Paragon Walk Read online

  “Of course.” Lucinda colored faintly. “I did not mean to imply anything but mischance.”

  Charlotte remained cool.

  “I believe he is political rather than romantic.”

  “That should be interesting,” Miss Laetitia said hopefully. “I wonder if he has written anything about the poor or social reform?”

  “I believe so.” Charlotte was pleased to have caught. Miss Laetitia’s interest. She rather liked her, especially since Vespasia had told her about the long past scandal. “They are the best things about which to try to stir people’s consciences,” she added.

  “I’m sure we have nothing to be ashamed of!” It was a stout elderly lady who spoke, her body marvelously corsetted into a peacock-blue dress and her face above square-jawed and reminding Charlotte of a Pekinese dog, although vastly larger. She guessed her to be the Misses Horbury’s permanent guest, Lady Tamworth, but nobody introduced her. “Poor Fanny was a victim of the times,” she went on loudly. “Standards are falling everywhere, even here!”

  “Do you not think it is up to the Church to speak to people’s consciences?” Miss Lucinda asked with a slight flaring of the nostrils, although it was not clear whether her distaste was for Charlotte’s political views or Lady Tamworth having brought up the subject of Fanny yet again.

  Charlotte ignored the remark on Fanny, at least for the time being. Pitt had not said she must avoid political discussion, although of course Papa had outrightly forbidden it! But she was not Papa’s problem now.

  “Perhaps it is the Church that has stirred his will to speak in the way he is best equipped?” she suggested innocently.

  “Do you not feel he is then usurping the Church’s prerogative?” Miss Lucinda said with a sharp frown. “And that those called of God for the purpose would do it far better?”

  “Possibly,” Charlotte was determined to be reasonable. “But that is not to say others should not do the best they can. Surely the more voices the better? There are many places where the Church is not heard. Perhaps he can reach some of those?”

  “Then what is he doing here?” Miss Lucinda demanded. “Paragon Walk is hardly such a place! He would be better employed somewhere else, in a back street, or a workhouse.”

  Afton Nash joined them, his eyebrows raised in slight surprize at Miss Lucinda’s rather heated comment.

  “And who are you consigning to the workhouse, Miss Horbury?” he inquired, looking for a moment at Charlotte, then away again.

  “I’m sure the back streets and the workhouses are already converted to the need for social reform,” Charlotte said with a slight downward curve of her mouth. “And indeed for the ease of the poor. It is the rich who need to give; the poor will receive readily enough. It is the powerful who can change laws.”

  Lady Tamworth’s eyebrows went up in surprize and some scorn.

  “Are you suggesting it is the aristocracy, the leaders and the backbone of the country, who are at fault?”

  Charlotte did not even think of retreating for courtesy’s sake, or because it was unbecoming in a woman to be so contentious.

  “I am saying there is no purpose in preaching to the poor that they should be helped,” she replied. “Or to the workless and illiterate that laws should be reformed. The only people who can change things are the people with power and money. If the Church had already reached all of them, we would have achieved our reform long since, and there would be labor for the poor to earn their own necessities.”

  Lady Tamworth glared at her and turned away, affecting to find the conversation too unpleasant to continue, but Charlotte knew perfectly well it was because she could think of no answer. There was a delicate type of pleasure in Miss Laetitia’s face, and she caught Charlotte’s eye for a moment before also leaving.

  “My dear Mrs. Pitt,” Afton said very carefully, as if speaking to someone unfamiliar with the language, or a little deaf. “You do not understand either politics or economics. One cannot change things overnight.”

  Phoebe joined them, but he disregarded her entirely.

  “The poor are poor,” he continued, “precisely because they do not have the means or the will to be otherwise. One cannot denude the rich to feed them. It would be insane and like pouring water into the desert sand. There are millions of them! What you suggest is totally impractical.” He managed a smile of condescension for her ignorance.

  Charlotte seethed. It took all the self-will she possessed to master her face and affect an air of genuine inquiry.

  “But if the rich and the powerful are unable to change things,” she asked, “then to whom does the Church preach, and to what purpose?”

  “I beg your pardon?” He could not believe what he had heard.

  Charlotte repeated herself, not daring to look at Phoebe or Miss Lucinda.

  Before Afton could form a reply to such a preposterous question, another voice answered instead, a soft voice with a delicate intonation of accent.

  “To the purpose that it is good for our souls to give away a little, so that we may enjoy what we have, and still sleep easily at night, because we can then tell ourselves we have tried, we have done our bit! Never, my dear, in the hope that anything will actually change!”

  Charlotte felt the color sweep up her face. She had had no idea at all that Paul Alaric was so close and had heard her opinionated baiting of Afton and Miss Lucinda. She did not look at him.

  “How very cynical, Monsieur Alaric.” She swallowed. “Do you believe we are all such hypocrites?”

  “We?” his voice rose very slightly. “Do you go to Church and feel better for it, Mrs. Pitt?”

  She was caught in complete indecision. Certainly, she did not. Sermons in church, on the rare occasions she went, made her squirm with anger and a desire to argue. But she could not say so to Afton Nash and hope to be even remotely understood. And it would only hurt Phoebe. Damn Alaric for making a hypocrite of her.

  “Of course I do,” she lied, watching Phoebe’s face. The anxiety ironed out of it, and she was immediately rewarded. She had nothing in common with Phoebe, and yet she felt an ache of pity for her every time her plain, pale face came to mind. Perhaps it was only because she imagined all the hurt Afton could do with his hard, thrusting tongue.

  She turned to face Alaric and was shaken all over again by the humor in his eyes and the precise understanding of what she had said and why. Did he know she was not one of the rich, that she was married to a policeman and had barely enough to make ends meet, that her beautiful dress was a gift from Emily? And that the whole argument about giving to the poor was academic for her?

  There was nothing but a charming smile on his face.

  “If you will excuse me,” Afton said stiffly. He almost pulled away Phoebe, who walked beside him as if her limbs were bruised and weak.

  “A generous lie,” Alaric said gently.

  Charlotte was not listening to him. Her mind was on Phoebe, and the painful, almost distant way in which she walked, holding herself in from Afton’s touch. Was it just years of hurt; the instinctive withdrawal, as the burnt hand moves away from fire? Or did she know something new, perhaps only by instinct as yet? Was some memory stirring within her of a change in Afton, a lie remembered now, maybe something between him and Fanny—no, that was too obscene to think of! And yet it was not impossible! Perhaps in the dark he had not even known who it was, simply a woman to hurt. And he loved inflicting pain, that she knew herself as surely as any animal knows its predator by sight and smell. Did Phoebe know it, too? Was that why she walked afraid on the landing of her own house and called for the footman in the night?

  Alaric was still waiting, composed, but a pucker of question between his brows. She had forgotten what he had said and was obliged to ask.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A most generous lie,” he repeated.

  “Lie?”

  “To say that you feel better for going to church. I cannot believe it was the truth. You have not the enchantment o
f mystery, Mrs. Pitt. You are an open book. All your fascination lies in wondering what devastating truth you will deliver next. I doubt you could lie successfully, even to yourself!”

  What did he mean by that? She preferred not to think. Honesty was her only skill, and her only safety against him.

  “The success of the lie depends a great deal upon how much the hearer wishes to believe it,” she replied.

  He smiled very slowly, very sweetly.

  “And therein lies the entire foundation of Society,” he agreed. “How terrifyingly perceptive of you. You had better not tell anyone else. You will ruin the whole game, and then what will there be left for them to do?”

  She swallowed hard and refused to meet his eyes. With great care, she took the conversation back to the previous point.

  “I lie very well, sometimes!”

  “Which returns me to the sermons in church, does it not? The comfortable lies we repeat over and over again because we wish them to be true. I wonder what Lady Ashworth’s poet will have to say? Whether we agree or not, I think the faces of the audience will be vastly entertaining, don’t you?”

  “Probably,” she answered. “And I dare say his words will provide fuel for indignation for weeks to come.”

  “Oh indeed. We shall have to make a great deal of noise to convince ourselves all over again that we are right and that nothing really can or should be changed.”

  Charlotte stiffened. “You are trying to make me seem a cynic, Monsieur Alaric, and I find cynicism very unattractive. I think it is a rather facile excuse. One pretends nothing can be done; therefore, one can do nothing and feel perfectly justified. I think it is only another kind of dishonesty, and one I like even less.”

  He suddenly surprised her by smiling broadly and quite without disguise.

  “I didn’t think any woman could disconcert me, and you have just done it. You are quite appallingly honest; there is no way of entangling you in yourself.”

  “Did you wish to?” Why on earth should she feel so pleased? It was quite ridiculous!

  Before he could reply, they were joined by Jessamyn Nash, her face as blemishless as a camellia and her cool eyes sweeping over Alaric before settling on Charlotte. They were wide, blazing blue, and intelligent.

  “How charming to see you again, Mrs. Pitt. I had no idea you were going to visit us so often! Is not your own circle of society missing you dreadfully?”

  Charlotte stared back at her without a flicker, smiling into the marvelous eyes.

  “I hope so,” she said lightly. “But I shall support Emily whenever I can, until this tragic business is resolved.”

  Jessamyn had more composure than Selena. Her face softened, the full mouth easing into a warm smile.

  “How generous of you. Still, I dare say you may enjoy the change?”

  Charlotte took her point perfectly, but kept up her innocence. She would match smile for smile if it choked her. She had no gift for guile, but she had always known that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

  “Oh quite,” she agreed. “We have nothing so dramatic where I live. I don’t think there has been a rape or a murder for years! In fact, maybe never!”

  Paul Alaric tore out his handkerchief and sneezed into it. Charlotte could see his shoulders shaking with laughter, and the color burned up her face in exhilaration.

  Jessamyn was white. Her voice, when it came, was as brittle as glass splinters.

  “And perhaps not soirees like this, either? You must permit me to advise you, as a friend! One should circulate, speak to everyone. It is considered good manners, especially if one is in some degree or other a hostess, or connected with the hostess. You should not allow it to become obvious that you prefer one guest to another— however much you may do so!”

  The shot was perfect. Charlotte had no choice but to leave, the heat flaming in her neck and bosom that Alaric might already imagine she had sought his company. And what was worse, her embarrassment now could only confirm it. She was furious and swore she would disabuse him of the idea that she was one of those stupid women who spent their time pursuing him! With a stiff smile she excused herself and sailed away, head so high she nearly fell over the step between the two reception rooms, and was still regaining her balance when she collided with Lady Tam-worth and Miss Lucinda.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered in apology. “I do beg your pardon.”

  Lady Tamworth stared at her, obviously noting her high color and the clumsiness of her deportment. Her thoughts regarding young women who drink too much in the afternoon were apparent in her face.

  Miss Lucinda was on quite another tack. She grasped Charlotte fiercely with her plump little hand.

  “May I ask you, quite confidentially, my dear, how well does Lady Ashworth know the Jew?”

  Charlotte’s eyes followed Miss Lucinda’s to a slender young man with olive complexion and dark features.

  “I don’t know,” she said immediately, glancing at Lady Tamworth. “If you like, I shall ask her?”

  But they were not abashed.

  “I should, my dear. After all, she may not be aware who he is!”

  “No, she may not,” Charlotte agreed. “Who is he?”

  Lady Tamworth looked nonplussed for a moment.

  “Why—he’s a Jew!” she said.

  “Yes, so you said.”

  Lady Tamworth snorted. Miss Lucinda’s face dropped, her eyebrows puckered.

  “Do you approve of Jews, Mrs. Pitt?”

  “Wasn’t Christ one?”

  “Really, Mrs. Pitt!” Lady Tamworth shook with outrage. “I accept that the younger generation has different standards from our own.” She stared once more at Charlotte’s still glowing neck. “But I cannot tolerate blasphemy. Really, I can’t!”

  “That is not blasphemy, Lady Tamworth,” Charlotte said clearly. “Christ was a Jew.”

  “Christ was God, Mrs. Pitt,” Lady Tamworth said icily. “And God is most certainly not a Jew!”

  Charlotte did not know whether to lose her temper completely or laugh. She was glad Paul Alaric was out of earshot.

  “Isn’t He?” she said with a slight smile. “I never really thought about it. What is He then?”

  “A mad scientist,” Hallam Cayley said from over her shoulder, a glass in his hand. “A Frankenstein who didn’t know when to stop! His experiment has got a little out of hand, don’t you think?” he stared around the room, his face mirroring a disgust so deep it hurt him.

  Lady Tamworth chewed her teeth in impotence, her rage too great for words.

  Hallam regarded her with contempt.

  “Do you really imagine this was what He intended?” he finished his glass and waved it round the room. “Is this bloody lot in the image of any God you want to worship? If we’ve descended from God, then we’ve descended a hell of a long way. I think I’d rather join Mr. Darwin. According to him, at least we’re improving. In another million years we might be fit for something.”

  At last Miss Lucinda found speech.

  “You must speak for yourself, Mr. Cayley,” she said with difficulty, as if she, too, were a little drunk. “For myself, I am a Christian, and I have no doubts whatever!”

  “Doubts?” Hallam stared into the bottom of his empty glass and turned it upside down. A single drop fell out onto the floor. “I wish I had doubts. A doubt would at least include room for a hope, wouldn’t it?”

  Seven

  THE SOIREE WAS a success; the poet spoke brilliantly. He knew exactly how much to titillate with excitement, to hint at daring and change, to provoke thoughts of the wildest criticism of others, and yet at the same time never to insist on the truly unpleasant disturbance of conscience in oneself. He provided the thrill of intellectual danger without any of its pain.

  He was received rapturously, and it was obvious he would be talked about for weeks to come. Even next summer the affair would be recalled as one of the more interesting events of the Season.

  But after it was all
over and the last guests had taken their leave, Emily was too tired to savor her victory. It had been more of a strain than she expected. Her legs were tired from so much standing, and her back ached. When she finally sat down, she found she was shaking a little, and it no longer seemed to matter a great deal that she had given a party that was a resounding success. The realities had not changed. Fanny Nash was still violated and murdered, Fulbert was still missing, and none of the answers were any kinder or easier to bear. She was too weary to delude herself any longer that it was some stranger with no claim on their lives. It was someone in the Walk. They all had their trivial or sordid little secrets, the ugly sides of life that most people could continue to hide forever. Of course, they were guessed at; no one but a fool thought the surface smile was all there was to anyone. But for other people, where there was no crime, no investigation, they could be allowed to fester silently in the dark places where they had lain hidden, and no one willfully uncovered them. There was a mutual conspiracy, to overlook.

  But with the police, especially someone like Thomas Pitt, whether the real crime was discovered or not, all the other grubby little sins would be turned over sooner or later. It was not that he would wish to, but she knew from the past, from Cater Street and Callander Square, that people have a habit of betraying themselves, often in their very anxiety to conceal. It is so easily done, only a word or a panicky, thoughtless action. Thomas was clever; he sowed seeds and allowed them to grow. His subtle, humorous eyes saw so very much—too much.

  She lay in her chair, stretching her back, feeling the stiffness in it. Could the child within her make so much difference already? There was a dragging, an awkwardness. Perhaps Aunt Vespasia was right and she would have to loosen her stays. That would make her look thick. She was not tall enough to carry the extra weight gracefully. Funny, Charlotte had looked all right when she was carrying Jemima. But then Charlotte had not had fashionable clothes anyway.

  Across the room George was sitting fiddling with the newspaper. He had congratulated her on the party, but now he was avoiding looking at her. He was not reading it; she knew that from the angle of his head, the curiously fixed stare he held. When he was really reading, he moved, his expression altered, and every so often he would rattle the sheets as if he were having a conversation with them. This time he was using the paper as a shield, to avoid the necessity of speaking. He could at once be both absent and present.