A Song Twice Over (86 page)

Gemma smiled. ‘You must mean the two dozen or so who happened to be at the Braithwaites.'

Linnet smiled too, tight-lipped and cold. ‘That
is
the whole of Frizingley, Gemma. I defended you as best I could – naturally.'

‘Why, Linnet? There was no need.'

‘Why?' She leaned forward, setting the lavender frills swaying, her face, above their fragrant softness, pinched hard with anger. ‘I'll tell you why. In order to defend my brother's memory.'

Gemma allowed a moment to pass, not pleasantly, and then, leaning forward too, said quietly and slowly, ‘As I told you, Linnet, there was no need. Tristan knew far more about my relationship with Daniel Carey than you do. He did not grudge it to me then. And he would not grudge it to me now. I am very sure of that.'

‘Oh yes – why not? And I hope it is a comfort to you. Since my poor brother had no choice – had he? – in what he grudged or didn't grudge, or anything else? He did as you told him – always – even to picking up diseased urchins …'

‘That will do, Linnet.'

‘Yes. I believe it will. Since it was
I
who told him to marry you. He would not have thought of it for himself. So, by that reckoning, it was
I
who killed him.'

‘If you like to think so, Linnet. Although, in fact, you think nothing of the kind. Frankly I find no profit in this conversation – which we have had several times before, in any case.'

‘Profit? You will have little of that, my girl, in your new marriage. If it ever takes place.'

‘Is that what they are saying at the Braithwaites?'

Linnet laughed and made an airy gesture, stirring her frills. ‘That – yes. And feeling sorry for you, of course – as one does for a woman who lets her money go to her head. And sorry for me – as one who must live with the consequences …'

Gemma placed her hands, palms down, on the desk-top – a gesture of her father's – her face thoughtful and alert, as if a moment of decision, long overdue, had been reached and must therefore be dealt with forthwith.

‘Yes, Linnet. I think we should talk about that. There is no reason why you should go on living with me, you know, should you find it awkward or in any way unpleasant –'

‘Are you throwing me out, Gemma?' There was a note of warning in her voice and a note of satisfaction, for it might well be to her advantage, at this delicate moment, to appear a victim.

‘No. I am simply putting the position to you frankly. I am going to marry Daniel Carey. There is no doubt about that. You do not approve. How, then, can you possibly share a home with us?'

‘What shall I do then, Gemma? Go as a governess?'

‘If you wish. Although there is no need. You still have the allowance my father made you, as well as the allowance you inherited from Tristan. It is more than enough to live on …'

‘In a small house in a quiet backwater, with a tabby cat.'

‘Your life is your own, Linnet. It is up to you what you make of it.'

Another moment passed.

‘I see. When would you like me to leave?'

‘When your arrangements are completed.'

‘And your arrangements, Gemma?'

Gemma smiled, warm again and soft with the memory of Daniel. ‘I am in no rush. I have at least a year. Perhaps two. I shall take my time. Make haste slowly, I think – and surely.'

She smiled again and would have liked to end there, not in harmony but not in sworn enmity either. But Linnet could not bear that softness in her, that deep and joyful glow of love remembered and certain, which had made her almost beautiful.

‘How very fortunate,' she said, patting her frills, ‘that there is no price on Mr Carey's head. Otherwise we would have our work cut out to know which one of us should claim it. You for sending him off to York. Or me …?'

‘Yes, Linnet …?'

‘Yes, Gemma.' Her smile had the bite of a sword raised in elegant defiance. For what had she to lose now? What pleasure was left to her but to give hurt? ‘I was in Miss Adeane's shop, you see, this afternoon – oh, making no purchases myself, just encouraging dearest Magda to overspend her pin-money – when a diseased little urchin ran in – of the kind you inflicted on my brother … Begging for sixpence, Miss Adeane said, and in the Irish language too which none of
us
could understand. Naturally. Who does? Miss Adeane herself appeared to be having trouble with it and taking more pains – I thought – than one would have expected for sixpence. One supposes Mr Carey, with his fine social conscience and his devotion to the common man, must understand such languages very well?'

‘I believe he does.'

‘Yes,' Linnet nodded, as if she had been complimented on her quick wits. ‘That occurred to me, very nearly at once. It occurred to Captain Goldsborough too when I stepped over to the hotel to ask his opinion. He was most interested. I knew he would be. He had good reason.'

‘Had he?'

‘Oh yes.' And Linnet, with a smile of malicious sweetness, waited a moment before telling her what it was. ‘Yes. I knew Christie would go after him because he is jealous.'

Gemma looked puzzled for a moment as if she had lost the thread. Linnet supplied it.

‘Jealous, my dear – jealous as all hell, I do assure you – of your precious Daniel and Miss Adeane. Now – dear Gemma – what do you think of that?'

Very little, it seemed.

‘It ought to surprise you,' said Linnet, rushing on. ‘A man like Christie. And a woman of her type and station. He has been her lover for years – not that you will have noticed it, dear Gemma, such things being so far beneath you – we all know that. No grand romance like yours, of course, with Daniel. Just the sordid, carnal variety that goes on between powerful men and women who need the money. And Christie is very carnal. Adeane was very poor. He bought her – which is just as it should be, except that – well – no matter how astonishing one may find it – and it
does
astonish me – he appears to have developed feelings for her.
Feelings.
Fancy that.'

‘She is very beautiful,' said Gemma calmly. ‘And clever. Any man might care for her.'

‘Yes. Your Daniel for one, I believe.'

‘I know, Linnet – all about it. He told me.'

‘Good. I am delighted. So you will understand, then, why Christie should be in such a frenzy. The fascinating Miss Adeane. One can hardly credit it.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because he is a Goldsborough,' she said curtly, bitterly, ‘and she is a common trollop. Because he has a name and a pedigree and she has neither. Because he is a man of education and manners and she is the daughter of an Irish mountebank and a French parlourmaid …'

‘I see,' said Gemma.

‘Do you? He would cut out his tongue, of course, before admitting it. But I know.'

‘Yes. I am sure you do.'

‘I do. One has only to catch the tension in him when her name is mentioned. I have mentioned her name to him in order to catch it. One has only to take note of the wariness in his manner when she enters a room. I have noted it. And other things. Poor Christie. He does not like it, you see. I believe he is very much ashamed of himself. And rightly so.'

‘Rightly?'

‘Of course. It demeans such a man, Gemma, to care for such a woman. He knows that.'

Gemma smiled. So did Linnet.

‘Would you like him to care for you, Linnet?' Gemma enquired, her smooth oval face and steady brown eyes wearing an expression which, in her father's case had been known as bluntness and shrewdness; self-assurance in hers. And having asked her question she waited calmly for a reply.

‘I would like him to marry me,' Linnet flung at her.

‘Yes. So I imagined.'

‘So
you
imagined? And what do you know of such things? He is very rich, these days. More so than one might think. He made money in the sugar trade which is how he became acquainted with Adolphus Moon, and he has made money here. More than enough to redeem his misdemeanours which have been many and various, I do assure you. He was sent down, for instance, from Oxford
and
dismissed by his regiment. He has kept low women of all creeds and colours quite openly and sometimes two or three at a time, like a veritable sultan. He has set himself up in dubious establishments, some of them far worse than the Fleece. He has lost caste and respectability …'

‘And you wish to help him regain it?'

‘Of course. I am a forgiving, Christian woman. Ask Uriah Colclough if I said one word to reproach him when he began to pay his court – if that is what one could call it – to Marie Moon. Ask Magda Braithwaite how patiently I bear the insult she heaps upon me. Ask your sainted mother, or Uriah Colclough's sainted mother, how very obligingly – and for
years
– I have fetched and carried their embroidery silks and smelling salts and endured their tedious conversation. And Adolphus Moon, if he were able, would have a word to say about how very forebearing and discreet I am. I am an angel, Gemma. Everyone knows it. So, naturally, I can forgive every one of Christie's trespasses. I cannot even
see
them, my dear. The dazzle of his gold quite obscures my vision. His also, it seems. For if he wishes to reclaim his position in society he needs the right wife to help him.'

‘Yourself?'

‘Of course. My pedigree, particularly on my father's side, is a match for his.'

‘I see.' Gemma smiled again, John-William's shrewdness and, increasingly, his authority, very clear in her eyes. ‘So when you went to tell Captain Goldsborough about Daniel, who were you really seeking to punish, Linnet?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘A simple enough question. Did you wish to punish the captain for preferring Miss Adeane? Or Miss Adeane for being preferred? Or me for being loved when you have never thought I deserved it?'

‘Loved?' Linnet gave a harsh, croaking laugh that had anger and contempt and pain in it. ‘What nonsense, Gemma. Loved, indeed. The man is after your money. Like Tristan.'

‘No, Linnet.'

‘My dear – one would not expect you to admit it. Even to yourself. Not yet. But, nevertheless – my poor, rich little widow – so it is.'

‘If it pleases you to think so.'

But nothing pleased Linnet any longer. Nothing remained to her. No faith in anyone. No hope. No joy in life.

‘I loved my brother,' she said suddenly. It was all she had left. All she had ever had. And, so long as he had been there to plan for and care for and fight for, it had been enough.

‘He loved you too,' said Gemma, quickly understanding.

‘Dear God – of course he did.' Linnet did not intend to be patronized. ‘I was everything to him. And you were …'

Nothing? Knowing it was not true and hating that knowledge, resenting it with all the long-stored bitterness of her heart, she swallowed and blinked rapidly, determined not to give this calm, plain little woman – half her size – the satisfaction of seeing her tears.

‘My brother was the best man in the world. And as Christie Goldsborough demeans himself with Cara Adeane so are you demeaning my brother with Daniel Carey …'

Gemma rose to her feet, quietly.

‘And you too, Linnet,' she said, ‘with Ben Braithwaite.'

It had been spoken. Linnet's exquisite, porcelain face became chalk, her light, laughing eyes blank and wild both together, a cornered and therefore a dangerous beast.

‘You have been listening to his wife,' she said. ‘And why not? You have so much in common. Poor Magda. Another plain, awkward,
passionate
woman like yourself, married for her father's money.'

‘I dare say. Does that excuse you?'

‘
Excuse
me.' Fury released itself suddenly in Linnet like a shower of sparks. ‘How dare you blame me?
You
– after the crimes you committed against my brother? I commit no adultery, Gemma Dallam. Ben Braithwaite – my lover – does that. As you did. I have no husband to deceive. So I am blameless. Blameless. I am his victim – and yours. He uses me – as you and your mother have done – for his convenience. As everyone does …'

‘Are you not in love with him, then?'

Linnet made a strangled exclamation of contempt. ‘Love? What a fool you are. Love is for those who can afford it. Or for persons of low degree who have no thought beyond self-indulgence. If he had married me and given me the place in society I wanted – and deserved – oh yes, I would have loved him then. Dear God – how I would have loved him. No man would have had a wife more dedicated to his service. No man. He knew it. He knew – make no mistake – how clever and skilful and devoted I would have been. He even desired me. He married a rich fool. He continued to desire me. And when the time came that no one else did, I went to his bed because – yes – because I had nowhere else to go. Because it was better than nothing. Or so I thought. So I convinced myself …'

Pausing she seemed almost to gulp for breath and then, to her own distress and Gemma's, gave a long, shuddering sigh. ‘Yes. Dear Magda is quite right to be jealous and to weep her lonely nights away. I am his mistress. And I loathe it, Gemma – loathe it – loathe it – so that my skin crawls even as I am inviting him to touch me …'

‘Linnet …'

‘Oh no – don't stop me now. You wanted to see me shamed and brought down, I dare say – like everyone else. Why not? I would bring
you
down, Gemma, if I could. You know that. I have tried – haven't I? – often enough. With Tristan, whose affection for you was a knife forever in my back. With Daniel Carey, who might have been on his way to Liverpool by now, without seeing you, had I not interfered and delayed him. What a farce life is. Really. What a tangle. Poor Magda. And poor me. I have the man. She has the husband. We share him and he gives to each the very things we do not desire. She wants his passion. I want his position. I want to sit in his drawing-room and receive his guests. She wants to lie in his bed and suffer the indignity of his attentions, as I have to do. Except that to her they would be a pleasure. They are no pleasure to me.'