Cardington Crescent (7 page)

Mrs. March was holding forth on the chivalry of the pre-Raphaelite painters, their meticulousness of detail and delicacy of color, and William was listening, his face pinched and pained. It was not that he disapproved, but that she totally misunderstood what he believed to be the concept. She missed the passion and caught only the sentimentality.

Tassie and Sybilla were so positioned that they were obliged either to listen or to be openly rude, and long habit precluded the latter. Eustace, on the other hand, was master of the house and owed no such courtesy. He sat with his back to the group and discoursed upon the moral obligations of position, and George had on his face his look of polite interest which masked complete absence of attention; he was gazing towards the conservatory doors. He must have seen Emily and Jack Radley.

Emily felt a sudden, rather alarming sense of excitement; it was a crisis provoked at last!

She walked a fraction ahead of Jack but was still conscious of him close behind her, of his warmth and the gentleness of his touch. She sat down next to Great-aunt Vespasia and pretended to listen to Eustace.

The rest of the evening passed in a similar vein, and Emily hardly noticed the time until twenty-five minutes to midnight. She was returning to the withdrawing room from the bathroom upstairs, passing the morning room door, when she heard voices in soft, fierce conversation.

“... you’re a coward!” It was Sybilla, her voice husky with anger and contempt. “Don’t tell me—”

“You may believe what you like!” The answer cut her off.

Emily stopped, almost falling over as hope and fear choked each other and left her shaking. It was George, and he was furious. She knew that tone precisely; he had had the same welling up of temper when his jockey was thrashed at the race track. It had been half his own fault then, and he knew it. Now he was lashing out at Sybilla, and her voice came back thick with fury.

The door of the boudoir swung open and Eustace stood with his hand on it. Any moment he would turn and see Emily listening. She moved on swiftly, head high, straining to catch the last words from the morning room. But the voices were too strident, too clashing to distinguish the words.

“Ah, Emily.” Eustace swiveled round. “Time to retire, I think. You must be tired.” It was a statement, not a question. Eustace considered it part of his prerogative to decide when everyone wished to go to bed, as he had always done for his family when they all lived here. He had decided almost everything and believed it his privilege and his duty. Before she died, Olivia March had obeyed him sweetly—and then gone her own way with such discretion he was totally unaware of it. Many of his best ideas had been hers, but they had been given him in such a way he thought them his own, and he therefore defended them to the death and put every last one into practice.

Emily had no will to argue tonight. She returned to the withdrawing room, wished everyone good sleep, and went gratefully to her room. She had undressed, dismissing her maid with instructions for the morning, and was about to get into bed when there was a knock on the dressing-room door.

She froze. It could only be George. Half of her was terrified and wanted to keep silent, pretend she was already asleep. She stared at the knob as if it would turn on its own and let him in.

The knock came again, harder. It might be her only opportunity, and if she turned him away she would lose it forever.

“Come in.”

Slowly, the door opened. George stood in the archway, looking tired and uncomfortable. His face was flushed—Emily knew why immediately. Sybilla had made a scene, and George hated scenes. Without thinking, she knew what to do. Above all, it would be disastrous to confront him. The last thing he wanted now was another emotional woman.

“Hello,” she said with a very small smile, pretending this was not an important occasion, a meeting that might turn their lives and all that mattered to her.

He came in tentatively, followed by old Mrs. March’s spaniel, which to her fury had taken such a liking to him that it had abandoned its mistress. He was unsure what to say, fearful lest she were only biding her time before launching at him with an accusation, a justified charge he could not defend himself against.

She turned away to make it easier, as though it were all perfectly ordinary. She struggled for something to say that would not touch on all that was painful between them.

“I really quite enjoyed my afternoon with Tassie,” she began casually. “The vicar is terribly tedious, and so is his wife. I can see why Eustace likes them. They have a lot in common, similar views on the simplicity of virtue”—she pulled a face—“and the virtue of simplicity. Especially in women and children, which they believe to be roughly the same. But the curate was charming.”

George sat down on the stool before the dressing table, and she watched him with a tiny lift of pleasure. It meant he intended to stay, at least for a few minutes.

“I’m glad,” he said with an awkward smile, fishing for something to continue with. It was ridiculous; a month ago they spoke as easily as old friends—they would have laughed at the vicar together. Now he looked at her, his eyes wide and searching, but only for a moment. Then he looked away again, not daring to press too hard, afraid of a rebuff. “I’ve always liked Tassie. She’s so much more like the Cumming-Gould side of the family than the Marches. I suppose William is, too, for that matter.”

“That can only be good,” Emily said sincerely.

“You’d have liked Aunt Olivia,” he went on. “She was only thirty-eight when she died. Uncle Eustace was devastated.”

“After eleven children in fifteen years, I should imagine she was, too,” Emily said tartly. “But I don’t suppose Eustace thought of that.”

“I shouldn’t think so.”

She turned to him and smiled, suddenly glad he had never even implicitly expected such a thing of her. For a moment the old warmth was back, tentative, uncertain, but there; then, before she could take too much for granted and be disappointed, she looked away again.

“I’ve always thought visiting the poor was probably more offensive to them than leaving them decently alone,” she went on. “But I think Tassie really did some good. She seems so very honest.”

“She is.” He bit his lip. “Although she’s not yet in Charlotte’s class, thank heaven. But perhaps that’s only a matter of time; she doesn’t have as many opinions yet.” He stood up, wary lest he overstay and risk the precious fragment regained between them. He hesitated, and for a moment the indecision flickered on his face. Dare he bend and kiss her, or was it too soon? Yes—yes, it was still too fragile, Sybilla too recent. He reached out and touched her shoulder and then withdrew his hand. “Good night, Emily.”

She looked at him solemnly. If he came back it must be on her terms, or it would only happen again, and she would not willingly suffer that. “Good night, George,” she replied gently. “Sleep well.”

He went out slowly, the dog pattering after him, and the door clicked shut. She curled up on the bed and hugged her knees, feeling tears of relief prickle in her eyes and run smoothly and painlessly down her cheeks. It was not over, but the terrible helplessness was gone. She knew what to do. She sniffed fiercely, reaching for a handkerchief, and blew her nose hard. It was loud and unladylike—distinctly a sound of triumph.

E
MILY SLEPT WELL
for the first time in weeks and woke late, with the sun filling the room and Millicent rapping on the door.

“Come in,” she said hazily. George was still in the dressing room; there was no need to think of privacy. “Come in, Millie.”

The door opened and Millicent swept in, balancing the tray on one hand while closing the door behind her. She then carried the tray to the dresser and put it down.

“What a mess there is in that there upstairs pantry, m’lady,” she said, pouring the tea carefully. “Never seen anything like it. One moment everybody’s there; the next, kettle’s filling the ’ole place wi’ steam and not a soul to take it off. Such a fuss, all ’cause ’is lordship likes coffee instead o’ tea—although I don’t know ’ow ’e can drink it first thing. Anyhow, Albert took it to ’im quarter of an hour since an’ saw ’e ’d got that little dog of Mrs. March’s lying up there, too. Taken a proper fancy to ’is lordship, it ’as. Makes the old lady ever so cross.” She came over and held out the cup.

Emily sat up, took it, and began to sip. It tasted hot and clean. Already the day felt promising.

“What’d you fancy to wear this morning, m’lady?” Millicent drew the curtains briskly. “’Ow about the apricot muslin? Right pretty shade, that is. And not everyone as can get away with it. Makes some look sallow.”

Emily smiled. Millicent had obviously made up her mind.

“Good idea,” she agreed. “Is it warm outside?”

“It will be, m’lady. And if you’re going calling this afternoon, what about the lavender?” Millicent was full of ideas. “And the white wi’ the black velvet trim this evening. Very fashionable, that is, and ever such a good swish to it when you walk.”

Emily conceded, finished the tea, and got up to begin her morning toilette. Today everything had an air of victory about it.

When she was ready and Millicent had gone, she went to the dressing room door and knocked. There was no answer. She hesitated, on the point of knocking again, but suddenly becoming self-conscious. What was there to say except good morning? She should not behave like a simpering bride! She would only embarrass George and make herself ridiculous. Far better to be natural. Anyway, he had not answered; no doubt he was already downstairs.

But there was no sign of him in the breakfast room. Eustace was as usual, moon-faced and beaming with good health. He had thrown the windows open, as was his habit, regardless of the fact that the room faced west and was decidedly chilly. His plate was piled high in front of him with sausages, eggs, deviled kidneys, and potato. His napkin was tucked in his waistcoat, and round him on the table were a rack of crisp toast, a dish of butter, the silver cruet of condiments, and the milk, sugar, and silver Queen Anne coffeepot.

Old Mrs. March was taking breakfast in bed, as usual. Other than that, everyone was present except George—and Sybilla.

Emily’s heart sank and all her happiness was cut off like a candle flame someone has pinched. Her hand felt numb on the back of the chair as she pulled it out, and when she went to lift the device for slicing the top off the boiled egg the parlormaid placed in front of her, she fumbled and had to steady herself. She had not dreamed it—George
had
quarreled with Sybilla. The nightmare was over. Of course, things would not be repaired between them instantly. It would take a little while, maybe even two or three weeks. But she could manage that—easily.

“Good morning, my dear,” Eustace said in exactly the same tone he used every day. “I trust you are well?” It was not a question, merely an acknowledgment of her arrival. He did not wish to hear about women’s indispositions; they were both uninteresting and indelicate—especially in the morning, when one wished to eat.

“Very,” Emily said aggressively. “I hope you are also?” The question was totally unnecessary in view of the abundance upon his plate.

“Most certainly I am.” His eyes widened under his short, rounded eyebrows. He let his breath out through his nose with a slight sound, and his glance flickered over the rest of the table: Vespasia eating a boiled egg delicately and silently; Tassie looking as pale as her freckles and flaming hair would allow, shadows under her eyes; Jack Radley staring at Emily, brow furrowed, two spots of color on his cheeks; and William, his whole body tight, his face pinched, and his hands gripping his fork as if it were a life belt someone might jerk away from him. “I am in excellent health,” Eustace reiterated with a note of accusation.

“I’m so glad.” Emily was determined to have the last word. She could not fight Sybilla and she did not want to fight George. Eustace would serve very well.

Eustace turned to Tassie. “And what do you intend to do with the day, my dear?” Before she could reply, he continued. “Compassion is most desirable in a young woman. Indeed, your dear mother, may the Lord rest her, was always about such things.” He reached for the toast and buttered a pile absently. “But you have other duties as well—to your guests, for a start. You must make them feel welcome. Of course, your home is primarily an island of peace and morality where the shadows of the world do not penetrate. But it should also be a place of comfortable entertainment, seemly laughter, and uplifting conversation.” He disregarded Tassie’s growing discomfort as if he were totally unaware of it, as indeed perhaps he was. Emily loathed him for his sheer blindness.

“I think you should take Mr. Radley for a carriage ride,” he went on, as if the idea had suddenly occurred to him. “It is excellent weather for such a thing. I am sure your grandmother Vespasia will be happy to accompany you.”

“You are nothing of the kind!” Vespasia snapped. “I have my own calls to make this afternoon. Tassie is welcome to come with me, if she likes, but I shall not go with her. No doubt she would find Mr. Carlisle of interest—as would Mr. Radley, if he cares to come as well.”

Eustace frowned. “Mr. Carlisle? Is he not that most unsuitable person who occupies himself in political agitations?”

Tassie’s head came up in immediate interest. “Oh?”

Eustace glared at her.

Vespasia did not quibble over the description, but her cool, dove gray eyes met Emily’s for an instant with a flash of memory, images of excitement, of appalling poverty and murder, and Emily found herself blushing hotly as the much closer thought of yesterday evening in the conservatory returned. She had begun by telling Jack Radley of precisely that same affair in which she had met Somerset Carlisle.
¹

“Most unsuitable,” Eustace said irritably. “There are better ways of serving the unfortunate than making an exhibition of oneself trying to undermine government and alter the whole foundation of society. The man is quite irresponsible, and you should know better than to involve yourself with him, Mama-in-law.”