled quite suddenly at Jack. “I apologize, Mr. Radley, do forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive,” he assured her. “One can very easily lead to the other, don’t you think? One begins by dreaming, and without the restraint of morality, isn’t it often too easy to end in working out ways to bring about whatever it is one wants?”

  Charlotte glanced from one face to another, not daring to look at Julian too long. Had they any idea why she was here? Was she perhaps far more transparent than she supposed, and they were merely playing with her?

  “You are overrating people’s morality.” Garrard’s smile still curved his lips upward, but there was derision in it rather than pleasure. “It is more often a perception of what is practical and what is not—although, God help us, there are some hideous exceptions. Thank you, Henderson; put it down, man!” He accepted the steaming treacle pudding and syrup and brandy sauce. “Miss Barnaby, let us talk of something less sordid. Have you any plans to go to the theater? There are plenty of amusing plays on; one is not restricted to Mr. Wagner by any means.”

  The subject had been changed, and she realized that without the most extraordinary ill manners she could not pursue the topic further. Even if she did, it would be profitless now; she would betray herself and ruin all future plans.

  “Oh, I certainly hope to,” she said eagerly. “Is there anything you recommend? It would be lovely to go to the theater, wouldn’t it, Jack?”

  And so the meal concluded and nothing more was said that seemed to have any bearing upon Robert York’s life or death, or the Danver family’s relationship with the Yorks.

  The ladies left the table before the port was brought in, and returned to the withdrawing room. Charlotte had expected the conversation to be stilted, as she sensed what Harriet’s feelings for Felix were. Whether Sonia was aware of them or not, they could not possibly feel at ease with each other. As for Felix himself, Charlotte had not yet decided whether he knew of Harriet’s love, or whether he returned it, and if so, with what sincerity or honor. Aunt Adeline’s sharp tongue and dull hearing were unlikely to help matters.

  Charlotte was ready to do her best to smooth the awkwardness with small talk, but she found her assessment mistaken. Apparently they had all known each other long enough to have found their own accommodation. Either by trial or by instinct, they knew what harmless comments to make on fashion, what gossip of mutual acquaintances to exchange, and which short stories in the London Illustrated News they all had read.

  Charlotte did not have the time, or the money, to take the Illustrated News, nor had she ever heard of their friends. She sat with a smile of polite interest which became more fixed and less natural as the minutes dragged by. Once or twice she caught Aunt Adeline’s eye, saw a flash of amusement there, and looked away.

  Finally Aunt Adeline stood up.

  “Miss Barnaby, you expressed an interest in art. Perhaps you would care to see one of the landscapes in the boudoir? It was my sister-in-law’s favorite room, and she was quite fond of travel. She hoped to visit so many places.”

  “And did she?” Charlotte asked, rising also.

  Adeline led the way. “No. She died young. She was twenty-six. Harriet was barely walking; Julian was seven or eight.”

  Charlotte was touched with a sudden sharp sense of loss for the woman whose life had ended when she was on the brink of so much—a husband and children, one a mere baby. How would she feel, if she had to leave Daniel and Jemima, and Thomas, to manage alone?

  “I’m so sorry,” she said aloud.

  “It was a long time ago,” Aunt Adeline replied half over her shoulder as she crossed the hall, going down a wide passage and opening the door into a lady’s sitting room, known as a boudoir. It was decorated in cream and a muted tone the color of dry sand, with touches of cool liquid green, and one splash of pale coral provided by a single chair. It was most unusual, and rather out of character with the rest of the house. It led Charlotte to a sudden thought that perhaps the young Mrs. Danver had not felt at home here; perhaps she had made this room into an island for herself, contrasting it with the other rooms as strongly as she dared?

  On the wall opposite the fireplace was a painting of the Bosphorus, looking down from the Topkapi Palace on the Golden Horn. Fleets of little boats plied the blue-green waters, and in the distance, blurred by the haze of heat and the dazzle of the sun, loomed the shore of Asia. A strong man might easily swim as far, as Leander had done for Hero. Had young Mrs. Danver thought of that when she chose it?

  “You say nothing,” Aunt Adeline remarked.

  Charlotte was very weary of triteness. She wanted to discard the convention-imprisoned Miss Barnaby and be herself, especially with this woman, whom she liked more and more.

  “What could I possibly say that could meet the loveliness of this, or all the ideas and the dre
ams one might find in it?” she demanded. “I refuse to add any more platitudes to the evening.”

  “Oh my dear child, you are doomed to disaster!” Adeline said candidly. “You will take wings like Icarus, and like Icarus, fall into the sea. Society does not permit women to fly, as you will doubtless discover. For heaven’s sake, do not marry suitably; it may well be like walking into cold water, inch by inch, until it covers your head.”

  Charlotte had a tremendous impulse to tell Adeline she had already married, highly unsuitably, and was extremely happy. Remembering Emily, she held her tongue at the last moment.

  “Shall I marry unsuitably, if I can?” she asked with only half a smile; it was wry, and she knew it, a little painful.

  “I don’t suppose your parents will allow it,” Aunt Adeline demurred. “Mine wouldn’t.”

  Charlotte drew breath to say again that she was sorry, then knew it would sound too condescending. Adeline was not the sort of person for whom one should feel ever the most glancing touch of that pity which has no fellow feeling. She did not believe that Adeline Danver had shrunk from any decision out of cowardice; but even if she had, passing judgment on it now was none of Charlotte’s right, nor desire.

  Instead, she drew a little on truth, remembering what had actually happened to her. “My grandmother is the one who would make the worst fuss,” she said.

  Adeline smiled bleakly, but her eyes held no self-pity. She sat sideways on the arm of one of the big sand-colored chairs. “My mother enjoyed poor health. She played it for every second of obedience and attention she could extract from it. But when I was young we all believed she might die from one of her ‘turns.’ Eventually it was Garrard who called her bluff, for which I shall always respect him. But then it was too late for me.” She took a deep breath. “Of course, had I been a beauty, I should have lived a life of glamorous sin. But having never been asked, I am obliged to pretend that I would not have accepted.” Her brown eyes were brilliant. “Have you noticed how one condemns most self-righteously that which one has never had the opportunity to do?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte agreed with a candid smile. “Indeed I have. It casts a new meaning upon ‘making a virtue of necessity.’ It is one of the hypocrisies that irritates me the most.”

  “You’ll see a great deal of it. You’d do well to hide your feelings and learn to hold conversation with yourself.”

  “I fear you are right.”

  “I am most certainly right.” Adeline stood up. She really was very gaunt, but there was a strength of vitality in her which made her the most interesting person in the house. She looked at the picture again. “Do you know that a courtesan named Theodora rose to be empress of Byzantium?” she said quite casually. “I wonder if she wore outrageous colors. I love royal blues and peacock greens and scarlets and saffron yellow—even the names of them sound good— but I dare not wear them. Garrard wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace. He would certainly stop my dress allowance.” She stared fixedly at the picture as if she could see beyond it. “You know, there was a woman who used to visit this house, once or twice, in the middle of the night, very beautiful, like a black swan. She wore gowns of blazing cerise, not fiery, not a yellow red like flames, but shot with blues. Fearful color on anyone else. I should look like a nightmare in it.” She turned round with a look of faint surprise. “But she looked marvelous. Can’t imagine what she was doing here, except to see Julian, perhaps; but he really should have been more discreet. Garrard would have been furious. Still, since he began courting Veronica York, as far as I know, he has been above reproach, and that is all one can reasonably expect of a man. A man’s past is his own affair. I wish it were so for a woman, but I am not ingenuous enough to believe it ever will be.”

  Charlotte’s mind was whirling. Adeline had said so much, she needed time to disentangle it.

  “I have an aunt whom you would like,” she said, realizing even as she spoke how daring she had become. “Lady Cumming-Gould. She is nearly eighty, but she is marvelous. She believes in women having the vote for Parliament, and she is prepared to fight to help bring it about.”

  “How unselfish of her.” Adeline’s eyes were bright, although there was self-mockery as well as enthusiasm in them. “She will not live to see it.”

  “Don’t you think so? If we all pressed as hard as we could, would not men eventually see the justice of it, and . . .” The expression on Adeline’s face made Charlotte feel naïve, and her voice died away.

  “My dear,” Adeline said, shaking her head slightly. “Of course if we all spoke together we could persuade men, or even force them—but we never do speak together. How often have you seen half a dozen women agree and band together for a cause, let alone half a million?” Her thin fingers smoothed over the velvet back of the chair. “We all live our separate lives, in our own kitchens if we are poor, our withdrawing rooms if we are well-to-do; and we do not cooperate for anything, but see ourselves as rivals for the few eligible and well-financed men that are available. Men, on the other hand, work fairly well together, imagining themselves the protectors and providers of the nation, obliged to do everything they can to preserve the situation precisely as it is—in their control—on the assumption that they know best what is right for us and must see that we get it, come hell or high water.” Her head jerked up. “And there are only too many women who are happy to assist them, since the status quo suits them very well also, and they are invariably the people with power.”

  “Miss Danver! I think you are a revolutionary!” Charlotte said with delight. “You must meet Great-aunt Vespasia; you’d love each other.”

  Before Adeline could respond there were footsteps in the passageway and Harriet appeared at the door, her face pale and her eyes heavy, as if she lacked sleep.

  “The gentlemen have rejoined us. Won’t you come back, Aunt Addie?” Then she remembered her manners. “Miss Barnaby?”

  A look of pity passed over Adeline’s face and vanished so rapidly that Charlotte was almost doubtful she had seen it; perhaps she had only imagined an echo of her own quick understanding. “Of course.” Adeline moved towards the door. “We were admiring your mother’s painting of the Bosphorus. Come, Miss Barnaby, asylum is over for this evening. We must leave Theodora and Byzantium and return to the world and the pressing matters of the present, such as whether Miss Weatherly will become engaged to Captain Marriott this month, or next, or whether perhaps he will evade her entirely”—she shrugged her thin shoulders—“and go to sea in a sieve.”

  Harriet looked puzzled, glancing uncertainly at Charlotte.

  “Edward Lear,” Charlotte hazarded an explanation. “ ‘Their heads were blue and their hands were green,’ or the other way round, and they went to sea in a sieve—I think. But he was also an excellent artist. His paintings of Greece are beautiful.”

  “Oh.” Harriet looked relieved, but no wiser.

  “Well?” Jack asked her as soon as they were alone in the carriage, huddled together in biting cold, breath white as steam. Outside the wind moaned and rattled and the gutters were filled with freezing slush, dark with mud and frozen manure, for once odorless. The horses’ hooves thudded heavily on the ice.

  “All sorts of things,” she replied with chattering teeth. She decided not tell him that Harriet was in love with Felix Asherson; it was young Miss Danver’s own private heartache, and if he had not noticed it, then it should remain so. “They seem to have quite as much money as the Yorks, so that is not a motive. And apparently the two families have known each other for some time, so Julian and Veronica might have fallen in love before Robert died. On the other hand, and this really is most interesting, Aunt Addie—”

  “Whom you like enormously,” he interrupted.

  “Whom I like enormously,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t blind my wits.”

  “Of course not.”

  “It doesn’t! Aunt Adeline said that twice at least she had seen a strange and beautiful woman in the house, at night, up until three
years ago, but not since! She wore an outrageous shade of cerise, always.”

  “You mean both times?”

  “All right, both times. But who was she? Maybe she was the spy, after Julian’s secrets from the Foreign Office. Perhaps she inveigled him.”

  “Then why hasn’t she been seen since?”

  “Perhaps after Robert York’s death she went away, or into hiding. Or maybe he was the one with the secrets, and since he is dead, there is nothing for her anymore. Maybe Julian Danver wouldn’t fall for her—he loved Veronica. I don’t know!”

  “Are you going to tell Thomas?”

  She took a deep bream and let it out slowly. Her hands deep in Emily’s muff were numb with cold. It was so late that she was going to have to stay the night with Emily and go home tomorrow, which would not please Pitt. She could tell him Emily was upset, so she had remained, which was true after a fashion, but she hated lying to him, and it was a lie at heart.

  The alternative was to tell him the truth, and the reasons for pursuing the York murder. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I think so.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” he said doubtfully.

  “I’m an awfully bad liar, Jack.”

  “You amaze me!” he said, his voice rising mockingly. “I would never have guessed it!”

  “Pardon?” she asked sharply.

  “I should say I’d witnessed a bravura performance this evening.”

  “Oh—that’s quite different. It doesn’t count.”

  He started to laugh, and although she was furious, she liked him for it. Perhaps Emily would be all right.

  Charlotte got up before dawn the following morning, and by seven o’clock she was at home in her own kitchen frying prime bacon and fresh eggs, a peace offering from Emily.