Highgate Rise (20 page)

Maude Dalgetty’s fine arched brows rose in surprise and interest.

“A lady’s good name! Good gracious, was Dr. Shaw speaking ill of someone? You surprise me.”

“That is because you do not know him.” Hatch was warming to the subject. “And your mind is too fine to imagine ill of people unless it is proved right before you.” His cheeks were quite pink. “But I soon put him in his place,
and your husband added to my words, most eloquently, although I flatter myself that what I said to him was sufficient.”

“John did?” Her husky voice lifted in surprise. “How very unusual. You almost make me think it was me Dr. Shaw spoke ill of.”

Hatch colored furiously and his breath quickened; his large hands were clenched by his sides.

Standing well within earshot, Charlotte was certain that it had indeed been Maude Dalgetty Shaw had spoken ill of, truly or not, and she wished intensely there were some way to learn what he had said, and why.

Hatch moved a little, turning his back half towards Charlotte. Since she did not wish to be conspicuous in her interest, she allowed herself to be excluded, and drifted towards Lally Clitheridge and Celeste. But before she reached them they separated and Lally accosted Flora Lutterworth, circumspectly but very definitely.

“How good of you to come, my dear Flora.” Her tone was at once warm and acutely condescending, like a duchess interviewing a prospective daughter-in-law. “You are charmingly softhearted—a nice virtue in a girl, if not carried to indiscretion.”

Flora stared at her, opened her mouth to reply, and was lost for any words that would express her feelings.

“And modesty as well,” Lally continued. “I am so glad you do not argue, my dear. Indiscretion can be the ruin of a girl, indeed has been of many. But I am sure your father will have told you that.”

Flora blushed. Obviously the quarrel had not yet been healed.

“You must heed him, you know.” Lally was equally perceptive, and placed her arm in Flora’s as if in confidence. “He has your very best interest at heart. You are very young, and inexperienced in society and the ways in which people assess each other. An unwise act now, and you may well be considered a girl of less than complete virtue—which would ruin all the excellent chances you have for a fine future.”
She nodded very slightly. “I hope you understand me, my dear.”

Flora stared at her. “No—I don’t think I do,” she said coolly, but her face was very tight and her knuckles were white where she clasped her handkerchief.

“Then I must explain.” Lally leaned a little closer. “Dr. Shaw is a very charming man, but at times rather too outspoken in his opinions and rash in his respect for other people’s judgment. Such things are acceptable in a man, especially a professional man—”

“I find Dr. Shaw perfectly agreeable.” Flora defended him hotly. “I have received nothing but kindness at his hands. If you disagree with his opinions, that is your affair, Mrs. Clitheridge. You must tell him so. Pray do not concern me with the matter.”

“You misunderstand me.” Lally was plainly annoyed. “I am concerned for your reputation, my dear—which is frankly in some need of repair.”

“Then your quarrel is with those who speak ill of me,” Flora retorted. “I have done nothing to warrant it.”

“Of course not!” Lally said sharply. “I know that. It is not what you have done, it is your indiscretion in appearance. I warn you as your vicar’s wife. He finds the matter difficult to discuss with a young lady, but he is concerned for your welfare.”

“Then please thank him for me.” Flora looked at her very directly, her cheeks pink, her eyes blazing. “And assure him that neither my body nor my soul are in any jeopardy. You may consider your duty well acquitted.” And with a tight little smile she inclined her head politely and walked away, leaving Lally standing in the center of the room, her mouth in a thin line of anger.

Charlotte moved backward hastily in case Lally should realize she had been listening. As she swung around, she came face-to-face with Great-Aunt Vespasia, who had been waiting until she had her attention, her eyebrows raised in curiosity, her mouth touched with humor.

“Eavesdropping?” she said under her breath.

“Yes,” Charlotte admitted. “Most interesting. Flora Lutterworth and the vicar’s wife, having a spat over Dr. Shaw.”

“Indeed? Who is for him and who against?”

“Oh, both for him—very much. I rather think that is the trouble.”

Vespasia’s smile widened, but it was not without pity. “How very interesting—and wildly unsuitable. Poor Mrs. Clitheridge, she seems worthy of better stuff than the vicar. I am hardly surprised she is drawn elsewhere, even if her virtue forbids she follow.” She took Charlotte by the arm and moved away from the two women now close behind them. She was able to resume a normal speaking voice. “Do you think you have learned anything else? I do not find it easy to believe the vicar’s wife set fire to the house out of unrequited love for the doctor—although it is not impossible.”

“Or Flora Lutterworth, for that matter,” Charlotte added. “And perhaps it is not unrequited. Flora will have a great deal of money when her father dies.”

“And you think the Worlingham money is not sufficient for Dr. Shaw, and he has eyes on Lutterworth’s as well?” Vespasia asked.

Charlotte thought of her conversation with Stephen Shaw, of the energy in him, the humor, the intense feeling of inner honesty that still lingered with her. It was a painful idea. And she did not wish to think Clemency Shaw had spent her life married to such a man. And surely she would have known.

“No,” she said aloud. “I believe it may all have to do with Clemency’s work against slum owners. But Thomas thinks it is here in Highgate, and that really it was Dr. Shaw himself who was the intended victim. So naturally I shall observe all I can, and tell him of it, whether I can see any sense in it or not.”

“Very proper of you.” Now Vespasia did not even attempt to hide her amusement. “Perhaps it was Shaw himself who killed his wife—I imagine Thomas has thought of that, even if you have not.”

“Why should I not think of it also?” Charlotte said briskly, but under her breath.

“Because you like him, my dear; and I believe your feeling is more than returned. Good afternoon, Dr. Shaw.” As she spoke Shaw had come back and was standing in front of them, courteous to Vespasia, but his attention principally upon Charlotte.

Aware of Vespasia’s remarks, Charlotte found herself coloring, her cheeks hot.

“Lady Cumming-Gould.” He inclined his head politely. “I appreciate your coming. I’m sure Clemency would have been pleased.” He winced as if saying her name aloud had touched a nerve. “You are one of the few here who have not come out of curiosity, the social desire to be seen, or sheer greed for the best repast the Worlinghams have laid out since Theophilus died.”

Amos Lindsay materialized at Shaw’s elbow. “Really, Stephen, sometimes you do yourself less than justice in expressing your thoughts. A great many people are here for more commendable reasons.” His words were directed not to curbing Shaw but to excusing him to Vespasia and Charlotte.

“Nevertheless we must eat,” Shaw said rather ungraciously. “Mrs. Pitt—may I offer you a slice of pheasant in aspic? It looks repulsive, but I am assured it is delicious.”

“No thank you,” Charlotte declined rather crisply. “I do not feel any compulsion to eat, or indeed any desire.”

“I apologize,” he said immediately, and his smile was so unforced she found her anger evaporated. She felt for his distress, whatever the nature of his love for Clemency. This was a time of grief for him when he would probably far rather have been alone than standing being polite to a crowd of people of widely varying emotions, from family bereavement, in Prudence, right to social obligation like Alfred Lutterworth, or even vulgar curiosity, as was ill-hidden on the faces of several people whose names Charlotte did not know. And it was even possible one of them might be Clemency’s murderer.

“There is no need,” she said, answering his smile. “You have every cause to find us intrusive and extremely trying. It is we who should apologize.”

He reached out his hand as if he would have touched her, so much more immediate a communication than words. Then he remembered at the last moment that it was inappropriate, and withdrew, but she felt almost as if he had, the desire was so plain in his eyes. It was a gesture of both gratitude and understanding. For an instant he had not been alone.

“You are very gracious, Mrs. Pitt,” he said aloud. “Lady Cumming-Gould, may I offer you anything, or are you also less than hungry?”

Vespasia gave him her goblet. “You may bring me another glass of claret,” she answered graciously. “I imagine it has been in the cellar since the bishop’s time. It is excellent.”

“With pleasure.” He took the goblet and withdrew.

He was replaced within moments by Celeste and Angeline, still presiding over the gathering like a duchess and her lady-in-waiting. Prudence Hatch brought up the rear, her face very pale and her eyes pink rimmed. Charlotte remembered with a sharp pang of pity that Clemency had been her sister. Were it Emily who had been burned to death, she did not think she could be here with any composure at all; in fact she would probably be at home unable to stop weeping, and the idea of being civil to a lot of comparative strangers would be unbearable. She smiled at Prudence with all the gentleness she could convey, and met only a numb and confused stare. Perhaps shock was still anesthetizing at least some of the pain? The reality of it would come later in the days of loneliness, the mornings when she woke and remembered.

But Celeste was busy being the bishop’s daughter and conducting the funeral supper as it should be done. The conversation should be elevated and suitable to the occasion. Maude Dalgetty had mentioned a romantic novel of no literary pretension at all, and must be put in her place.

“I don’t mind the servants reading that sort of thing, as
long as their work is satisfactory of course; but such books really have no merit at all.”

Beside her a curious mixture of expressions crossed Prudence’s face: first alarm, then embarrassment, then a kind of obscure satisfaction.

“And a lady of any breeding is far better without them,” Celeste went on. “They really are totally trivial and encourage the most superficial of emotions.”

Angeline became very pink. “I think you are too critical, Celeste. Not all romances are as shallow as you suggest. I recently—I mean, I learned of one entitled
Lady Pamela’s Secret
, which was very moving and most sensitively written.”

“You what?” Celeste’s eyebrows rose in utter contempt.

“Some of them reflect what many people feel …” Angeline began, then tailed off under Celeste’s icy stare.

“I’m sure I don’t know any women who feel anything of the sort.” Celeste was not prepared to let it go. “Such fancies are entirely spurious.” She turned to Maude, apparently oblivious of Prudence’s scarlet face and wide eyes. “Mrs. Dalgetty, I am sure with your literary background, your husband’s tastes, that you found it so? Girls like Flora Lutterworth, for example … But then her status in Highgate is very recent; her background is in trade, poor girl—which of course she cannot help, but neither can she change it.”

Maude Dalgetty met Celeste’s gaze with complete candor. “Actually it makes me think of my own youth, Miss Worlingham, and I thoroughly enjoyed
Lady Pamela’s Secret.
Also I considered it quite well written—without pretensions and with a considerable sensitivity.”

Prudence blushed painfully and stared at the carpet.

“Good gracious,” Celeste replied flatly, making it very obvious she was thinking something far less civil. “Dear me.”

Shaw had returned with Vespasia’s glass of claret and she took it from him with a nod of thanks. He looked from one to another of them and noticed Prudence’s high color.

“Are you all right, Prudence?” he asked with more solicitude than tact.

“Ah!” She jumped nervously and met his concerned expression with alarm, and colored even more deeply.

“Are you all right?” he repeated. “Would you like to retire for a while, perhaps lie down?”

“No. No, I am perfectly—oh—” She sniffed fiercely. “Oh dear—”

Amos Lindsay came up behind her, glanced at Shaw, then took her by the elbow. “Come, my dear,” he said gently. “Perhaps a little air. Please allow me to help you.” And without waiting for her to make up her mind, he assisted her away from the crush and out of the door towards some private part of the house.

“Poor soul,” Angeline said softly. “She and Clemency were very fond of each other.”

“We were all fond of her,” Celeste added, and for a moment she too looked into some distance far away, or within her memory, and her face reflected sadness and hurt. Charlotte wondered how much her managerial attitude and abrasively condescending manner were her way of coping with loss, not only of a niece but perhaps of all the opportunities for affection she had missed, or forfeited, over the years. She had probably loved her father at the time, admired him, been grateful for the ample provision of home, gowns, servants, social position; and also hated him for all the things her duty had cost her.

“I mean the family,” Celeste added, looking at Shaw with sudden distaste. “There are ties of blood which no one else can understand—particularly in a family with a heritage like ours.” Shaw winced but she ignored him. “I never cease to be grateful for our blessings, nor to realize the responsibility they carry. Our dear father, Clemency’s grandfather, was one of the world’s great men. I think outside those of us of his blood, only Josiah truly appreciates what a marvelous man he was.”

“You are quite right,” Shaw said abruptly. “I certainly didn’t and don’t now…. I think he was an opinionated,
domineering, sententious and thoroughly selfish old hypocrite—”

“How dare you!” Celeste was furious. Her face purpled and her whole body shook, the jet beads on her bosom scintillating in the light of the chandeliers. “If you do not apologize this instant I shall demand you leave this house.”

“Oh, Stephen, really.” Angeline moved from one foot to the other nervously. “You go too far, you know. That is unforgivable. Papa was a veritable saint.”