Callander Square (5 page)

“Little to tell,” Christina began instantly. “The gardeners were digging to plant a tree, or some such, and discovered these dead bodies of babies. Naturally they sent for the police—”

“How do you know?” Emily inquired.

“My dear, from the servants, of course! Where does one ever learn anything that goes on, of any interest? And then the oddest policeman came round. Really, you never saw such a creature, all arms and legs and hair! I swear no barber ever took hand to it, far less comb or scissors. Or perhaps the working classes don’t have barbers. And he was perfectly enormous!”

Emily smiled within herself at this view of Pitt, not wildly inaccurate. She would have recognized him from it.

“Imagine my surprise,” Christina went on, “when he opened his mouth and spoke most civilly to me. Had I not seen him, I might have taken him for a gentleman.”

“Surely he didn’t question you?” Emily looked suitably shocked, principally to exercise some emotion strong enough to override her amusement.

“Of course not! I merely chanced to see him in the hall. He has been questioning all the servants, all round the square. I imagine it must be some unfortunate girl who cannot control herself.” She looked down for a moment, as if an embarrassment had caught her. Then she raised her head and the brilliance was back in her eyes. “Rather exciting, having detectives in the place. Of course Mother thinks it is all too macabre, and will lower the tone of the neighborhood. But I imagine people will understand. After all, everyone has servants. These problems are bound to occur. Ours is just a little more gruesome, that’s all!”

Euphemia was pale, and it was obvious she did not wish to continue the subject. Emily rescued her.

“I’m sure they will,” she agreed. “Lady Carlton, Lady Augusta said your husband is in the government. I imagine you must have to be most careful about your servants, only the most discreet.”

Euphemia smiled.

“Sir Robert very seldom brings home work that is of a confidential nature; but of course it is important that servants are discreet as to conversations overheard at dinner, and so on.”

“How exciting!” Emily feigned girlish delight, and pursued the subject until her tea was finished and it was the appropriate time to take her leave. She must make other calls, or it would appear she was too eager. A cultured woman of society never restricted herself to one visit. She would call on at least one other, and leave her card at two more.

She excused herself, her mind whirling to find some assured way of returning to Callander Square, if possible within the week.

“So charming,” she murmured to Lady Augusta. “George has spoken so well of you, it was delightful to meet you,” to remind her that George was a friend of Brandy Balantyne’s and that they were of the same social circle.

“Most gracious of you,” Augusta replied absently. “We are having a small entertainment this Friday afternoon. If you have no previous engagement, perhaps you would care to call in?”

“How very pleasant,” Emily said equally nonchalantly. “I believe I shall.”

She swept out with a feeling of infinite satisfaction.

The following afternoon she put on a plain green dress, took a single unliveried footman, and went straight to Charlotte. It was far easier than waiting for Charlotte to come to her; for one thing, Charlotte did not have the use of a carriage, and had to resort to the hire of a hansom. The other reason, of course, was that she simply could not wait.

She burst in upon Charlotte, who was busy mending linen.

“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded. “Put it down, and listen to me!”

Charlotte held the linen in her hand.

“I thought ladies did not call before three? It is hardly a quarter past two,” she said with a smile.

Emily snatched the linen and threw it on the sofa.

“I have the most exciting news!” she said urgently. “I have been to the Balantynes’ and I have made the acquaintance of Christina and Lady Augusta; and infinitely more interesting, of a Lady Euphemia Carlton, who is peculiarly discomfited by talk of the babies in the square! I truly believe she knows something about it. She is laboring under some burden, I will swear to that! Charlotte, do you think I have solved it already?”

Charlotte looked at her seriously.

“Is Lady Carlton not married?”

“Of course she is married!” Emily said impatiently. “But perhaps she is having an affair. Perhaps the children, the babies, would have betrayed it! Were they of any unusual appearance, such as a dark skin, or red hair, or the like?” Emily drew breath and rushed on before Charlotte had time to consider the question and reply. “Her husband is in the government. Perhaps it is a foreign lover, a Greek or an Indian or something. Maybe there are secrets involved. Charlotte, what do you think? She is very handsome, you know; not beautiful, but warm. She looks as if she might well fall in love and behave quite irresponsibly.”

Charlotte looked back at her, thought deep in her face.

“I shall have to ask, but I doubt Thomas will tell me—”

“Oh, don’t be so feeble!” Emily said exasperatedly. “Don’t tell me you can’t persuade him! The man is besotted on you. Invent some reason! I need to know, else why should she do it? A woman does not kill her own children, or even bury the stillborn, without some overpowering reason.”

“Of course not,” Charlotte agreed reasonably. “But Thomas will not imagine I ask out of idle curiosity. He is not as amiable as George, you know; nor anything like as innocent,” she added.

Emily had never thought of George Ashworth as innocent; but on consideration she realized what Charlotte meant; only perhaps it was not so much lack of guile as lack of concern. He considered he knew what Emily would do in any given situation, and had explicit trust in her good sense. Pitt, on the other hand, had far more perception than to trust anything so erratic as Charlotte’s good sense.

“Nevertheless, you will try,” she persisted.

Charlotte smiled, her thoughts inward.

“Of course. I have always expressed an interest in his work. I shall endeavor to help him.” Her smile broadened. “With a woman’s point of view, which of course he cannot get from his policemen.”

Emily gave a sigh of relief that left Charlotte laughing.

By the time Emily arrived in Callander Square on Friday afternoon she had heard from Charlotte the rather disappointing news that there was nothing remarkable about the appearance of the second baby, but a deformity of the head of the first one, the one buried the deeper. But her heart had lifted when Charlotte pointed out that since the unfortunate bodies had been in the earth for some time, it was impossible to tell if at birth they might indeed have had skin or hair of an unusual color. Emily had not considered the point of putrefaction, and the thought of it distressed her unexpectedly. Of course, the flesh would not remain. In fact, Charlotte pointed out that, according to Pitt, it was only the clay nature of the soil that had preserved them so far. It was an extremely disagreeable consideration.

She had dismissed it from her mind when she presented herself at the Balantynes’ door. She was admitted immediately and was shown from the hall into the great reception room where a small crowd had already gathered, of both men and women. An enormous gleaming grand piano stood in the center, its legs decently masked. At a glance Emily saw Christina, Euphemia Carlton, Lady Augusta, and several others she knew from her own social round. She also recognized Brandy Balantyne, tall, slender, dark like his mother and sister, but with an easier face, outward looking. He turned as Emily entered and his face lit in a smile.

“Lady Ashworth, how delightful,” he came forward to welcome her, ushering her in. “Do you know Alan Ross? No. Alan’s misfortune.”

“Mr. Ross,” she acknowledged him with grace. He bowed a little formally. He was in his thirties, slight of build but with a strong, delicate face of unusual intensity.

“Lady Ashworth, I am honored,” he offered no further compliment, and she was rather pleased. Flattery could become a bore. It was, after all, no more than a formula in the mouth of most men, as automatic as “good morning” or “good-bye.”

They fell to discussing some innocuous subject, none of them paying more than cursory attention. Emily let her eyes stray to Euphemia Carlton. She was piqued to see that today the woman looked uncommonly well, indeed it would hardly be an exaggeration to say she glowed. Could the tension and the guilt Emily had seen before have been no more than an indisposition? Emily dismissed the thought. It was too early to tell.

She accepted a delicate refreshment from a crisp-aproned maid. There was a footman over by the door—a handsome man, in a heavy-lidded, sensuous sort of way. Emily had seen the same features on dandies and spendthrifts leaving George’s clubs, the big winners and losers. That man would have been one of them, had his birth been kinder to him. Now he stood against the wall of a general’s house, dressed in livery and waiting on ladies and the few gentlemen who had nothing better to do with this particular afternoon. She saw Christina Balantyne walk past him, laughing, as oblivious of his humanity as if he had been a piece of furniture, a carving to hold flowers.

The entertainment began, first a rendition of a waltz by Chopin, more precise than lyrical; then a rather wavering contralto sang three ballades. Emily forced a look of rapt attention on her face, and let her mind wander.

She had not been introduced to Sophie Bolsover, but she had overheard her name in a neighboring conversation, and knew that she also lived in Callander Square. Now Emily looked sideways at her, partly from interest, partly because it was easier to keep her face straight when not looking directly into the contralto’s earnest eyes. Sophie Bolsover was a type she had become familiar with over the last couple of years; still very young, pretty enough by nature for art successfully to concentrate on her good features and mask the poor ones. She was born of a good family with enough money to insure a satisfactory marriage. She had never had to fear being left an old maid, dependent; she had not had to fight the way ahead of numerous sisters in a female-ridden house. All this Emily knew from the calm, rather shallow assurance in her face.

As soon as the songs were finished and suitably applauded, Emily made a point of seeking her acquaintance. Emily was charming, skilled, and quite ruthless in such social arts. Within five minutes she was conversing with Sophie about fashion, mutual acquaintances, and speculation as to who might marry whom. Emily guided the considerations toward those resident in the square, beginning with a compliment toward Christina.

“So beautiful,” Sophie agreed with a smile.

Emily would have quarreled with the choice of words; Christina was fashionable, appealing, to men certainly, but not beautiful.

“Indeed,” she said confidentially. “No doubt she will be able to take her pick of offers.”

“I thought at one time she might have married Mr. Ross,” Sophie inclined her head very slightly toward Alan Ross, who was talking earnestly to Euphemia Carlton. “But of course he has never got over poor Helena,” Sophie went on.

Emily’s ear sharpened.

“Helena?” she inquired with a masterly attempt at indifference. “Did some tragedy befall her?”

“She is never spoken of,” Sophie said somewhat inconsequentially.

Emily’s interest grew even keener.

“My dear, how fascinating! By whom is she never spoken of?”

“Why Laetitia Doran, of course.” Sophie opened her eyes wide. “Helena was Laetitia’s only child. Georgiana did not live with her then, naturally.”

“She came—afterward?” Emily pieced it together.

“Yes, to console her.”

“For what?”

“What? Why, when Helena ran away. Eloped—so they say. What an irresponsible and foolish thing to do! And such a shame to her mother.”

“With whom did she elope? Why did she not marry him? Good gracious, was he a servant, or something?”

“Who knows? Nobody ever saw him!”

“What? You cannot mean it?” Emily was incredulous. “Was he so appalling she dared not—oh my gracious! He wasn’t already married, was he?”

Sophie paled.

“Oh dear, I do hope not. How perfectly dreadful! No, I shouldn’t think so. She was very beautiful, Helena, you know. She could have had her choice among—oh, I don’t know how many men. Poor Mr. Ross was quite stricken when she went away.”

“Did he know about it?”

“Of course. She left a letter saying she had run off. And of course those of us with any sense knew perfectly well she had an admirer. Women know that sort of thing. I remember I thought it rather romantic, at the time. I never dreamed it would end so awfully.”

“I don’t see that it is so very dreadful,” Emily replied with a little frown, “if she ran off and married him somewhere else. Perhaps he was someone her mother did not approve of, but who loved her. A trifle silly, I agree; especially if he did not have any money; but not entirely fatal. Romantic loves are a little impractical, when it comes to day to day living, paying the cook and the dressmaker and so on. But if one has good sense, it can be quite bearable. One of my sisters married a considerable degree beneath her, and seems to be disgustingly happy on it. But she is an unusual creature, I will be the first to grant.”

“Is she really happy?” Sophie raised her eyebrows in interested surprise.

“Oh yes,” Emily assured her. “But you and I would find it quite dreadful. Perhaps Helena is like her, but feared her mother’s objections, so simply took the easiest way out.”

Sophie’s face brightened.

“What a delicious thought! Perhaps she is in Italy, married to a fisherman, or a gondolier, or something.”

“Do you have many gondoliers calling in Callander Square?” Emily asked politely.

Sophie stifled a rich giggle, and then looked about her in dismay at her own social gaffe—the spontaneous laughter, not the idiotic question.

“How deliriously refreshing you are, Lady Ashworth,” Sophie said through the fingers over her mouth. “I’m sure I’ve never met anyone so witty.”

Emily felt a withering reply to that rise to her lips, but she merely smiled.