Cardington Crescent tp-8 Read online

  And William March, the so slightly complacent husband-his face was anything but uncaring. His features were sensitive, ascetic; thin nose, chiseled mouth. Yet there was passion of some sort within him, even if it was more complex than simple adoration or a fire in the blood. He might despise both of those, and yet be just as much their victim.

  Her contemplation was cut off by Eustace March himself sweeping in, immaculately dressed, his round eyes flicking from one to another, seeing who was absent, assuring himself that all was as he wished it. His gaze stopped on Charlotte. He seemed already to have made up his mind how he was going to treat her, and his smile was unctuous and confident.

  “I am Eustace March. Most fortunate you were able to come, my dear Mrs. Pitt. Very fitting. Poor Emily needs someone who knows her. We shall do our best, of course, but we cannot be the same as her own family. Most suitable that you should be here.” His eyes flicked towards Sybilla, and he gave a slight, satisfied smile. “Most suitable,” he repeated.

  The door opened again and the only unrelated guest came in, the one who troubled Charlotte the most. Jack Radley. As soon as she saw him standing elegantly just inside the arch of the lintel, she understood more of the problem than she had before, and felt the coldness grow inside her. It was not so much that he was handsome-although his eyes were amazing-as that he had a grace and a vitality that demanded a woman’s attention. No doubt he was totally aware of the fact; his charm was his primary asset, and he had sufficient intelligence to make the best possible use of it. Meeting his gaze across the short space of the green carpet, she could understand only too well how Emily had used him as a foil against which to win George’s attention again. A flirtation with the man might be enormous fun, and all too believable. Only it might prove more addictive than she had foreseen-and far harder to end than to begin. Perhaps after the heady excitement of a forbidden romance, the exhilaration of the game superbly played, George, familiar and predictable, would be a prize less worth the winning. Might Emily, perhaps without acknowledging it, have been willing to continue the affair? And had Jack Radley seen it as his chance at last for a wife prettier and far, far richer than Tassie March?

  It was an ugly thought, but now that it was in her brain it was ineradicable without another solution to force it out, to disprove it beyond the smallest doubt.

  She glanced at Eustace, standing with his feet a little apart, solid and satisfied, his hands clasped behind his back. Whatever nervousness he might feel was under control. He must have convinced himself he was in charge again. He was the patriarch leading his family through a crisis; everyone would look to him, and he would rise to the occasion. Women would lean on him, confide in him, rest on his strength; men would admire him, envy him. After all, death is a part of life. It must be dealt with with courage and decorum-and he had not been overfond of George.

  She looked next at Tassie, as unlike her father as it was possible to be. She was painfully slender where he was thick, broad-boned; vivid and alive where he was innately immovable, settled and sure.

  Did he really want to marry Tassie to Jack Radley in order to purchase himself the ultimate respectability of a title through the Radley family connections, as Emily had said in her letters? Looking at him now it seemed eminently likely. Although again, it could be no more than the desire of any good father to see his daughter escape the prison of home, to find another man to provide her with an establishment of her own when he no longer could, and with the social status of wife, and that goal and haven of all women, a family.

  Was it what Tassie wanted?

  Charlotte cast her mind back to the time when she had been taken with other young women of her age to parties, balls, and soirees in desperate hope of catching the right husband. If one were well-born enough to “come out,” it was a disaster to finish the Season unbetrothed, the mark of social failure. No one married unless the arrangement were suitable, the proposed partner acceptable to one’s family. Very seldom did one know the person, except in the most perfunctory way; it was impossible to spend time alone together or to speak of anything but trivialities. And once a betrothal was announced it was rarely broken, and only with difficulty and subsequent speculation of scandal.

  But perhaps anything was better than life in perpetual bondage, first to old Mrs. March and then to Eustace. He looked robust enough to live another thirty years.

  The introductions had been effected and she had barely noticed. Now Eustace was chunnering on about his emotions, rocking slightly back and forth and holding his strong, square, and immaculately manicured hands together.

  “We offer you our condolences, my dear Mrs. Pitt. It grieves me that there is nothing we can do to be of comfort to you.” He was making a statement of fact, distancing himself and his family from the affair. He did not mean to become any further involved, and he was making sure Charlotte understood.

  But Charlotte was here to investigate and she had no compunction at all. She might feel profound pity, perhaps even for Eustace, before, all this was over; but she could not afford such tenderness now, when Emily was on the edge of such danger. They hanged women as easily as men for committing murder, and that thought drove all others from her mind.

  She smiled sweetly up at Eustace. “I am sure you underestimate yourself, Mr. March. From Emily’s letters I believe you are a man of the greatest ability, who would rise to assume natural leadership in a crisis. Just the sort of man any woman would turn to when the situation overwhelms her.” She saw the blood rise in his face till he was scarlet to the eyes. She was describing him precisely as he wished to be seen-at any time but this! “And of course your loyalty to your family is beyond anyone to question,” she finished.

  Eustace drew a shuddering breath, and let it out with a splutter.

  Tassie stared aghast, not seeing the irony, and Sybilla sneezed repeatedly into a lace handkerchief.

  “Good evening, Charlotte,” Aunt Vespasia said from the doorway, her eyes for an instant catching some of their old fire. “I had no idea Emily had written so well of Eustace. How charming.”

  Some flicker of movement made Charlotte turn, and she caught a glimpse of black hatred on William’s face that was so swiftly removed she was half convinced it was a trick of the light, a reflection of the gas lamp in his eyes. Tassie moved a step closer to him as if to touch her fingers to his arm, but changed her mind.

  “Family loyalty is a wonderful thing,” Sybilla remarked with an expression that could have meant anything at all, except what it said. “I expect a tragedy like this will show us where our true friends really are.”

  “I am sure,” Charlotte agreed, looking at no one, “we shall discover depths in each other we had not dreamed of.”

  Eustace choked, Jack Radley’s eyes opened so wide he seemed transfixed, and old Mrs. March threw the door open so violently it jarred against the wall and bruised the paper.

  Dinner was grim, conducted mostly in silence, since Mrs. March chose to freeze any conversation at birth by staring fixedly at whoever spoke. Afterwards she declared that in view of the day’s events it would be suitable if everyone retired early. She glowered at Eustace and then at Jack Radley so they could not possibly escape her meaning; then she rose and commanded the ladies to follow her. They trooped obediently to sit for an insufferable hour in the pink boudoir before excusing themselves and going upstairs.

  Emily had gone back to her own room, because naturally Vespasia required hers for herself. Lying hot and tangled in George’s bed in the dressing room, Charlotte was acutely aware of her, wondering if she should get up and go to her, or if it was one of those times when Emily needed to be alone, to work through the stages of her grief as she must.

  She woke for the final time a little late to find the air heavy and humid and the room full of white, flat light. There was a maid standing in the doorway with a tray in her hands. A hideous flood of memory swamped Charlotte, not only of where she was and that George was dead, but that he had had poisoned coffee on his
morning tray. For a moment the thought of sitting here in this same bed and drinking tea was intolerable. She opened her mouth to say something angry, then saw that it was the short, sensible figure of Digby, and the protest died.

  “Good morning, ma’am.” Digby set the tray down and drew the curtains. “I’ll draw you a bath. It’ll be good for you.” She did not allow any question into her tone. It was clearly an order, possibly originating with Great-aunt Vespasia.

  Charlotte sat up, blinking. Her eyes were gritty, her head ached, and she longed for the luxury of hot, clean-tasting tea. “Have you seen Lady Ashworth this morning?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am. The mistress gave her some laudanum last night and said I was to leave her till ten at the soonest and then take her breakfast in. No doubt you’ll be wanting to take yours downstairs with the family.” Again it was not a question. In fact, it was the last thing Charlotte felt like, but it was clearly a matter of duty. And she could certainly be of no service to Emily lying here in bed.

  Breakfast was another almost silent meal taken in a room sharply chilly, since Eustace had preceded them and thrown all the windows open, and no one dared to close them while he was still there, plowing his way with unabated appetite through porridge, bacon, kedgeree, muffins, and toast and marmalade.

  Afterwards Charlotte excused herself and went to the morning room, where she wrote letters for Emily, informing various more distant members of the family of George’s death. That at least would save Emily some pain.

  By eleven she had completed all she could think of, and Emily was still not down, so she decided to begin her pursuit in earnest.

  She had intended to speak to William, to see if she could form a clearer impression of him and confirm in her own mind what that extraordinary expression she had glimpsed the evening before might have been. She learned from the parlormaid that he was likely to be in his painting studio at the far end of the conservatory, and that the police were in the house again-not the inspector who had been the day before, but the constable-and the whole kitchen was set on its ears by his probing and prying into all sorts that was none of his affair. Cook was beside herself, and the scullery maid was in tears; the bootboy’s eyes were bulging out like organ stops, the housekeeper had never been so insulted in all her life, and the in-between maid was giving notice.

  However, she did not get as far as the studio, because just inside the entrance of the conservatory she met with Sybilla, standing silent and motionless staring at a camellia bush. Charlotte gathered her wits and availed herself of this opportunity instead.

  “One could almost imagine oneself out of England altogether,” she observed pleasantly.

  Sybilla was jerked out of her reverie and struggled to find a civil reply to such a banal remark. “Indeed one could.”

  There were lilies blooming a few feet away; their succulent flesh reminded Charlotte of bloodless faces. She did not know how long they would be alone there. She must use the time, and she fancied Sybilla was too intelligent for any oblique approach to succeed. Surprise just might.

  “Was George in love with you?” she asked candidly.

  Sybilla stood frozen for so long Charlotte could hear the condensation dripping from the top leaves near the roof onto the ones below. The fact that she did not instantly deny it was important in itself. Was she debating the truth with herself, or merely the safety of answering? Surely they must all know by now that it was murder, and have expected the question.

  “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I am tempted to say, Mrs. Pitt, that it is a private matter, and none of your concern. But I suppose that since Emily is your sister, you cannot help caring.” She swung round to face Charlotte, her eyes wide, her smile vulnerable and curiously bitter. “I cannot answer for him, and I am sure you don’t expect me to repeat everything he said to me. But Emily was jealous, that is undoubted. She also carried it superbly.”

  Looking at her, Charlotte was aware of intense emotions inside her, of the capability for passion and for pain. She could not possibly dislike her as she had intended.

  “I apologize for asking,” she said brittlely. “I know it sounds gauche.”

  “Yes,” Sybilla agreed dryly, “but you don’t have to explain.” There was no anger visible in Sybilla’s face, only a tightness, a consciousness of both irony and tragedy.

  Charlotte was furious with herself and entangled in confusion. This woman had taken Emily’s husband-whether intentionally or not, in front of the whole house-and perhaps directly caused his death. She wanted to hate her with an unfettered, clean violence. Yet she could so easily imagine herself with similar feelings, and she was unable to sustain rage against anyone the moment she comprehended the capacity for pain. It ruined her judgment and tied her tongue.

  “Thank you.” The words came out clumsily; it was not at all what she had meant for this interview. But she must try to salvage something out of it. “Do you know Mr. Radley well?”

  “Not very,” Sybilla replied with a faint smile. “Papa-in-law wishes him to marry poor Tassie, and he is here for everyone to come discreetly to some arrangement. Although there is not much discreet about Jack-nor, I gather, has there ever been.”

  “Is Tassie in love with him?” She felt a stab of shame for Emily. If she were, and being engineered into a marriage while Jack Radley quite openly humiliated her by displaying his attraction to Emily, then how she must have suffered. Were there any possibility of mistake, Charlotte would have supposed the poison intended for Emily.

  Sybilla was smiling slightly. She reached out and touched the camellia petals. “Now I suppose they will go brown,” she remarked. “They do if you touch them. No she wasn’t, in fact. I don’t think she wanted to marry him at all. She’s something of a romantic.”

  In that one phrase she summed up a host of things: a world of both regret and contempt for girlish innocence, a wry affection for Tassie, and the knowledge that Charlotte must be of a lower social class than herself to ask such a question at all. People like the Marches married for family reasons-to accumulate more wealth, to consolidate trade empires or ally with competitors, above all to breed strong sons to continue the name-never for emotional fancies like falling in love. It passed too quickly and left too little behind. What was falling in love anyway? The curve of a cheek, the arch of a brow, a trick of grace or flattery, a moment of sharing.

  But it was hard to commit oneself to such an intimate and permanent tie without something of the magic, even if it was very often an illusion. And sometimes it was real! Most of the time Charlotte took Thomas for granted, like a profound friendship, but there were many moments when her heart beat in her throat and she still knew him in a crowded street among hundreds by the way he stood, or recognized his step with a lift of excitement.

  “And Mr. Radley, I take it, is a realist?” she said aloud.

  “Oh, I think so,” Sybilla agreed, looking back at Charlotte and biting her lip very slightly. “I don’t think circumstances have allowed him a choice.”

  Charlotte opened her mouth to ask if he might not have become obsessed with Emily all the same, then realized that the question was anything but helpful. Tassie March might inherit a pleasing sum from both her grandparents, but it would pale beside the Ashworth fortune that would now be Emily’s alone. Why look for a motive of love of any degree when that of money was so apt?

  They were at the doorway of the conservatory, and there was nothing more to say. Charlotte excused herself and escaped inside. She had learned nothing that she had not already surmised, except that instinctively she felt an empathy for Sybilla March which threw all her budding theories into turmoil again.

  Luncheon yielded nothing but platitudes. Afterwards, Charlotte spent an hour with Emily, ever on the brink of pressing her for answers and, seeing her white face, changing her mind. Instead she went to find William March, who was still painting in the conservatory. She knew perfectly well that she was interrupting him and he would hate it, but there was no t
ime to nurse her own sensibilities.

  She found him in the studio that had been cleared for him beyond the lilies and vines. He stood with the angular grace of someone who uses his body and is unaware of being observed. There was nothing posed about him: his elbows stuck out, his head was to one side, and his feet were apart. Yet his balance was perfect. The top window was open and there was a whispering of wind in the leaves like water through pebbles on a shore. He did not hear Charlotte’s approach, and she was almost beside him when she spoke. Ordinarily she would have felt a crassness that would chill her stomach to speak to him, but after talking with Sybilla she was even more conscious of the danger in which Emily stood. To any unbiased observer she must look guilty. There was only her word that George had quarreled with Sybilla, whereas everyone had seen George’s affair-and had seen Emily accept attention from Jack Radley. If there was a reason anyone else in the family was involved, she had not yet found it.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. March,” she said with forced cheerfulness. She felt like a fool and a philistine.

  He was startled and the brush jerked in his hand, but she had chosen a moment when it was still far from the canvas. He turned to look at her coldly. His eyes were surprisingly dark gray, and deep-set under the red brows.