Callander Square (9 page)

“Sometimes, Brandon, I think you say such things entirely to provoke me. One cannot order one’s acquaintance on the basis of good looks, or, unfortunately, of intelligence.”

“I think they would be criteria quite as satisfactory as either birth or money,” he opined.

“Don’t be naive,” she snapped. “You know perfectly well what is of value in society and what is not. I hope you do not intend this young woman to eat in the dining room?”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I had not considered her eating at all. But now that you mention it, perhaps cook had better prepare her something and she can eat in the library, as the governess used to.”

“The governess ate in the schoolroom.”

“The difference is academic.” He stood up. “Have Max show her into the library when she comes. You know, I dislike that man. A spell in the army would do him good.”

“He is an excellent footman, and a ‘spell in the army’ would ruin him. Please do not meddle with the governing of the household servants. That is what we employ Masters for; besides, you know nothing about it.”

He gave her a sour look and went out of the door, shutting it sharply behind him.

Augusta made it her business to be in the hallway at ten o’clock when Charlotte arrived promptly. She saw Max open the door and watched with interest, and an odd mixture of superiority and reluctant approval as Charlotte was shown in. She had expected a dowdy dress and a pinched, submissive face: instead she saw rich wine-colored skirts, a little outdated in fashion, but still flattering; and a face anything but submissive. Indeed, it was one of the most flagrant and willful faces she had ever seen, yet having at the same time a surprising gentleness in the mouth and the soft curve of cheek and throat. Definitely not a woman she wished in her house, not a woman she could like, or understand; not a woman who would be easily governed by the rules of society by which Augusta had lived all her life, had fought and won all her many intricate battles.

She sailed forward in her most frigid manner.

“Good morning, Miss—er?” she raised her brows in inquiry.

Charlotte met her eyes squarely.

“Miss Ellison, Lady Augusta,” she lied without a thought.

“Indeed.” Dislike hardened in her; she smiled barely, “I believe my husband is expecting you.” She glanced at Max who obediently went to the library door and opened it. “I understand you have come to be of some clerical assistance to him.” Best to let her know immediately her standing in the house.

“Miss Ellison.” Max’s heavy-lidded eyes followed Charlotte in, lingering on her shoulders and her waist.

The door closed behind her and Charlotte stood still, waiting for the general to look up. She was no longer trembling inside; Lady Augusta’s patronage had turned her fear into anger.

General Balantyne sat behind an enormous desk. She saw the handsome head, the lean bones of the face. Her interest was immediate. In her imagination she saw the long battle line of history stretch out behind him: Crimea, Waterloo, Corunna, Plassey, Malplaquet…

He looked up. The bland courtesy washed out of his face and he stared at her. She stared back.

“How do you do, Miss—”

“How do you do, General Balantyne. My sister, Lady Ashworth, considered I might be of some service to you. I hope that may be so.”

“Yes.” He stood up, blinking, still staring at her, frowning a little. “She said you had some interest in military affairs. I am setting in some order the history of my family, which has served with distinction in every great battle since the time of the Duke of Marlborough.”

Thoughts as to how she should answer flashed through Charlotte’s mind.

“You must be very proud,” she said honestly. “It is a good thing you should record it accurately for people to know; especially those in the future, when the men who can remember our great battles are gone.”

He said nothing, but his shoulders straightened as he considered her, and there was a very small smile at the edges of his mouth.

In the rest of the house the usual business of the morning was conducting itself, housemaids and upstairs maids and ladies’ maids were all furiously occupied. Augusta was supervising because she was expecting guests of great social importance for dinner, and also because she had nothing else to do. At half past ten she could not find the tweeny. The wretched girl had left a distinct rime of dust on the frames of the pictures on the landing—it showed gray on Augusta’s finger—and the child was nowhere to be seen.

Augusta had long known the favorite bolt hole of idle servants, between the stillroom and the butler’s pantry, and she now repaired to it with some determination. If the girl was loitering among the footmen or bootboys, she would give her a criticism that would not lightly be forgotten.

At the stillroom door she stopped, conscious that there was someone in the small room beyond. There was a whispered voice, she could not hear the words, nor even if they were spoken by a man or a woman; then the rusle of—surely not silk—on a maid?

She pushed the door open soundlessly and saw black-suited arms cradling a taffeta bodice, and over the slender shoulder the sloe-eyed, sensuous face of Max, his lips on the white neck. She knew the neck, knew the elegant coils of dark hair. It was Christina.

Please, dear heaven, they had neither of them seen her! She could not look anyone in the face at this moment. Her heart rose cold in her chest, beating painfully. She backed away from the door. Her daughter, giggling, in the arms of a footman! Horror froze her normally agile brain. Icy, paralyzing minutes passed before she could even begin to think what to do about such a monstrous thing, how to nullify it, obliterate it from existence. It would take work, skill: but it must be done! Otherwise Christina would be ruined. What man of birth in his right mind would marry her after this, if it were known?

R
EGGIE
S
OUTHERON SAT
in the library in his house and stared out at the leafless trees in Callander Square. The gray November sky scudded past above them and the first heavy gusts of rain clattered on the glass. He had a schooner of brandy on the small table beside him and the decanter winked comfortably in the firelight. Under any other circumstances he would have been entirely happy, but this miserable business in the gardens was causing him a nagging anxiety. Of course he had no idea who might be responsible—any one of a score! There was little else of entertainment in a servant’s life, and everyone knew that most of the girls, especially those who came up from the country to improve themselves, were not averse to a little fun: at least everyone who kept an establishment of any standard. But it was possible that someone like the police, who were, after all, no better than tradesmen or servants themselves, held quite a different view. Some police, the local ones in the country, for example, knew how to be discreet; but it was a different case with the London men who were used to dealing with the criminal classes in general, and in all probability had no concept of social rank or refinement.

And it was this that was worrying Reggie. Like most men, in his opinion, he availed himself of the odd pleasure with a handsome parlormaid. After all, what healthy man, woken in his bed in the morning by a young, clear-skinned, well-rounded wench bending over him, would not be tempted? And if she was willing, as they invariably were, why resist? His wife, Adelina, was well enough, and she had borne him three children, although unfortunately the boy had died. But she had taken no enjoyment in it; she suffered his advances with fortitude and did what she had been taught was her duty. Parlormaids enjoyed it, laughed, responded in a fashion that would have been unthinkable in a woman of quality.

Naturally one did not marry parlormaids. Everyone knew of such arrangements, but one conducted oneself discreetly. One did not wish to be the subject of gossip, nor to embarrass one’s wife. What was presumed and what was actually known were two entirely different things.

But as he had already realized, the police might fail to understand how these things were conducted to the satisfaction of all concerned. It would be very difficult if this Pitt fellow were to discover Reggie’s present taste for the parlormaid, Mary Ann. He might misconstrue it entirely. The girl was uncommonly handsome, quite the best looking Reggie could recall: and she had been in service in Callander Square for three years.

Great heavens! It wasn’t possible that she—actually—? Reggie broke out in a cold sweat, in spite of the fire. He took a rapid swig at the brandy and poured himself another. For pity’s sake, calm down, man! Remember the trim waist, the saucy bottom. She had not been with child in this house! Surely he could not be so unobservant as not to have noticed? She was a big girl. Would she have changed shape so obviously? He had to admit, he had been very spasmodic in his attentions. Sometimes he had been away for weeks at a time—but this was ridiculous! Someone would have noticed! He was worrying for nothing.

It was only a matter of making sure that the police did not leap to any foolish and entirely unwarranted conclusions. How intelligent was this chap, Pitt? Was he a man of the world? Some of the working classes could be appallingly narrow-minded: quite distressingly vulgar in their speech and eating, not to mention dress, but positive prudes when it came to personal liberty. It could be very trying having to deal with them. Pity the man in this case could not have been a gentleman, who would have understood; indeed, would not even have needed an explanation.

Better to forestall the whole business by seeing the others in the square who might be affected, and come to some understanding. Between them they ought to be able to keep this police fellow out of harm’s way, discreetly.

He had made up his mind to this, and was feeling considerably easier, when there was a knock on the door. He was surprised. Servants did not usually knock. If they had something to do, they simply came in and did it.

“Come in,” he answered, swiveling to face the entrance.

The door opened and the governess, Jemima, stood there.

Reggie sat up with a smile. Handsome girl, Jemima, though a bit on the thin side. He liked a rounder bosom, plumper shoulders; but there was a definite charm about her, a spirit in the way she held her head, a delicacy of bone. He had frequently been on the point of putting his arm round her in response to the inviting femininity of her slender back; but she had always moved away, or someone else had appeared.

Now she stood in front of him, looking levelly at him.

“Yes, Jemima?” he said cheerfully.

“Mrs. Southeron said I should speak to you concerning Miss Faith’s music, sir. Miss Faith wishes to learn the violin, instead of the piano—”

“Well, let her, by all means. You are competent in the violin, aren’t you?” Why on earth did Adelina send him such trivial matters?

“Yes, Mr. Southeron. But since Miss Chastity already plays the violin, that will give us two violins and a cello. There is very little music written for such a trio.”

“Oh, yes. I see. Well, perhaps Chastity would like to learn the piano?”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Jemima smiled. She had a charming smile, it went all the way to her eyes. She would have made a good parlormaid, had she been a little sturdier.

“Send her to me, I’ll change her mind,” Reggie leaned farther back in his chair and slid his feet toward the fire.

“Yes, sir,” Jemima turned and walked to the door. She had a nice walk, straight-backed, head high. She was one of those country girls with a swinging step. She made him think of open skies and clean, windy shores: things he liked to contemplate from a winter armchair, or see in a good painting. She was a pleasing creature, Jemima.

It was quite five minutes before Chastity arrived.

“Come in,” Reggie smiled and sat up a little.

She obeyed, solemn-faced, her hair tied back making her eyes look unusually wide.

“Sit down,” Reggie offered, pointing to the chair opposite him.

Instead of perching on the edge, like the other children, she snuggled far back in the deep corner, like a cat, with her feet tucked under her. She still managed to look prim. She waited for him to speak.

“Would you like to learn to play the piano, Chastity?” he asked.

“No, thank you, Uncle Reggie.”

“Playing the piano is a most useful art. You can sing at the same time. You cannot sing at the same time as playing the violin,” he pointed out.

She lifted her chin very slightly and stared back at him.

“I cannot sing anyway,” she said with blank honesty. “No matter what I played.” She hesitated, looking at him with thought. “Faith can. She sings very well.”

The argument defeated him, and he could see from the look in her bright, frank eyes that she knew it.

“Why doesn’t Faith play the cello?” she pressed home her advantage. “Then Patience could learn the piano. She can sing, too.”

He looked at her with a jaundiced eye.

“And if I tell you to play the piano?”

“I shall be no good at it,” she said decidedly. “And then we shall have no trio, and that would be a shame.”

He narrowed his eyes and poured himself another brandy, admiring the rich color of it shining like smoky topaz in the firelight.

“That would be a pity,” Chastity was still regarding him with measured consideration. “Because Aunt Adelina likes us to play for her guests sometimes, at her afternoon parties.”

He gave up. He was about to try another tack, to wit, bribery, when the footman opened the door and announced Inspector Pitt.

Reggie swore under his breath. He had not yet considered his defense. Chastity snuggled still farther into the recesses of the chair. He looked at her.

“You may go, Chastity. We will discuss the matter another time.”

“But that’s the policeman with the untidy hair, Uncle Reggie and I like him.”

“What?” he was startled.

“I like him. Mayn’t I stay and talk to him? I might be able to tell him something!”

“No, you may not. There is absolutely nothing you could possibly know that would be of any use to him. Now go upstairs and have your tea. It must be tea time. It’s getting dark.”