Silence in Hanover Close Read online

  “Thank you, Dulcie.” Pitt looked at her worried face. “You did the right thing to tell me. I shan’t repeat it to Mr. Redditch unless I have to. Now show me to the door, and no one will notice your being here.”

  “Yes sir. Thank you sir. I . . .” She hesitated a moment, as if she would say more, then changed her mind and bobbed a brief curtsy before leading him out across the large hall and opening the front door.

  A moment later he was outside in the silent close, ice crackling under his boots. Who was this woman in cerise, who apparently had never called again after Robert York’s murder, and why had no one else spoken of her?

  Perhaps she did not matter; she might be a friend of Veronica’s, a relative with eccentric or unacceptable behavior. Or she might be just what the Foreign Office was concealing and hoping he could not trace—a spy. He would have to speak to Dulcie again, when he knew a little more.

  4

  EMILY RETURNED HOME the day after Boxing Day. The Ashworth town house was large and extremely gracious. George had had much of it redecorated to please Emily’s taste the first year after they were married, and he had been characteristically generous. Nothing that added charm or personality had been denied, and yet the overall effect was not ostentatious in the least. There were no ornate French pieces, no gilt or curlicues; the furniture was Regency and Georgian, in keeping with the architecture of the house itself. Emily had argued with George at the time about his parents’ love of tassels and fringes and had banished most of the indifferent family portraits to unused guest rooms. The result had both surprised and pleased George, who had compared it with satisfaction to the crowded houses of their friends.

  Now, as Emily stood in the hallway while the servants obeyed her instructions, carrying in cases, preparing luncheon for Edward and herself, she felt a void of loneliness close round her as if the house were alien. She drew in her breath, wanting to tell them to stop, that she would be returning to Charlotte’s much smaller house. It was positively cramped by comparison, with secondhand furnishings, and located in a narrow, unfashionable street. But Emily had been happy there; for a few days she had entirely forgotten about her new state of widowhood. Physical differences had been irrelevant, they had all been together, and if she woke once or twice in the night in her bed alone and thought of Charlotte lying in a warm bed with Thomas just beyond the wall, those were short moments, quickly banished by returning sleep.

  Now the contrast was like a newly whetted blade, making the spacious air of this house, of which she was sole mistress, feel chilly, as if cold water were touching her skin.

  It was ridiculous! The servants had fires burning in every grate, and there were the sounds of quick, busy feet in the passage, the clink of silver in the dining room and the chatter of maids on the landing, and the green baize door swung with a faint bump as a footman came through.

  She walked quickly up the stairs, undoing her coat as she went. Her lady’s maid appeared and took it from her, along with her hat; she would unpack the cases, sort out what needed laundering, and hang up the gowns. The nurserymaid would do the same for Edward.

  Downstairs again, the cook knocked on the boudoir door and inquired for instructions about dinner, and whatever Emily might care for on the menu over the next few days. There was nothing Emily had to do herself but make decisions about things that hardly mattered. That was the trouble. Day after day stretched before her, empty of any necessary or interesting occupation: all the bleak January days she might fill with needlework, writing letters, playing the piano to an empty room, or messing around with brushes and paints and failing to create what she envisioned.

  Whatever she did, she did not want to do it alone.

  But most of the people she knew were merely acquaintances; to consider them friends would be to devalue the word. Their company would disturb the silence without giving her a sense of companionship, and she was not yet so desperate that she craved any presence at all, regardless of its quality.

  In the sensible part of her mind was the realization that company of any value meant relationships, and Emily was not sure what relationship she was prepared for, outside of her family. Although her mother was also fairly recently widowed, Emily felt she had little in common with her. Caroline Ellison had been married a long time, and had been comfortable enough by everyday standards. But she had discovered an aloneness in widowhood that was not at all unmixed with exhilaration. For the first time in her life she answered to no one, neither her autocratic father, her ambitious mother, nor her agreeable but essentially opinionated husband. Even her mother-in-law was not the dictatorial old matriarch she had been while her son was alive. At last Caroline was free to express her own ideas. On more than one occasion she had startled the old lady into a paroxysm of rage by telling her to mind her own business, something she would never have dared do when Emily’s father was alive. It would simply not have been worth the ensuing unpleasantness, nor the impossibility of explanation.

  But then Emily’s father had died peacefully after a short illness, and he had been sixty-five. George had been murdered while scarcely in his prime, and Emily had never really lacked the freedom to do things as she wished anyway. The restrictions placed upon her were those of Society, and she was more tightly bound by them now George was dead than she had been while he was alive. Her hollow feeling of loneliness frightened her; it would probably only get worse, and she might be driven to fill her life with pointless activities and silly conversation with people who cared nothing for her.

  The alternative seemed remarkably attractive: to pursue her friendship with Jack Radley. At the moment she did not feel it would be too hard to force out of her mind the sort of questions her more rational self would ask: Was there more to him than charm, humor, the ability to make even quite ordinary pastimes seem fun and to understand her so well that explanations were seldom necessary, and justification never?

  Liking was fine, for friends. But Emily knew that in a man one was to marry there must also be trust, the knowledge that the important values were shared, that if she were ill or in distress, if she were maligned by others he would support her. And if he were unfaithful—the thought hurt with almost physical sharpness, as the wounds George had dealt were not completely healed—if he were unfaithful it would be meaningless, and he would be discreet enough that she would never know about it, and above all neither would her friends.

  And there must be respect. What could she possibly share with someone who did not possess the courage to fight for what he believed, or the largeness of heart to be moved to pity? She would quickly grow to despise a man whose imagination never went beyond his own concerns.

  She caught herself with a start of horror and embarrassment. What on earth was she thinking? Marriage? She must be mad! Jack needed to marry into money; she knew that from his presence at Cardington Crescent. That was why Uncle Eustace had originally invited him: as a suitable husband for Tassie, he was to provide the family connections, and she the money. But of course Emily herself was many times wealthier than Tassie March, now she had inherited George’s estate. And that ugly thought must be forgotten. She was a wealthy widow. The fortune hunters would begin to come, circling like vultures round the dying, waiting their turn: not too soon, or they would appear unseemly and spoil their chances, not too late, or they would be beaten to the prize.

  The thought was so repellent it was sickening. Her first time in the marriage market, Emily had enjoyed the game. She had everything to win, and she had won. She had deserved to; she had played the game superbly. She had all the innocence and arrogance of inexperience.

  Now she felt so much less sure of herself. She had tasted failure, very recently, and she had everything to lose.

  Was Veronica York in the same position? Had she turned over these same thoughts in her mind? Her husband had been murdered, and presumably she was heir through him to whatever fortune the Yorks possessed. Did she now regard admirers with suspicion, in her imagination devising tests for th
em, to see if their love was truly for her or merely for her means?

  What monumental arrogance! Jack Radley had never mentioned marriage, nor given Emily the slightest indication that it was what he intended or wished. She must control her thoughts, or she would end up saying something idiotic in front of him and betraying herself completely, which would make this entire situation impossible!

  If only there were an urgent crime that she and Charlotte could come to grips with, something real and undeniably important, that would drive all this ridiculous speculation and dreaming out of her mind! How could any woman of the least intelligence occupy all her thoughts with giving orders to servants who knew perfectly well what to do anyway? The parlormaid could have easily organized the running of a household for one woman and a small boy!

  So it was with very mixed and somewhat turbulent emotions that Emily greeted the butler the following morning when he came into the withdrawing room to announce that Mr. Jack Radley presented his compliments. He was in the morning room and wished to know if Lady Ashworth would receive him.

  She swallowed and sat still for a moment, composing her features; it would not do for the butler to see her confusion.

  “What an odd time to call,” she said casually. “There is a matter he was looking into for me; perhaps he has some news. Yes, Wainwright, ask him to come in.”

  “Yes m’lady.” If Wainwright noticed anything at all it was absent from his smooth face. He turned slowly and went out of the room, as though he were part of a procession. He had been with the Ashworths since he was a boy, and his father before him, as head gardener. Emily still felt uncomfortable around Wainwright.

  Jack came in a moment later, unhurriedly, as decorum required, but there was a lightness to his step and his face was eager. As always he was fashionably dressed, but he wore his clothes with such ease his elegance seemed a happy accident rather than something contrived. It was a look men paid fortunes to achieve.

  He hesitated on the edge of telling her she looked well, discarding that lie in favor of a fleeting smile, and the truth.

  “You look as bored as I am, Emily. I hate January, and it’s almost here. We must do something terribly interesting, to make it pass quickly, while we are too occupied to notice.

  In spite of herself she was moved to smile. “Indeed? And what do you suggest? Pray do sit down.”

  He obeyed with elegance and looked at her candidly. “We must pursue our detecting,” he replied. “Surely Charlotte will go back to the Yorks, won’t she? I got the distinct impression she was as keen as we were. In fact, was it not her idea?”

  It was the ideal excuse, and Emily seized it without thinking.

  “Yes it was! I’m sure she would welcome a chance to call again.” She did not need to add that it would require Jack’s assistance; they both knew that. No single woman in the position Charlotte had pretended to would press such an acquaintance herself. And anyway, Charlotte had not the financial means even to come in a carriage, let alone suitably dressed. Emily could provide those things, but not an escort. Charlotte must be prompted, in case she had forgotten about the Yorks in the excitement of Christmas.

  “I will send her a note,” she added aloud. “And it is always possible Pitt will learn something further, so we should keep abreast of that too.”

  Jack looked thoughtful, gazing at the floor. “I have tried, extremely discreetly, to sound out one or two acquaintances about the Danvers, but I discovered very little. The father, Garrard Danver, is fairly senior in the Foreign Office, which may be how they came to know the Yorks so closely. Although Society is surprisingly small. Everyone knows everyone else, at least by sight or repute, if not to speak to—but of course that is a different thing from calling upon them. There were two sons: one was killed in the Indian Army some time ago, the other is Julian Danver, who may or may not marry Veronica York, depending upon Pitt’s inquiries.”

  Emily gave a little snort of irritation. She was developing an empathy with Veronica York which made the concern about her reputation all the more infuriating.

  “I wonder if anyone has bothered to consider whether he is good enough for her!” she said tartly. Instantly Emily regretted the words; she would have bitten her tongue rather than say something so betraying of her own loathsome suspicions. Please God he would not make the connection! She opened her mouth to rush into speech and smother it, then was afraid he would realize that was what she was doing. Instead she brazened it out.

  Jack looked a little startled. “You mean his reputation?”

  Now she had no answer. To expect a man’s reputation to have the same purity as a woman’s was absurd; she would mark herself as eccentric to the point of idiocy if she suggested such a thing.

  But the alternative was the truth, and that was worse. But how could she back out of this discussion without being caught in a lie? She could feel the hot blood in her cheeks. She must say something! The silence positively prickled.

  “Well, they might be concerned that he was a man of honor as much as he seems,” she said, scrambling for something that sounded better, more specific. “Some men have most disreputable habits. Perhaps you don’t know, but having assisted in the investigation of one or two crimes, I have learned of some terrible things, which were quite unknown to their families.” She forced herself to look at Jack. She was talking too much.

  “Would it have anything to do with Robert York’s murder?” he asked. His eyes revealed nothing.

  “No,” she said slowly. “Unless, of course, he killed him.”

  “Julian Danver?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he was already Veronica’s lover?” He took her point. “Yes, that’s possible.” He said it with assurance. Apparently the idea did not seem farfetched to him. Divorce would not have been open to Veronica, even with grounds such as proven adultery, let alone with no grounds at all! Emily knew that. Only men could divorce for unfaithfulness, and even then the woman was ruined. Women were expected either to prevent such a misfortune or else to put up with it with grace. And if Veronica herself were cast aside as an adulteress, then Julian Danver would lose all prospect of a career if he were to marry her; in fact, they would not even be received in Society. To all intents and purposes, they would cease to exist.

  “Do you suppose he was so infatuated with her that he lost his head, his morality, enough to do that?” she asked, not because she thought Jack could possibly know but because she wanted to test his opinion of Veronica. Did he see her as a woman who could inspire such a reckless passion?

  The answer was the one she had feared.

  “I don’t know Danver,” he answered seriously. “But if he was capable of it, then Veronica would be just the woman to waken such a feeling.”

  “Oh.” Emily’s voice was tight, a little high. “Then we had better pursue the matter forthwith, for justice’s sake if nothing else.” She sounded businesslike, very crisp. “I shall write to Charlotte to follow up on the invitation to visit the winter exhibition, and you must do what you can to obtain an invitation for her to meet the rest of the people who might be involved.” Her frustration boiled up suddenly and erupted despite her intentions. “I wish I were not shut up here like a hermit! It’s damnable! I could do so much if only I were free to socialize—oh hellfire!”

  He looked startled for a moment, but there was laughter in his eyes. “I don’t think you’re ready for the Honorable Mrs. Piers York’s withdrawing room yet, Emily,” he said wryly.

  “On the contrary,” she snapped, her face hot. “I’m over-ready!”

  But there was nothing she could do, and her choice lay between accepting it with a good grace or an ill one. After another few minutes of general chatter Jack took his leave with a commission to contrive the necessary invitation. Emily was left alone again to go over and over in her mind all that she had said, changing a word or two, an inflection here and there to make it more gracious, less revealing. She wished she could go back and conduct the whole
meeting again, and this time be more casual, perhaps occasionally say something witty. Men liked women who amused them, as long as they were not too clever or too spiteful.

  Could she possibly be in love with Jack? That would be indecent so soon after George’s death. Or was it just that she liked him, and she was bored, and so crushingly lonely?

  It was six days later, past New Year’s and into January with all its bleak and desperate cold, snow lining the streets and freezing fog creeping up like a white presage of death, clogging the throat, devouring light, distorting sound, and isolating each person who ventured out into it, when Emily’s carriage called for Charlotte in the late afternoon. It took her to Emily’s house, where she changed into a royal blue silk dinner gown while Emily and her maid fussed over her. Then, wrapped in wool and fur, she rode in Jack’s carriage to the house of Garrard Danver and his family in Mayfair, at the farther end of Hanover Close.

  The carriage moved slowly through the swirling fog, and Charlotte could barely see the faint luminescence of gas lamps above, one moment clear yellow and the next swathed and blinded with dirty white rags of vapor.

  She was glad when they pulled up and it was time to begin being Elisabeth Barnaby again. It was easier to take the plunge into activity than to sit hunched up in the dark turning it over in her mind and worrying about all the things that might go wrong. If they were to catch her out, how could she possibly explain herself? It would be ghastly: she would be stuck there wriggling like a moth on a pin while everyone stared at her and thought how absurd and tasteless she was. She would have to say she had lost her wits—it was the only possible excuse.