Bethlehem Road (21 page)

“Good afternoon,” he said uncertainly.

“Good afternoon, Barclay,” Amethyst replied coolly. She turned deliberately to Charlotte. “Mr. Barclay Hamilton, Miss Charlotte Ellison, who was kind enough to call in person to express her condolences.”

Barclay’s face softened in recognition of a generosity.

“How do you do, Miss Ellison.” Then before she could reply, he turned back to Amethyst and the moment was gone. “I apologize for calling at an inconvenient time. I brought a few papers regarding the estate.” He held them forward in his hand, not so much offering them to her as indicating the reason for his presence.

“Very good of you,” Amethyst replied. “But unnecessary. I was not anxious. You could have sent them and avoided the journey.”

He looked as if he had been slapped; then his mouth hardened. “They are not of a nature I’d trust to the penny post. Perhaps I did not make myself clear: they are land deeds and rental agreements.”

If Amethyst heard the edge in his voice she either refused to acknowledge it or did not care. “I am sure you are better equipped than I to deal with such things. You are, after all, the executor.” She did not offer him tea or make the slightest accommodation for him.

“And it is part of my duty to see that you are aware of the circumstances, and understand the properties you now own.” He was staring at her, and at last she met his eyes. The blood rushed up in her cheeks, then fled again, leaving her paler than before.

“Thank you for doing your duty.” She was polite now, but remote to the point that it became rudeness. “Of course, I would have expected no less of you.”

His tone was equally cold and punctilious. “Perhaps you will now do your own and look at them.”

Her body stiffened and her head came up. “I think you forget to whom you speak, Mr. Hamilton!”

There were white lines round his mouth forced by the pressure of his feeling, and the effort of self-control. When he spoke his voice shook. “I never forget who you are, madame. Never from the day we met have I forgotten most exactly who and what you are, as God is my judge.”

“If you have accomplished all you came to do,” she said very quietly, very levelly, “then I think it would be better if you were to leave. I wish you good afternoon.”

He inclined his head, first to Amethyst, then to Charlotte. “Good afternoon, ma’am; Miss Ellison.” And he turned sharply and marched out, pulling the door behind him with a bang.

For an instant Charlotte considered pretending nothing had happened, but even as the idea crossed her mind she knew it was ridiculous. Before the interruption she and Amethyst had been talking together as friends; there had been a thread of understanding that would make such a charade impossible. It would be a deliberate rebuff, like walking away.

The seconds ticked by, and Amethyst did not move. Charlotte waited until the silence was oppressive, then she leaned across, poured the dregs of Amethyst’s tea into the slop basin and filled her cup again from the pot. She stood and went to her.

“You had better have this,” she said gently. “It is obviously a distressing relationship. It would be pointless of me to offer my help—there is probably nothing anyone can do—but please accept my sympathy. I too have relatives I find exceedingly trying.” She was thinking of Grandmama, which was hardly the same, but when she had been young and living at home, it was difficult enough.

Amethyst regained control of herself and accepted the tea, sipping it in silence for some moments.

“Thank you,” she said at last. “You are most considerate. I apologize for subjecting you to such an embarrassing confrontation. I had no idea it would be so—so awkward.” But further than that she said nothing, offering no explanation.

Charlotte did not expect one. It seemed that Barclay Hamilton had so violently resented her marrying his father that even after all these years he had not forgiven her. Perhaps it was a form of jealousy, perhaps a devotion to his mother which would not permit him to let anyone take her place. Poor Amethyst; the ghost of the first Lady Hamilton must have stalked her all her married life. At that moment Charlotte conceived a fierce dislike of Barclay Hamilton, in spite of all she saw in his face that she might otherwise have found peculiarly pleasing.

She was about to help herself to another cake when the parlormaid returned and announced Sir Garnet Royce. He followed her so closely it was impossible for Amethyst to deny that she would see him, and from the calm certainty in his eyes he apparently took it for granted that he was welcome. His brows rose when he saw Charlotte, but it did not disconcert him.

“Good afternoon, Amethyst; good afternoon!”

“Miss Charlotte Ellison,” Amethyst supplied. “She has been good enough to come in person to express her sympathy.”

“Most kind.” Garnet nodded briefly. “Most kind.” He had acquitted courtesy, and he ignored her now as he would have a butler or a governess. “Now Amethyst, I have completed the arrangements for a memorial service. I made a list of people it would be suitable to invite, and those who would be offended if they were not included. You can read it, of course, but I am sure you will agree.” He did not make any move to pull it out of his pocket. “And I have chosen an order of prayer, and several hymns. I asked Canon Burridge if he would conduct. I am sure he is the most appropriate.”

“Is there anything left for me to do?” There was a slight edge to her voice, but not enough to be exceptional in the circumstances. Charlotte would have resented anyone else’s taking charge so completely, but perhaps she had become too independent since her marriage and her slide down the social scale. Garnet Royce was doing what he believed best for his sister—his face reflected decisive, practical goodwill—and Amethyst raised no objection, although for an instant a frown flickered across her brow, and she drew breath as if to say something contrary but changed her mind.

“Thank you,” she said instead.

Garnet went to the table, where Barclay Hamilton had left the papers he had delivered. “What are these?” He picked them up and turned them over. “Property deeds?”

“Barclay brought them,” Amethyst explained, and again the shadow of anger and pain crossed her face.

“I’ll look at them for you.” Garnet made as if to put them in his pocket.

“I should be obliged if you would leave them where they are!” Amethyst snapped. “I am perfectly able to look at them myself!”

Garnet smiled briefly. “My dear, you don’t know anything about them.”

“Then I shall learn. It would seem an appropriate time,” she retorted.

“Nonsense!” he said, good-natured but totally dismissive. “You don’t want to be bothered with the details and administration of the estate, and with learning new terms. Law is very difficult and complex for a woman, my dear. Allow your man of affairs to ascertain that everything is in order, as I am sure it is—Lockwood was meticulous about such things—and I will explain to you what it means, what you have, and advise you what steps to take, if any. I doubt there will be much to alter. You should have a holiday, get away from this tragedy, calm your mind and your spirits. It will be good for you in all ways. Believe me, my dear, I still remember my own bereavement clearly enough.” His face became shadowed with a memory he did not share except by implication, and Amethyst offered no sympathy. The loss must have been old, or crowded out by her own so current wound.

“Spend a few weeks in Aldeburgh.” He looked at her, his distress replaced by solicitude again. “Walk by the sea, take the fresh air, visit with pleasant people and talk of country ways. Get away from London until all this business is over.”

She turned away from him and looked out of the small space in the window that was clear beneath the blinds.

“I don’t think I wish to.”

“Be advised, my dear,” he said quite gently, putting the papers in his pocket. “After what has happened you need a complete change. I’m sure Jasper would say the same.”

“I’m sure he would!” she said instantly. “He always agrees with you! That does not make him right. I do not wish to leave at the moment, and I will not be pushed!”

He shook his head.

“You are very stubborn, Amethyst. One might almost say willful; not an attractive quality in a woman. You make it very difficult to do what is best for you.”

He reminded Charlotte of her father with his blind care, his determination to protect, and at the same time his complete unawareness of the root of one’s feelings, of what one might be thinking or dreaming that had nothing to do with the ordinariness of the conversation.

“I appreciate your concern, Garnet,” Amethyst said, obviously struggling to keep her patience. “I am not ready to leave yet. When I am I shall ask you, and if your invitation is still open, then I shall be grateful to accept. Until then I am remaining here in Royal Street. And please put those deeds back. It is time I learned what they are and how to administer the properties myself. I am a widow and had better learn how to conduct myself like one.”

“You conduct yourself excellently, my dear. Jasper and I will take care of your affairs and counsel you, and of course all legal and financial matters will be dealt with by people of those professions. And in time you may wish to marry again, and we shall keep suitable people in mind.”

“I do not wish to marry again!”

“Of course you don’t, now. It would hardly be seemly, even if it were desired. But in a year or two ...”

She swung round to face him. “Garnet, for goodness’ sake listen to me for once! I intend to become familiar with my own affairs!”

He was exasperated by her obduracy, her blind refusal to be sensible, but he maintained his even tone and composed expression in spite of all provocation. “You are being most unwise, but I daresay when you have had a little more time you will realize that. Naturally you are still suffering the first shock of your bereavement. I do know how you feel, my dear. Of course, Naomi died from scarlet fever”—his brow furrowed—“but the extraordinary sense of disbelief and loss is the same, whatever the cause.”

For a moment Amethyst’s eyes opened wide in surprise, then some memory returned, confusing her further, and incredulity and pity filled her face. But he seemed to read none of it. He was absorbed with his own thoughts and plans.

“I shall call again in a day or two.” He turned to Charlotte, recalling her presence. “Very courteous of you to have come, Mrs.—er, Miss Ellison. Good day.”

“Good day, Sir Garnet,” she replied, standing up also. “I am sure it is time I was leaving.”

“Did you come in a hansom?”

“No, my carriage is outside,” she said without a flicker, exactly as if she were in the habit of having such an equipage at her disposal. She turned to Amethyst. “Thank you for giving me so much of your time, Lady Hamilton. I came to offer my condolences, and I find I have enjoyed your company more than most people’s. Thank you.”

For the first time since Barclay Hamilton had been announced, Amethyst smiled warmly.

“Please call again—that is, if you do not mind.”

“I should be delighted to,” Charlotte accepted, without knowing if it would be possible, and without the faintest hope it would further the cause of Florence Ivory and Africa Dowell. In fact her visit had done nothing except confirm that Lockwood Hamilton was exactly what he seemed, and must surely have been killed in mistake for someone else, presumably Vyvyan Etheridge.

She bade them good-bye and climbed into Aunt Vespasia’s carriage feeling that she had accomplished nothing, except possibly the elimination of a certain avenue of thought. She would find it very hard to believe Amethyst Hamilton had had anything to do with her husband’s death. She might ask Aunt Vespasia to inquire further about Barclay Hamilton; perhaps they might learn something of his mother. But it was a very slender thought. Sharper and blacker was the figure of Florence Ivory. The sooner she formed some personal impression of her, Charlotte felt, the better.

“Walnut Tree Walk, please,” she instructed the coachman, before realizing she should not have said please; after all she was instructing a servant, not requesting a friend. She had forgotten how to behave.

Zenobia Gunne sat in her own carriage with many of the same misgivings as Charlotte had had in Vespasia’s. She was not in the least afraid of Mary Carfax, but she did not like her, and she knew the feeling was returned with some fervor. It would take an extraordinary reason to bring Zenobia to call upon her unannounced, and Mary would believe nothing less. The last time they had met, at a ball in 1850, Mary had been an imperious and fragile beauty, betrothed satisfactorily but unromantically to Gerald Carfax. Zenobia was single. They had both fallen in love, in their wildly different ways, with Captain Peter Holland. To Mary he had been comely and dashing, and she had suddenly seen romance leaving her forever as she tied herself to Gerald; to Zenobia he had been a man too poor to afford a wife, but the most immense fun, full of laughter and imagination, his mouth always ready to smile, sensitive to the beautiful, and to the absurd, a brave, tender and funny man she had loved with all her heart. He had been killed in the Crimea, and she had never loved anyone since with the same depth, or without at some moment seeing Peter’s face in his and feeling all the old dreams return. And with every other man at all the best, the tenderest times, it was Peter’s eyes she saw, Peter’s laughter she heard.

It was after that that she had first gone to Africa, scandalizing her family, as well as Mary Carfax. But what did it matter, with Peter dead? Better to be alone than live a pretense with someone else.

Now as the carriage sped through the spring streets towards Kensington she racked her brains for a credible tale. It would be hard enough even for a long-standing friend and confidante to learn anything useful that might throw light on the murder of Vyvyan Etheridge; she would learn nothing at all if she did not even get through the door! Did Mary remember that ball? Did she know that Peter had loved Zenobia, and that she would have persuaded him that she did not care about money or Society, had he not died on the battlefield of Balaklava? Or did Mary still imagine it might have been she he would have chosen, had he the freedom to choose anyone?