CHARLOTTE WOKE UP with the most appalling headache she could ever remember. Pitt was standing at the far side of the bedroom opening the curtains, and she could not even see the red flowers on them. The light was painful; she closed her eyes in defense against it, then rolled over to hide her face in the pillow. The movement was a mistake. Hammer blows shivered through her skull and shot round her forehead, tightening the very bones.
She had never felt like this carrying Jemima! A little sickness in the mornings certainly—but never a head as if her brains were trying to beat their way out!
“Good morning.” Pitt’s voice cut through the thick silence, cold and definitely far from solicitous.
“I feel awful,” she said pathetically.
“I’m sure you do,” he said.
She sat up very slowly, holding her head with both hands.
“I think I may be sick.”
“I shouldn’t be in the least surprised.” He was distinctly unmoved.
“Thomas!” She hauled herself out of bed, ready to cry with misery and an awful feeling of unexplained rejection. Then suddenly the whole evening returned to her—the music hall, Ottilie, Inigo Charrington, the champagne, and the silly song.
“Oh God!” Her legs folded under her, and she sat down on the edge of the bed sharply. She was still in half her underwear, and there were pins in her hair, uncomfortable, poking into her head. “Oh, Thomas! I’m so sorry!”
“Are you going to be sick?” he asked with only slightly more concern.
“Yes, I think so.”
He came over and picked up the chamber pot from under the bed. He put it in her lap for her and pushed back her hair.
“I suppose you realize what could have happened to you?” he said, the ice in his voice changing to anger. “If Inigo Charrington or his father had killed Ottilie, it would have been the simplest thing in the world for them to have killed you too!”
It was several minutes before Charlotte was well enough to defend herself, to explain all her precautions.
“I took Emily’s carriage and Emily’s footman!” she said at last, gulping to get her breath. “I’m not entirely stupid!”
He took the pot from her and offered her a glass of water and a towel.
“That’s a subject I wouldn’t try debating just now if I were you,” he said sourly. “Do you feel better now?”
“Yes, thank you.” She would like to have been dignified, even aloof, but she had placed herself in an impossible position for it. “Everyone knew I was with him! He couldn’t have done anything and got away with it, and I made sure he was as aware of that as I.”
“Everyone?” His eyebrows rose, and there was a dangerously light tone in his voice.
Mercifully she realized her omission before he was obliged to tell her.
“I mean Mama and Emily,” she corrected. It occurred to her to say she had sent the footman with a message for him, but she had never been able to lie to him successfully, and her head was too thick to be able to sort out enough wit to be consistent now. And consistency was vital to a good lie. “I didn’t tell you because I thought I should be home before you were.” She began to sound indignant. “I didn’t know it was going to be a music hall! He simply said he would show me what had happened to Ottilie and prove they had not harmed her!”
“A music hall?” For a moment he forgot to be angry.
She sat upright on the edge of the bed. At least the nausea had gone, and it was easier to achieve a little dignity.
“Well, where did you imagine I had been? I was not in a public house, if that’s what you think!”
“And why was it necessary to look for Ottilie Charrington in a music hall?” he said skeptically.
“Because that’s where she was,” she answered with some satisfaction. “She ran away to go on the halls! She’s Ada Church.” A sudden memory came back to her. “You know, the one with the nice legs!” she added spitefully.
Pitt had the grace to color. “I saw her professionally,” he said tartly.
“Your profession or hers?” Charlotte inquired.
“At least I came home sober!” His voice rose with offended justice.
Her head was splitting, like a boiled egg being sliced off at the top, and she did not in the least wish to quarrel with him any further.
“Thomas, I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t realize it would affect me like this. It was just fizzy and nice. And I went there to find Ottilie Charrington.” She pushed her hair back and began to take out the most painful of the pins. “After all, someone killed Mina! If it wasn’t the Charringtons, then maybe it was Theodora von Schenck.”
He sat down on the end of the bed, his shirttails hanging out, his tie undone.
“Is Ada Church really Ottilie Charrington?” he asked seriously. “Charlotte, are you absolutely sure? It wasn’t some obscure joke?”
“No, I’m sure. For one thing, she looked a lot like Inigo. You could see they were related. And something else I forgot! Ambrosine is the thief! Apparently she’s been doing it for some time. Inigo always puts everything back as soon as he can, when he knows who they belong to. I suppose nobody admitted to finding them this time in case you suspected them of having murdered Mina for the things.”
“Ambrosine Charrington?” He stared at her, confused and disbelieving. “But why? Why ever should she steal things?”
Charlotte took a deep breath. “Do you mind if I lie down again? Grace will look after Jemima. I don’t think I can. If I stand up, my head will fall off.”
“Why should Ambrosine Charrington steal things?” he repeated.
She tried to remember what Ottilie had said. As far as she could recall, she had understood it very well at the time.
“Because of Lovell.” She struggled for a way of explaining it. “He’s ossified!” She lay down very carefully, and a little of the pain subsided.
“He’s what?”
“Ossified,” she said again; the word pleased her. “Gone to bone. He doesn’t listen and he doesn’t look. I think part of her hates him. After all, her daughter’s gone away and they have to pretend she’s dead—”
“For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, people of that class don’t have daughters on the halls! It would be unthinkable to him!”
“I know that!” She pulled the covers closer around her chin. Quite suddenly she was cold. “But that wouldn’t stop Ambrosine from loving Ottilie. I’ve met her. She’s really very nice—the sort of person you want to smile at. She makes everything seem a little better. Maybe if Lovell wasn’t such a prune she wouldn’t have gone on the halls. She might have found it all right just to kick over the traces at home every now and again.”
Pitt sat still for a few moments. “Poor Ambrosine,” he said presently.
A dreadful thought occurred to Charlotte. She sat bolt upright, dragging all the clothes with her.
“You aren’t going to arrest her?” she demanded.
He looked appalled. “No, of course not! I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. There’s no proof. And Inigo would certainly deny it. Not that I shall ask him.” He pulled a face. “Still, it removes the thefts as a motive for Mina’s death—although the Charringtons could still have killed her, I suppose.”
“Why? Ottilie isn’t dead!”
His face took on a look of infinite scorn. “And how do you imagine Lovell would care for it to be known in Society that Ada Church, the toast of the halls, is his daughter? He’d probably sooner be charged with her murder! At least it wouldn’t be so damned funny!”
She twisted up her face painfully, torn between irony and frustration. She wanted to laugh, but the very idea hurt.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Write a letter to Dr. Mulgrew.”
She did not understand; the answer seemed ridiculous.
“Dr. Mulgrew? Why?”
He smiled at last. “Because he is in love with Ottilie. He might like to know she’s alive after all. I don’t imagine he’ll care very much about her being on the halls. Anyway, he should have the right to find out.”
Charlotte leaned back on the pillow with a deep sigh of satisfaction.
“You are interfering,” she said pleasantly. She liked to think of Ottilie finding someone who would love her.
He grunted and tucked in his shirttails rather untidily.
“I know that.”
Just before eleven o’clock, when Charlotte was still asleep, she dimly heard a knock on the door, and the next moment Emily was beside her.
“What’s the matter with you?” Emily demanded. “Gracie wouldn’t let me in! Are you ill?”
Charlotte opened her eyes. “She didn’t make a very good job of it!” She squinted up at Emily sideways without moving. “I’ve got a terrible headache.”
“Is that all? Never mind that.” Emily dismissed it and sat down on the bed. “What happened? What about Ottilie Charrington? How did she die, and did her family do it? If you don’t tell me, I shall shake you till you are really sick!”
“Don’t touch me! I’m sick now! She isn’t dead. She’s excellently alive, and singing in the music halls.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Emily’s face creased with disbelief. “Who told you that?”
“Nobody told me. I went to the music hall and saw her myself. That’s why I feel so awful now.”
“You what?” Emily was incredulous. “You went to a music hall? What on earth did Thomas say? Honestly!”
“Yes, I did. And Thomas wasn’t very pleased.” Then memories came back, and Charlotte began to smile. “Yes, I did. With Inigo Charrington, and I drank champagne. Actually it was rather fun, once I got started.”
A comical mixture of expressions chased across Emily’s face: shock, laughter, and even envy.
“Serves you right you’re sick,” she said with some satisfaction. “I wish I’d been there! What was she like?”
“Marvelous. She really can sing, and in a way that makes you want to sing with her. She’s—so very alive!”
Emily tucked up her legs more comfortably.
“So no one murdered her. Then that can’t be why Mina was killed.”
“Yes, it could.” Charlotte recalled Pitt’s argument. “They might have wanted to keep that hidden. After all, she’s Ada Church!”
“Well, who is Ada Church?” Emily was puzzled.
“Ottilie is! Don’t be stupid!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Emily was too curious to be offended.
“Ada Church is one of the most famous singers on the halls.”
“Is she? I don’t know the music halls as well as you do!” There was distinct acid in her tone. “But that would be worth hiding. And there’s always Theodora’s income to look into. I expect Thomas is doing that. But we still have to do something about Mama and Monsieur Alaric!”
“Oh yes, I forgot about the locket. She has it back.”
“She never told me!” Emily was angry, affronted by the callousness of it.
Charlotte sat up very slowly and was surprised that her head felt considerably better.
“She didn’t tell me either. Inigo Charrington did. It was his mother who took it, and he put it back.”
“Ambrosine Charrington took it? Whatever for? Explain yourself! Charlotte, did you get drunk?”
“Yes, I think I did. On champagne. But that’s what he said. I wasn’t drunk then.” She explained with care what she could remember. “But that doesn’t mean Mama can go on with her relationship with Monsieur Alaric.”
“No, of course not,” Emily said. “We’d better do something, and before it gets any worse. I’ve been giving it some thought lately, and I’ve come to a decision. We must try to persuade Papa to pay more attention to her, flatter her more, spend time with her. Then she will have no need of Monsieur Alaric.” She looked up at Charlotte, challenging her to argue. She would leave the matter of Ambrosine Charrington and Charlotte’s champagne to another time.
Charlotte considered it for a moment or two in silence. It would not be easy to convey to Edward the importance of such a course, and the change it would necessitate in his behavior, without allowing him to understand the reason for their concern, the danger of Caroline beginning a real affaire with Paul Alaric— not just suppressed passion anymore, but something that might end up in the bedroom. She frowned and took a deep breath.
“Oh, not you!” Emily said immediately. “I just want you for moral support, to agree with me. Don’t you say anything, or you’ll bring on a complete disaster.”
It was not a time to take issue: defense could wait for a more suitable time.
“When are you going?” Charlotte asked.
“As soon as you have dressed. And you had better wash your face with cold water and pinch your cheeks a bit. You are very pasty.”
Charlotte gave her a sour look.
“And you’d better wear something bright,” Emily went on. “Do you have a red dress?”
“No, of course I don’t.” Charlotte crawled out of bed. “Where should I wear a red dress to? I’ve got a wine-colored skirt and coat.”
“Well, put it on and have a cup of tea. Then we’ll go and call on Papa. I’ve arranged it. I know he is at home today, and Mama has a luncheon engagement with a friend of mine.”
“Did you arrange that as well?”
“Of course I did!” Emily spoke with deliberate patience, as if to a rather tiresome child. “We don’t want her coming home in the middle! Now hurry up and get ready!”
Edward was delighted to have the company of both his daughters and sat at the head of the luncheon table with a smile of complete contentment on his face.
“How very pleasant to see you, my dear,” he said to Charlotte. “I’m so glad Emily found you at home and able to come. It seems a long time since I saw you last.”
“You have not been home when we have called lately.” Charlotte took her cue without waiting for Emily.
“No, I suppose not,” Edward said without giving it thought.
“We have been quite frequently,” Emily said casually, taking a little roast chicken on her fork. “And then gone out visiting with Mama. Quite an agreeable way to spend one’s time, providing one is not required to do too much of it. It can become tedious—the conversations are so much the same.”
“I thought it was an occupation you enjoyed?” Edward looked mildly surprised. He had not considered the matter greatly, merely taken it for granted.
“Oh, we do.” Emily ate the chicken and then frowned at him. “But incessant female company has very limited pleasures, you know. I’m sure that if George did not offer me his companionship in the evening and take me to dinner elsewhere occasionally, I should find myself longing for the conversation of some other gentleman. A woman is not at her best unless there is a man she admires to observe her, you know?”
Edward smiled indulgently. He had always found Emily the easiest of his daughters, without being aware that it was largely because she was also the most skilled at judging his moods and masking her own feelings accordingly. Sarah had been too impatient and, being the eldest and the prettiest, a little selfish, and Charlotte was far too blunt and would talk about totally unsuitable things, which embarrassed him.
“George is a fortunate man, my dear,” he said, helping himself to more vegetables. “I hope he appreciates it.”
“I hope so too.” Emily’s face suddenly became serious. “It is one of the saddest things that can happen to a woman, Papa, for her husband to lose his regard for her, his desire for her company, his general observance of her well-being. You have no idea how many women I have seen begin to look elsewhere for admiration because their husbands have grown to ignore them.”
“To look elsewhere?” He was a little startled. “Really, Emily, I hope you do not mean what that sounds like? I would not care to think of you associating with such women. Others might think the same of you!”
“I should dislike that very much.” She was perfectly grave. “I have never given George the least cause for displeasure with my conduct, especially on that subject.” She opened her eyes very wide and blue. “And yet, on the other hand, I cannot find it in my heart entirely to blame a woman whose husband has begun to treat her with indifference, if some other man, with pleasant manners and agreeable nature, should find her attractive and tell her so—and she should, in her loneliness, be equally drawn to him—”
“Emily!” Now he was shocked. “Are you condoning adultery? Because that is unfortunately close to what it sounds like!”
“Oh, certainly not!” she said with feeling. “Such a thing will always be wrong. But there are some situations when I cannot find it in me to say that I do not understand.” She smiled at him. “Take Monsieur Alaric, the Frenchman, for instance. Such a handsome man, so beautifully mannered, and such an air about him. Do you not agree, Charlotte? I wondered once or twice if perhaps poor Mina was in love with him and not Tormod Lagarde at all. Monsieur Alaric has so much more maturity, don’t you think? Even a touch of mystery about him, which is most compelling. I have often wondered if he is really French. We have only assumed it. Now if Alston Spencer-Brown had been devoting too much of his attention to his business affairs, and had begun to grow so accustomed to Mina that he seldom paid her a compliment anymore, or bothered with any little romantic gestures, such as flowers, or a visit to the theater”—she drew breath—“then Monsieur Alaric would only have to flatter her a little, exhibit the merest admiration, and she would be enchanted with him. He would be the answer to all her unhappiness and her feeling of no longer mattering.”
“That is no excuse—” he began, but his face was noticeably paler and he had forgotten the chicken. “And you should not speculate about people in such a disgraceful way, Emily! The poor woman is dead and quite unable to defend herself!”
Emily was unperturbed. “I am not suggesting it as an excuse, Papa. One does not need excuses—only reasons.” She finished the last of her meal and set down her knife and fork. “Now that poor Mina is dead, I have observed that Monsieur Alaric has found Mama most pleasant and has sought her company to walk with and to talk with.” She smiled brightly. “Which shows him to be a man of improving taste! Indeed, Charlotte has said he seems most sympathetic. I do believe Charlotte was quite drawn to him herself.”
Charlotte looked across the table at Emily with less than affection. There seemed to be a shade of malicious pleasure in her tone.
“Charming,” she agreed, avoiding her father’s eye. “But I presume that Mama is not in Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s unfortunate situation?”
Edward stared from one to the other of them. Twice he opened his mouth to demand that they speak more clearly what they meant. And twice he decided he did not wish to know.
The maid came and cleared away the dishes and then brought in the pudding.
“It has been some time since we went to the theater,” Edward remarked at last, very casually, as if it were a totally new thought. “There must be something new of Gilbert and Sullivan out now. Perhaps we should go and see it.”
“An excellent idea,” Emily answered, equally lightly. “I can recommend a good jeweler if you have a fancy to give Mama some small keepsake? He has a most romantic turn of mind and is not overly expensive. I know he has quite lovely cameos, because I wished George to buy me one. I always think they are so personal.”
“Don’t organize me, Emily!”
“I’m sorry, Papa.” She smiled at him charmingly. “It was only a suggestion. I am sure you will do much better yourself.”
“Thank you.” He looked at her with dry humor, but his hands were still tight on his napkin and he sat very upright in his chair.
Emily took a little more pudding.
“This is delicious, Papa,” she said sweetly. “It was so nice of you to invite us.”
Edward forbore commenting that she had invited herself.
At half past two Edward returned to the city.
“What are you going to do about Mina?” Emily asked as soon as she and Charlotte were alone. “We still have no idea who killed her, or even why.”
“Well, the obvious reason is that she snooped once too often,” Charlotte answered.
“I had imagined that for myself!” Emily was a little waspish now that the tension of the interview with Edward was over. “But upon whom?”
“It could have been the Charringtons—if not over Ottilie, then maybe over Ambrosine taking things.” Charlotte was thinking aloud. “But personally I think Theodora von Schenck is more likely. I can remember Mina making remarks about her income and where it came from. I think maybe she already knew, and she was having fun stirring up our suspicions. Perhaps in time she would even have told us.” Her face darkened as the ugliness of the reality opened up in front of her. “That’s pathetic, isn’t it—seeking to impress people and make yourself interesting by spreading pieces of gossip about people, hinting that you know terrible secrets.”
“It’s damnably dangerous!” Emily’s mouth pulled into a hard, unforgiving line. “Think of the harm she could do to other people, never mind what happened to her! I suppose she hardly deserved to be killed for it, but it’s a wicked thing to do nevertheless.”
“And pathetic,” Charlotte insisted. “She must have had nothing of her own inside herself to be forever staring outwards, needing to know about other people’s lives.”
“That hardly excuses her!” Emily was angry. “Everybody’s unhappy some time or other—we don’t all go around prying and repeating!”
Charlotte did not bother to argue. “She was worse than that,” she said. “She invented, sowing seeds of all sorts of vicious things. I suppose there is an ugly side to most people’s imaginations, if you want to reach for it.” She changed her expression entirely. “You were excellent with Papa, but we still have to discourage Monsieur Alaric a little. I have heard he knows Theodora quite well. I shall go and call on him this afternoon and see if he has any idea where her money comes from.”
Emily’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? And how do you propose to introduce yourself to such a call, let alone elicit that kind of information from him?”
“I shall throw myself on his mercy.” Charlotte made a rapid and rather violent decision.
“You’ll do what?” Emily was startled.
“With regard to Mama—you fool!” Charlotte snapped, her face suddenly hot. “I shall contrive to let him know that Papa is aware of the—friendship—and that he does not look kindly on it.”
“You never ‘contrived’ anything in your life!”
“I didn’t say I was going to be subtle! Then when I have done that, I shall talk about Mina and how upset everyone is. Why? What are you going to do?”
“If that is what you are going to do, then I shall go and call upon Theodora at the same time, before Monsieur Alaric has an opportunity to warn her, if by chance they are in it together. If there is anything to be in? It will be a little difficult because I don’t know her, but if you can go to a music hall with Inigo Charrington, I daresay I shall manage an unintroduced call upon Madame von Schenck!”
“You need not have brought up the music hall again!” Charlotte said sourly. “That was unnecessary.”
“Well, don’t worry, I shan’t tell Thomas you went alone to call on Monsieur Alaric,” Emily returned. “In fact, I think you would be wise not to let him know you have any continued interest in the affair at all.”
“If you imagine he will suppose I have forgotten it, you hardly know Thomas.” Charlotte made a rueful face. “He wouldn’t believe it for a moment!”
“Then use a little sense—and at least make sure you stay sober!” Emily responded. “You can take my carriage to Monsieur Alaric’s house, and I shall walk. That way it will be marginally more respectable.”
“Thank you!”
Charlotte had misgivings as soon as the carriage turned out of Rutland Place, and were it not that she would appear such a fool, she would have called the driver and told him to return her at once.
But she was committed. It was an extraordinary thing to do, and possibly Alaric would misinterpret her motives; her face flushed hot at the thought of it. Caroline was certainly not the only woman to have become so dazzled by him as to have lost all sense of proportion!
By the time the carriage pulled to a stop in Paragon Walk and the footman handed her out, she sincerely hoped that Paul Alaric was not at home and she would be spared the whole affair and could retire with integrity. But fortune was against her—he was not only at home, but received her with pleasure.
“How charming to see you, Charlotte.” He stood a little away from her, smiling, and if he was surprised he concealed it entirely. But of course he would; not to do so would be discourteous.
“That is very generous of you, Monsieur Alaric,” she replied, then instantly felt stiff. She was barely through the door, and already her interview was not going the way she had intended. Perhaps in France, or wherever he came from—they had all assumed he was French, but no one recalled his saying so—it was less familiar there to use a person’s Christian name.
He was still smiling, and she collected her scattered wits with an effort.
“Please forgive my calling upon you without either invitation or having left my card beforehand.” That was ridiculous and he knew it as well as she did, but it afforded her a way to begin.
“I am sure the circumstances are quite unusual,” he said gently. “May I offer you some refreshment—a dish of tea?”
It would give her something to occupy her hands graciously, and would mean that her stay would be at least half an hour.
“Thank you,” she said. “That would be most pleasant.” She sat down on the most comfortable-looking chair, and he rang the bell, gave the maid instructions, and then sat opposite her on a simple dark velvet sofa.
The room was unusually spare of ornament; there were great numbers of leatherbound, gold-tooled books in a mahogany case, a soft gray seascape above the mantel, and a Turkish prayer rug so brilliant it was like a cathedral window. The whole was alien . . . and beautiful.
He was sitting easily, still smiling, one leg crossed over the other, but there was a seriousness about his eyes. He knew she would not have come over any trivial or social matter, and he was waiting for her to begin.
Her mouth was dry; all small talk eluded her.
“Emily and I have been dining with Papa,” she said rather abruptly.
He did not interrupt, still watching her steadily, frankly.
She took a breath and plunged on. “We were obliged to discuss a rather painful subject—quite apart from Mina’s death, or poor Tormod’s injury.”
A shadow of concern crossed his face. “I’m sorry.”
She had very little knowledge how much of the relationship was purely on Caroline’s part. She must be careful, as she had so far seen him display nothing beyond extreme courtesy. Either he was far more discreet than Caroline or—more probably—he was unaware of the depth of her feeling. After all, he did not know Caroline as Charlotte did.
She cleared her throat. Now that she must either commit herself or allow the subject to drop and talk of something else, she found it unexpectedly difficult. She was very conscious of him sitting only a few feet away from her.
Once, she had considered him as the leader of a black magic ritual—that seemed preposterous now. But was she crediting him with less vanity and more compassion than he possessed? Might he not enjoy the fascination he held for them, seemingly without effort?
She swallowed and began again, sounding far more pompous than she wished. “It seems that Papa has been too much engaged in his business lately and has not paid the attention to his domestic life that he should. Poor Mama has felt a little neglected, I think. Of course she has not complained. One cannot ask for small signs of affection from one’s husband, because even if he responds they are then of no value—you feel you have prompted them yourself, and he does not truly mean them.”
“So you and your sister have prompted him?” he suggested, understanding beginning to show in his eyes.
“Quite,” she agreed quickly. “We would be deeply distressed to see our family hurt by a misapprehension. In fact, we do not intend to allow it to happen. These things grow out of hand very quickly—new affections form, other parties are drawn in, and before you can undo it, there is . . .”
He was looking directly at her, and she found herself unable to go on. It was quite obvious now that he knew what she meant.
“A domestic tragedy,” he finished for her. She noticed with surprise that there was a faint color under his skin, a consciousness of himself—a raw and unpleasing light. Suddenly, with a rush of warmth for him, she realized he had been unaware of his power, underrating its depth completely.
Either he had not understood other women in the past or he had considered their own natures the cause and himself merely the unfortunate catalyst.
“I think tragedy is the appropriate word,” she continued. “Perhaps we should look a little more closely at what passions can do. For example, take Mrs. Denbigh. You have seen her? Her despair over Mr. Lagarde would hardly be covered by so gentle and commonplace a term as unhappiness, do you think?”
For several minutes he was silent, and she began to grow uncomfortable as she became aware of his eyes on her. She was very sensitive to being alone in the room with him. Visiting him by herself in his home was a ridiculous thing to have done, and she should have insisted that Emily come with her. Someone was bound to have seen her; there was always a servant about. There would be talk! She had no reputation to lose—Paragon Walk did not care about her—but what about Emily? Someone might have recognized Charlotte from the time when she had stayed with Emily during the murders here.
And what of Paul Alaric himself?
She blushed with discomfort at her own thoughtlessness—and yet she had not wished Emily to accompany her!
Very slowly she raised her eyes to meet his and was startled by the perception in them, a closeness as if he and she had touched, as if her skin had felt a sudden warmth, a tingling.
She must leave. She had said what she came for. Emily’s carriage was at the door and would take her back to Rutland Place. She could join Emily at Theodora von Schenck’s house.
Thought of Theodora reminded her of the other purpose of her visit. She must force herself to ask him now; the idea of returning was unthinkable.
The maid brought the tea and retired. She took a sip of it gratefully; her mouth was dry and her throat tight.
“Emily has called to see Madame von Schenck,” she remarked as conversationally as she was able. “I believe you know her quite well.”
He was surprised, and his dark eyes widened. “Moderately. The acquaintance is more a business one than social, although I find her very congenial.”
Now it was she who was startled. She had hardly expected him to be so frank.
“Business? What sort of business do you mean?” Then, realizing how blunt that sounded, she went on: “I did not know Madame von Schenck had business. Or did you perhaps know her husband?” She stammered, “I—I mean—”
“No.” He smiled faintly at her embarrassment, but there was no unkindness in it. “I did not, although I believe he was a most charming man. So much so that she has never desired to remarry.”
Charlotte pretended that she found such a thing hard to understand, although in truth the thought of remarrying, should anything happen to Pitt, was quite absurd to her.
“Not even for the security of having a husband?” She tried to sound sincere. “After all, she has two children to support.”
“And an excellent business head.” He was quite openly amused now. “Not in the least a fashionable thing to have, which I imagine is why she is discreet about it. Especially since her particular interest lies in the area of bathroom furniture!” His smile broadened. “Not exactly what the ladies of Rutland Place would find suitable—the design of baths and other such hardware. And she is most imaginative in selling and precise in her finances. I think she has begun to make a considerable profit.”
She knew there was a silly smile on her face. It was all so ridiculously harmless, even funny, that she wanted to laugh. She gathered herself and was ready to rise, but before she could frame the words to excuse herself, the maid opened the door again to bring in a choice of cakes and was followed immediately by Caroline.
Charlotte froze, halfway to her feet, the smile dead on her lips.
For an instant Caroline did not see her; her face was turned to Alaric, soft with excitement and pleasure.
Then she saw Charlotte, and every vestige of color bleached out of her skin. She looked at her as she might have at some horned thing risen out of the ground.
There was absolute silence in the room. The maid was too frightened to let go of the trolley.
With a tremendous effort Caroline took a deep breath, and then another.
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Alaric,” she said in a shaking voice. “I appear to have interrupted you. Do excuse me.” She stepped backward past the maid and out the door.
Charlotte glanced for a moment at Paul Alaric and saw his face as white and appalled as she knew hers must be, mirroring the same realization and guilt that she felt. Then she ran across the room, pushed the maid aside, and swung the door open.
“Mama!”
Caroline was in the hallway and could not have failed to hear her, but she did not turn her head.
“Mama!”
The footman opened the front door and Caroline walked out into the sun. Charlotte went after her. Snatching her cloak from the footman as she passed, she clattered down the steps and out onto the street.
She caught up with Caroline and took her arm. It was stiff, and Caroline shook her off sharply. She kept her face straight ahead.
“How could you?” she said very quietly. “My own daughter! Is your vanity so much that you would do this to me?”
Charlotte reached for her arm again.
“Don’t speak to me.” Caroline jerked away roughly. “Don’t speak to me, please. Not ever again. I don’t wish to know you.”
“You’re being stupid!” Charlotte said as fiercely as she could without raising her voice for the whole street to hear. “I went there to find out if he knew how Theodora von Schenck got her money!”
“Don’t lie to me, Charlotte. I’m perfectly capable of seeing for myself what is going on!”
“Are you?” Charlotte demanded, angry with her mother not for misjudging her but for being so vulnerable, for allowing herself to be swept away by a dream till the awakening threatened everything that really mattered. “Are you, Mama? I think if you could see anything at all, you would know as well as I do that he doesn’t love you in the least.” She saw the tears in Caroline’s eyes, but she had to go on. “It isn’t anything to do with me, or any other woman! He is simply unaware that your feeling for him is anything more than pleasant—a little relief from boredom—a courtesy! You have built up a whole romantic vision around him that has nothing to do with the kind of person he is underneath. You don’t even know him really! All you see is what you want to!” She held on to Caroline’s arm, this time too hard for her to snatch it away.
“I know exactly how you feel!” she went on, keeping up with her. “I did the same with Dominic. I pinned all my romantic ideals onto him, put them over him like a suit of armor, till I had no idea what he was like underneath them. It isn’t fair! We haven’t the right to dress anyone else in our dreams and expect them to wear them for us! That isn’t love! It’s infatuation, and it’s childish—and dangerous! Just think how unbearably lonely it must be! Would you like to live with someone who didn’t even look at or listen to you, but only used you as a figure of fantasy? Someone to pretend about, someone to make responsible for all your emotions so that they are to blame if you are happy or unhappy? You have no right to do that to anyone else.”
Caroline stopped and stared at her, tears running down her face.
“Those are terrible things to say, Charlotte,” she whispered, her voice difficult and hoarse. “Terrible.”
“No, they aren’t.” Charlotte shook her head hard. “It is just the truth, and when you’ve looked at it a bit longer you’ll find you like it!” Please God that could be true!
“Like it! You tell me I have made a ridiculous fool of myself over a man who doesn’t care for me at all, and that even the feeling I had was an illusion, and selfish, nothing to do with love—and I shall come to like that!”
Charlotte threw her arms around her because she wanted to be close to her, share in her pain and comfort her. Besides, looking at her face right now would be an intrusion into privacy too deep to allow forgetting afterward.
“Maybe ‘like it’ was a silly phrase, but when you see it is true, you will find the lies something you don’t even want to remember. But believe me, everyone who was ever capable of passion has made a fool of themselves at least once. We all fall in love with a vision sometime. The thing is to be able to wake up and still love.”
For a long time neither of them said anything more, but stood in the footpath with their arms around each other. Then very slowly Caroline began to relax, her body lost its stiffness, and the pain changed from anger to simple weeping.
“I’m so ashamed of myself,” she said softly. “So terribly ashamed!”
Charlotte’s arms tightened. There was not anything else to say. Time would ease it away, but words could not.
In the distance there was the sound of hooves, someone else making an early visit.
Caroline straightened up and sniffed hard. For a moment her hand lingered on Charlotte’s; then she withdrew it and fished in her reticule for a handkerchief.
“I don’t think I shall make any more calls this afternoon,” she said calmly. “Perhaps you would like to come home for tea?”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said. They began to walk again, slowly. “You know, Mina was quite wrong about Theodora. Her money doesn’t come from a brothel at all, or blackmail—she has a business for selling bathroom furniture!”
Caroline was stunned. Her eyebrows shot up.
“You mean—”
“Yes, water closets!”
“Oh, Charlotte!”