Bedford Square Read online

  “How nice to see you, my dear. I was rather hoping you would come. I am bored to weeping with the season this year. There doesn’t seem to be anybody with the slightest flair for the unpredictable. Everyone says and does precisely what I expect them to.” She moved one shoulder in elegant dismissal. “They even wear what I expect. It is very fashionable, but of no interest whatever. It is frightening. I begin to fear I am growing old. I seem to know everything … and I hate it!” She raised her eyebrows. “What is the point in being alive if you are never taken completely by surprise, all your ideas scattered like leaves before a gale, and you have to pick them up and put them together again and find the picture is new and different? If you are not capable of passion or surprise, you really are dead.”

  She surveyed Charlotte critically, but with affection.

  “Well, you are wearing something I had not predicted. Where on earth did you get that gown?”

  “It is one of yours, Aunt Vespasia.” Charlotte leaned over and kissed her delicately on the cheek.

  Vespasia’s eyebrows rose even higher.

  “Good heavens! Please be good enough not to tell anyone. I should be mortified.”

  Charlotte did not know whether to be hurt or to laugh. She wanted to do both. “Is it really so awful?”

  Vespasia waved her to stand back a little, and regarded the gown critically for several moments.

  “The pale blue doesn’t suit me,” Charlotte explained. It was the addition of the green which seemed to be the focus of Vespasia’s displeasure.

  “It would if you added cream,” Vespasia replied. “That green is far too heavy. You look as if you had fallen into the sea and come out covered in weed!”

  “Oh! A sort of drowned look—like the Lady of Shalott?” Charlotte asked.

  “Not quite as peaceful,” Vespasia said dryly. “Don’t tempt me to go further. Let me take that and find you something better.” She rose to her feet, leaning a little on her silver-topped cane, and led the way upstairs to her dressing room. Charlotte followed obediently.

  It was while Vespasia was looking through various swathes and shawls and other accessories that she said quite casually, “I suppose you are concerned about that peculiarly unfortunate matter in Bedford Square? As I recall, you were fond of Brandon Balantyne.”

  Charlotte found herself blushing quite hotly. That was not at all the way she would have phrased it. She looked at Vespasia’s elegant back as she fingered a piece of silvery cream silk and considered its suitability. If Charlotte were to argue over Vespasia’s choice of words she would only draw attention to her self-consciousness. She took a deep breath.

  “I am upset about it, yes. I went to see him. Please don’t tell Thomas; he doesn’t know. I … I went on impulse, without thinking about it, except that I wanted him to have some … sense of friendship …” She faltered to a stop.

  Vespasia turned around holding the cream silk. It was soft as gauze, faintly shimmering. “This will lighten it,” she said with decision. “This piece as a fichu, and this around the bustle and down the front. It will warm the whole effect. Of course you went to see him because you care for him, and you wanted him to know that that was not changed by this new circumstance.” Her face become more grave, touched with a gentleness. “How was he?” She looked very carefully at Charlotte, and her own perception of distress became deeper as she read Charlotte’s feelings. “Not well …”

  “He is being blackmailed,” Charlotte replied, surprised how sharply it troubled her to say so, as if she were learning it for the first time herself. “Over something he did not do, but he cannot prove it.”

  Vespasia remained without speaking for several moments, but it was transparent in her face that it was the silence of thought, not of indifference or a failure of understanding.

  Charlotte had a sudden, chill feeling that Vespasia knew or guessed something which she herself did not. She waited with a tightening of her throat.

  “For money?” Vespasia said, almost as if she did not expect an answer in the affirmative.

  “Not for anything,” Charlotte replied. “Just … just to show that the blackmailer has the power, so far …”

  “I see.” Vespasia draped the silk over Charlotte’s gown and tied it expertly. She fiddled with it, pulling it here and there, rearranging it, but her fingers moved absentmindedly. “There,” she said when she had finished. “Do you care for that more?”

  Charlotte surveyed herself in the glass. It was a great deal better, but that was hardly important.

  “Yes, thank you.” She turned. “Aunt Vespasia …”

  But Vespasia was already walking away towards the landing and the stairs down. She held the banister to steady herself, something she would not have done a year or two before. Charlotte had an acute sense of her fragility, and painful knowledge of how much she loved her. She wanted to say so, but it might be overfamiliar; after all, they were not really related. And this was not the time.

  At the bottom of the stairs in the hall, Vespasia started back towards the morning room, now full of sunlight.

  “I have a friend,” she said thoughtfully. “Mr. Justice Dunraithe White.”

  Charlotte caught up with her and they went into the pale, bright room. There were early white roses in the green bowl on the center table, and the sun through the leaves outside made shifting patterns on the carpet.

  “Theloneus tells me he has made some very … odd … decisions lately, quite out of the character he has hitherto shown. He has delivered opinions which at the very kindest could be described as eccentric.” Theloneus Quade was also a judge, and a longtime admirer of Vespasia. Twenty years before he had been deeply in love with her, and would have married her had she accepted him, but she had felt the difference in their ages to be too great. He was still in love, but now it was also a deeper friendship.

  She sat down on her favorite seat near the window and let the stick go. The black-and-white dog thumped its tail with pleasure. Vespasia looked steadily at Charlotte.

  “You think he is ill … or …” Charlotte began, then realized her slowness of perception. “You think he is being blackmailed too!”

  “I think he is under very great pressure of some sort,” Vespasia said more exactly. “I have known him for many years, and he has always been a most honorable man, scrupulously so. His responsibilities to the law are central to his life, second only to his love for Marguerite, his wife. They have no children, and perhaps have consoled each other for this and grown closer than many others.”

  Charlotte sat opposite her, rearranging the newly glamorous gown. She was hesitant to ask the next question, but it burned in her mind, and her concern for Balantyne gave her a boldness she would not normally have had.

  “Are these decisions in favor of anyone in particular, or any interests?”

  A flash of understanding lit Vespasia’s eyes, and wry sadness.

  “Not yet. According to Theloneus these are merely erratic, ill thought out, quite unlike his usual careful consideration and weighing of all factors.” She frowned. “It is as if his mind were only half on what he is doing. I was most concerned about him. I thought perhaps it was illness, which it may be. I saw him two or three days ago, and he looked most unwell, as if he had slept very little. But there was more, a sense of abstraction in him. Only when you told me of Brandon Balantyne did the thought of blackmail occur to me.” She moved her hands fractionally. “There are so many things a man may not be able to disprove once the suggestion is made. One only has to look at this ridiculous Tranby Croft affair to see how easily ruin may come simply by a misplaced word, a charge, whether it can be proved or not.”

  “Is Gordon-Cumming going to be ruined?” Charlotte asked. “And is he innocent?” She knew Vespasia would be at least to some degree acquainted with the principal characters concerned, and very probably know a good deal about their private lives.

  Vespasia shook her head slightly. “I have no idea whether he is innocent, but it is perfe
ctly possible. The whole matter should never have arisen. It was handled appallingly badly. When they believed he was cheating they should have called an end to the game, without requiring him to sign a piece of paper promising never to play cards again, which was tantamount to an admission of guilt. Condemning who was present, somebody was bound to speak of it, and then scandal was inevitable. With two wits to rub together they could have foreseen that.” She shook her head with impatience.

  “But there’s got to be something we can do about this threat of blackmail!” Charlotte protested. “It is monstrously unjust. It could happen to anyone.”

  Vespasia was very tense, unaccustomed lines of anxiety in her face.

  “What worries me is what this blackmailer may ask for. You say he has made no demand of Balantyne yet?”

  “No … except a snuffbox … and that was found on the body of the man who was murdered on his doorstep.” She found her own fingers clenching. “Thomas knows all about the murder, of course, because it is his case. But that is not all ….”

  “There is worse,” Vespasia said quietly; it was more of a conclusion than a question.

  “Yes. Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis is being blackmailed too. Also for something in the past in which he cannot prove his innocence.”

  “What, precisely?”

  “Taking the credit for another man’s act of courage.”

  “And General Balantyne?”

  “That he panicked in the face of the enemy and allowed someone else to conceal it for him.”

  “I see.” Vespasia looked deeply troubled. She understood only too bitterly how such rumors, no matter how softly whispered, how passionately denied, would make a man’s life nigh to intolerable. Less vicious charges than either of those had at best driven men to retire from all public life and move to some remote spot in the wilder parts of Scotland, or even to leave Britain altogether and become expatriates without a purpose. At worst, they had caused suicide.

  “We must fight,” Charlotte urged, leaning forward a little. “We can’t let it happen.”

  “You are right,” Vespasia agreed. “I have no idea whether we can win. Blackmailers have all the advantages.” She rose to her feet, again using the cane. The dog uncurled itself and stood up also. “They use methods we cannot and would not,” she continued. “They fight from the shadows. They are the ultimate cowards. We shall have luncheon, then we shall call upon the Whites.” She reached for the bell rope and pulled it. When it was answered she informed the butler of her plans, for him in turn to tell the cook and the coachman.

  Dunraithe and Marguerite White lived in Upper Brook Street, between Park Lane and Grosvenor Street. Charlotte and Vespasia alighted from the carriage in the bright mid-afternoon sun. Vespasia knew all the proper etiquette for calling on “at home” days, once or twice a month. Anyone with a suitable degree of acquaintance might come. All “morning calls” actually took place in the afternoon, from three o’clock until four for the most formal and ceremonial, from four to five for those less formal, and from five until six for those which were quite intimate or between close friends.

  However, there were certain advantages to high birth and the passage of time. When Vespasia chose to break the rules no one complained, except those who would like to have done so themselves but did not dare to, and they made their comments very quietly—and if overheard, denied them.

  Fortunately, this was not an “at home” day. Mrs. White was without company, and a somewhat startled maid took Vespasia’s card and returned a few moments later to say that Mrs. White would receive them.

  Charlotte was too concerned about the issues which had brought them there to take anything but the slightest notice of the house or its furnishings. She had a fleeting impression of heavy, gold-framed pictures, rather a lot of carved oak and curtains with fringes.

  In the withdrawing room, Marguerite White stood near a chaise longue covered with cushions, rather as if she had just risen from it. She was slender and pale, with a mass of dark hair. Her eyes were hollow, heavy lidded, her brows delicate. She was a beautiful woman, but Charlotte’s most powerful impression was that she was not strong and the slightest exertion would tire her. She was dressed in a dark muslin gown, which was obviously not what she would have chosen had she expected callers.

  A greater surprise was that her husband was standing behind her. He was only a little taller than she, a trifle portly now, and broad shouldered. But in spite of his ample frame and genial features, he looked as if he, too, had been ill. There was no color in his skin, and the shadows under his eyes were dark.

  “Vespasia! How charming of you to call.” He made an effort to be courteous, and a genuine good nature was unmistakable in his voice. Nevertheless, he could not entirely conceal that he was puzzled to see her, and of course he was unacquainted with Charlotte.

  Vespasia greeted him with warmth and made the appropriate introductions. All the usual remarks were made about health and weather, and tea was offered, although no one expected it to be accepted at this hour.

  “Thank you,” Vespasia said with a smile, sitting down on the wide sofa and arranging her skirts with the merest flick of her hand, indicating that she fully intended to stay.

  Marguerite looked startled, but there was nothing she could do about it short of extreme rudeness, and it had been apparent from her first response to Vespasia that she was fond of her, and perhaps a little in awe.

  Charlotte sat down nervously. What could she possibly say in this absurd but desperately important situation? Something flattering but innocuous. She glanced out of the window.

  “What a delightful garden you have, Mrs. White.”

  Marguerite looked relieved. It must be a subject that gave her pleasure. Her face eased of some of its tension; her eyes brightened.

  “Do you like it?” she asked eagerly. “I wish it were larger, but we do what we can to give the illusion of space.”

  “You succeed admirably.” Charlotte was able to say it with sincerity. “I should love to have such a skill, or perhaps I should say an art? I doubt it is something which can be learned.”

  “Would you like to see it more closely?” Marguerite offered.

  It was precisely what Vespasia had most hoped for and intended to bring about were she able. Charlotte had accomplished it within the first few minutes of their visit.

  Charlotte turned to her. Enquiring if it were acceptable was a necessary courtesy.

  Vespasia smiled, but casually, as if it were of no importance.

  “By all means, my dear. I should go while the sun is out and you can enjoy it to its very best advantage. I am sure Mrs. White will be willing to allow you to look at it closely enough to see the delicacy of the details.”

  “Of course,” Marguerite agreed. “It is one virtue most gardeners possess: we all love to show off, but we seldom mind sharing our ideas.” She turned to her husband. “You will excuse us, won’t you? I seldom have anyone here whose interest is more than an indulgence of my passion. I am so tired of polite nothings.”

  “Of course, my dear,” he said gently, and his regard for Charlotte changed in that moment. It was clear in his expression, the way his shoulders relaxed as he moved to open the French doors for them both, that she had in that one gesture become a friend.

  When they were gone—two graceful figures across the small strip of green lawn, outlined by the background of trees, urns of pale flowers reflecting the sunlight, white petunias dramatic against the dark flames of cypress—he closed the doors and came back across the room to Vespasia.

  “You look tired, Dunraithe,” she said gently.

  He remained standing, half turned away from her.

  “I was awake a little last night. It is nothing. It happens to all of us now and again.”

  She must not waste precious time while Marguerite was occupied outside. He would certainly not tell her anything once his wife returned. He had always done everything in his power to protect her from distress of any
kind. And yet if Vespasia were precipitate he would regard it as intrusive and be offended. Not only would she not have helped but she would also have damaged a friendship which she valued.

  “It does,” she agreed with a self-deprecatory little shrug. Then an idea came to her. There was no time to weigh its merits. The garden was small, and Charlotte could keep Marguerite outside only a given length of time. “I have lost some sleep myself recently.”

  He wished to be courteous, but his attention was only half upon her, and in spite of his efforts, she was aware of it. Theloneus was right, Dunraithe White was deeply worried about something.

  “Oh … I’m sorry,” he said with an absentminded smile. It did not occur to him to enquire as to what the cause might be. She was going to have to be far more blunt than she had wished.

  “It is the curse of an imagination,” she responded.

  That was something to which he could not easily think of a casual reply.

  “Of an imagination?” His attention was real at last. “Are you afraid of something, Vespasia?”

  “Not for myself,” she answered, meeting his eyes. “For my friends, which I suppose in the end is the same thing. We are given pain or happiness through those we care for.”

  “Of course.” He said it with sudden intensity. “It is the core of what we are. Without the ability to love we would be half alive … less. And what we have would be of no value … no joy.”

  “And no pain,” she added.

  His eyes clouded, and there was a fierce tenderness in his face. Suddenly his emotions were raw. She had always known he loved Marguerite, but in that moment she saw something of the depth of it, and the vulnerability. She could not help wondering if Marguerite White was really as fragile as he believed. But it was a judgment only he had the right to make.

  “Yes, of course,” he said in little more than a whisper. “The two are inseparable.”

  She waited, but he did not go on. Either he was too absorbed in his own feelings or he believed that asking her about herself would be intrusive.