Farrier's Lane (32 page)

“How delightful to see you again.” He smiled at Clio. “It has been far too long. We have met the stuffiest people lately.” He put his arm around his wife proprietorially and stood close to her. “Forgive me, my dear?” He pulled a very slight face and glanced around them. Indeed, his comment was easy to understand. The company was unusually proper, even for such an event.

Charlotte plunged in. She must at least attempt some detecting. She was not here to be entertained merely by social observation to no purpose.

“Are you here more by duty than inclination, Mr. O’Neil?” she said sweetly.

He smiled back at her. “Entirely by duty, ma’am. To accompany my father-in-law and his mama. She is fond of amateur musical evenings—at least she is fond of being seen by those who frequent them. And of catching up with events.”

“But of course,” Charlotte agreed quickly. “There is nothing so interesting as gossip if you know the people spoken of and have someone to whom you can repeat it who will appreciate all its nuances to the full.”

“My goodness, you have no fear in speaking your mind,” he said with a sharp light of amusement in his eyes.

Two young women passed by them, glancing at O’Neil over their fans and swishing skirts with ostentatious grace.

“Do you not find it so, Mrs. O’Neil?” Charlotte turned to Kathleen.

Kathleen smiled, but it was the guarded gesture of one who had been wounded by precisely such thoughtless acts. “I confess it interests me only occasionally. I find people can be most malicious at times.”

Charlotte wondered if quite suddenly in the midst of all the inconsequential chatter she had heard a word of true emotion. She was reminded sharply that here was a woman whose husband had been murdered, after having an affair with someone else. It said a great deal for Kathleen O’Neil that she could continue a friendship with Clio Farber, a woman so close to the cause of such misery: not only another actress, but a friend and colleague of Tamar Macaulay herself. Charlotte felt a surge of admiration for her, and a dislike for her own role of one seeking to place the guilt on the shoulders of her second husband. The duplicity alone was offensive, and the fun she had felt for a moment fled out of it.

“Of course,” she said with instant sobriety. “When it is hurtful it is quite a different matter. I suppose a great deal of it is. A lot of people are ill informed, and their remarks better not made. I was thinking only of trivia, and perhaps I spoke too lightly anyway.” She accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing footman, as did the others.

“Oh no, it is I who should apologize,” Kathleen said, blushing a little. “I did not mean to be so contrary. It is only that I am acquainted with people who have been hurt by unthinking repetition of matters which were not fully true, or were of a deeply private nature. And of course those are the things gossips delight in most.”

Around the room there was a murmur of expectation, and then a lessening of sound. Apparently something was about to begin. Instinctively they turned towards the piano, where a large lady with a gown winking with beads at the bosom was attempting to command attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. There was a murmur of polite applause. The evening’s entertainment had commenced. Charlotte smiled at Kathleen and deliberately took
a seat beside her, aware of Clio’s eyes on her, and then her head turning away as she engaged Devlin O’Neil in whispered conversation.

The pianist began to play, without flourish or more than a single glance at his audience. He seemed to be rapt in his music and to be conjuring it out of his instrument solely for his own enjoyment. Or perhaps
enjoyment
was the wrong word. Watching him, Charlotte felt as if it were a necessity for him, more of a sustenance to his soul than the dainty sandwiches and pastries were to the bodies of his assembled listeners. She was not highly educated in music, but she did not need an experienced critic to tell her that this young man was excellent, far beyond the ability of his fashionable audience to appreciate.

When he finished his final piece before the interval there was a courteous applause. He rose, took a very slight bow—no more than was necessary to acknowledge their presence—and left, walking with long strides under the archway into the room beyond.

The silence filled with chatter again, and pretty maids in white caps and lace-trimmed aprons came around with trays of sweetmeats, and liveried footmen came with chilled champagne. Charlotte did not care in the slightest for either, but she accepted automatically because it was easier than the constant refusal. She was too full of the glory of the music to wish to make a comment which could not possibly do it justice.

“Very good, don’t you think?” Devlin O’Neil said, almost at her elbow. She had not heard him approach. He was smiling again. She judged it an expression which came to him very readily, out of a great good nature and an expectancy of being liked, rather than any particular pleasure.

“Brilliant,” she replied, hoping she did not sound gushing.

Before he could reply to her, they were joined by a large thick-chested man with the appearance of unusual strength. His face was remarkable, with a great hatchet nose and small, very bright, intelligent eyes. On his arm, clinging to him for actual physical support, as well as a certain air of
possession, was a woman a generation older. A facial resemblance about the eyes and brow made it instantly apparent she must be his mother.

“Oh, Grandmama-in-law,” Devlin O’Neil said, his smile broadening. “Did you enjoy the music? May I present to you …” He hesitated, realizing for the first time that he did not know Charlotte’s full name. He overcame the inconvenience by glancing at Clio and introducing her first. It was so smooth that if Adah Harrimore noticed, she gave no sign of it.

“How do you do, Miss Farber.” She inclined her head graciously, but there was no interest in her face. “How do you do, Miss Pitt,” she added, when Clio had supplied the missing name. Charlotte did not bother to correct the title (something she would normally have leaped to do), but any possible connection with Thomas was to be avoided.

“How do you do, Mrs. Harrimore,” she replied, regarding the old lady curiously. She had a remarkable countenance, powerful, and yet with a knowledge of fear, a guardedness about it that was at the same time belied by its boldness. There was iron will in it, and yet also anxiety, a looking for reassurance to her son. It was full of contradictions.

“I did enjoy the music.” Charlotte summoned her thoughts to the present. “Did you not think the pianist was excellent?”

“Very gifted,” Adah conceded with the slightest pucker between her brows. “Many of them are, in that field.”

Charlotte was lost. “I beg your pardon. Many of whom, Mrs. Harrimore?”

“Jews, of course,” Adah replied, her frown increasing as she looked at Charlotte more closely, surveying her strong face and rich, deep coloring, her hair like polished chestnut. “Not that I suppose that has anything to do with it,” she added inconsequentially.

Charlotte knew at least a smattering of history in the matter.

“It might have. Did we not in the past deny them most other occupations apart from medicine and the arts?”

“I don’t know what you mean—deny them!” Adah said sharply. “Would you have Jews into everything? It’s hard enough they are in all the finances of the nation, and I daresay the whole Empire, without being everywhere else as well. We know what they do in Europe.”

Devlin O’Neil smiled briefly, first at Adah, then at his father-in-law. He stood very close to his wife. “It’s as bad as the Irish, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully. “Let them in to build the railways, and now they’re all over the place. One is even obliged now and then to meet them socially. And into politics too, I’ll wager.”

“That is not at all the same thing,” Prosper Harrimore said, without even the faintest flicker of answering humor in his face. “The Irish are just like us, my dear boy. As you know perfectly well.”

“Oh indeed,” O’Neil agreed, putting his arm around Kathleen. “For some they even are us. Was not the great Iron Duke himself an Irishman?”

“Anglo-Irish,” Prosper corrected, this time the shadow of a smile on his narrow lips. “Like you. Not the same thing, Devlin.”

“Well, he certainly wasn’t a Jew,” Adah said decisively. “He was good blood, the best. One of the greatest leaders we ever had. We might all be speaking French now without him.” She shivered. “And eating obscenities out of the garden, and heaven only knows what else, with morals straight from Paris. And what goes on there is not fit to mention.”

Charlotte did not know what possessed her to say it, except perhaps a desire to break the careful veneer of good manners and reach some deeper emotion.

“Of course Mr. Disraeli was a Jew,” she said distinctly into the silence. “And he was one of the best prime ministers we ever had. Without him we would forever be having to sail all the way ’round the bottom of Africa to get to India or China, not to mention getting our tea coming back. Or opium.”

“I beg your pardon!” Adah’s eyebrows shot up and even Devlin O’Neil looked startled.

“Oh.” Charlotte recollected herself quickly. “I was thinking
of various medicines for the relief of pain, and the treatment of certain illnesses, which I believe we fought China very effectively in order to obtain—in trade …”

Kathleen looked polite but confused.

“Perhaps if we hadn’t gone meddling in foreign places,” Adah said tartly, “then we would not have acquired their diseases either! A person is better off in the country in which God placed him in the first instance. Half the trouble in the world comes out of people being where they do not belong.”

“I believe Her Majesty was devoted to him,” Charlotte added inconsequentially.

“To whom?” Kathleen was totally lost.

“Mr. Disraeli, my dear,” O’Neil explained. “I think Miss Pitt is teasing us.”

“I never doubted they were clever.” Adah fixed Charlotte with a bright, brittle glance. “But that does not mean we wish to have them in our homes.” She gave a convulsive little shudder, very tiny, but of a revulsion so intense as to be akin to fear.

Kathleen looked at Charlotte with apology in her eyes.

“I am sorry, Miss Pitt. I am sure Grandmama did not mean that as distastefully as it may have seemed. All sorts of people are most welcome in our house, if they are friends—and I hope you will consider yourself a friend.”

“I should like to very much,” Charlotte said quickly, grasping the chance. “It is most generous of you to ask, especially in view of my remarks, which were in less than the best of judgment, I admit. I tend to speak from the heart, and not from the head. I so enjoyed the pianist I rushed to his defense where I am sure it was quite unnecessary.”

Kathleen smiled. “I do understand,” she said softly, so her grandmother would not hear. “He momentarily transformed me onto a higher plane, and made me think of all manner of noble things. That is not entirely the composer’s art, it is his also. He gave voice to the dreams.”

“How well you put it. I shall most certainly continue your acquaintance, if I may,” Charlotte said, with sincerity as well as the desire to know more of Kingsley Blaine, and
what manner of man he had been. Had he truly intended to leave this seemingly warm and impulsive woman for Tamar Macaulay, and knowing the cost that would be to him? Or had he simply been weak, and in indulging his physical passions placed himself in a situation where he could not bring himself to leave either of them? How extraordinary that two such women should have loved him so deeply. He must have had a unique charm. It was growing increasingly important that she find a way to see him as objectively as possible, through the eyes of someone not so blinded by love. Perhaps if she visited the home of Kathleen O’Neil she might have a further opportunity to speak with Prosper Harrimore. His face was shrewd, guarded. Kingsley Blaine had been the father of his grandchild, but she imagined a man such as he was would not be easily hoodwinked by charm. His eyes on Devlin O’Neil suggested an ability to stand back, an affection not without judgment. He might be the key to a less emotional view, a perception that would see danger and weakness as well.

The pianist returned and the second half of the evening’s entertainment commenced, and for its duration Charlotte forgot all about Kingsley Blaine, his family, or the death of Samuel Stafford. The passionate, lyrical, universal voice of human experience took over and she allowed herself to be swept up by it and carried wherever it took her.

Afterwards the O’Neils and the Harrimores had become engaged in conversation with other acquaintances. Prosper was deep in discussion with a man who had the portentous air of a merchant banker, and Adah was listening with acute attention to a thin, elderly woman who was holding forth at some length and would brook no interruption. Once Charlotte caught Kathleen’s eye and smiled, receiving a flash of humor and understanding in return, but other than that solitary instance, Charlotte and Clio left without further encountering them.

    Micah Drummond stood in his office staring out of the window down at the street where two men were haggling over something. It was latched against the blustery evening,
and the rain beginning to splash now and then against the pane, so he could not hear their voices. It all seemed far away, divorced from any reality that mattered, and of less and less importance to him. He was forced to admit, the death of Samuel Stafford was rapidly becoming the same.

He should care. Stafford had been a good man, conscientious, honorable, diligent. And even if he had not, no decent person could condone murder. His brain told him he should be outraged, and in some distant part of his mind he was furious at the arrogance of it, the destruction of a life, and the pain. But on the surface where his concentration was, all he could care about intensely was Eleanor Byam. Everything he did had value to him only as it had reference to her. He could not remove from his mind the picture of her face in all its moods, the light and shadow as she laughed, and, when the sadness returned, the memory of pain, and her loneliness now that all the world she had known had disappeared and shrunk into the lodging house in Marylebone and the few tradesmen with whom she had dealings.