Belgrave Square (21 page)

At that moment their carriage moved several steps forward, stopped abruptly, rocking a little on its springs, then went another fifty yards before stopping again.

“Oh?” Pitt did not attempt to keep the interest out of his voice.

It was all the invitation Emily required.

“She died by accident. It was dreadful; she went out onto her balcony at night, and slipped over the edge. She must have been leaning out, although one cannot imagine for what reason.” She shivered a little at the thought. “There was speculation that she might have had a good deal too much wine at dinner. It is not easy to fall over the edge of a balcony if one is stone cold sober.”

“What was she like?” Pitt asked, screwing up his face. “What kind of woman?”

“Beautiful,” Emily answered without hesitation. “The most beautiful woman in London, so they said, perhaps in England.”

“Her nature?” Pitt pressed. “Was she spoiled? Many great beauties are.”

Charlotte hid her smile, but did not interrupt.

The carriage jerked and moved forward yet again.

“Really the traffic is getting so bad,” Jack said sharply. “I wonder if it can go on like this much longer, or we shall all be reduced to walking!”

“People have been saying that for years,” Emily replied soothingly. “But we still manage.” She turned back to Pitt. “I suppose she may well have been spoiled, but I haven’t heard it. No, that’s not true: Lord Anstiss himself did say something that was not quite that, but one has to make allowances for his own emotions, and his grief. He did say all manner of people loved her and she had a charm that made everyone her slave. I think it was his own way of admitting that no one ever denied her anything, which is the same as being spoiled, isn’t it?”

“It sounds like it,” Pitt agreed.

“Except Great-Aunt Vespasia,” Emily went on. “She said she only met her a few times, but she liked her, and Aunt Vespasia loathes spoiled people.” She grinned broadly. “And from a woman who was one of the greatest beauties herself, and ruled London society with a glance of steel in her day, it is an opinion that merits much respect.”

The carriage moved forward again, this time considerably, and Jack leaned out of the window.

“I think we are nearly there,” he said with satisfaction.

And indeed within a few minutes they were alighting. Emily on Jack’s arm, Charlotte on Pitt’s, they mounted the steps and went into the foyer, which was glittering with lights, swirling with satins, laces and velvets, and patched and dotted with the slender black of men’s dress jackets and white gleam of shirt fronts, the blaze of jewels at throats and ears and in hair. Everywhere the babble of sound rose and mounted in pitch.

Charlotte felt a thrill of excitement. She gazed around at the beautifully decorated walls, the sweeping stairs, the chandeliers; in fact she leaned so far backwards staring up that it was well she was on Pitt’s arm or she might have overbalanced. It was all so vivid, so pulsing with life and anticipation. Everyone was talking, moving; the air was filled with the rustle of skirts and chatter of voices.

She leaned closer to Pitt and squeezed his arm, and he
tightened his hold. There was no need for words, and for once she could think of none that would fill the occasion.

As they were moving up the stairs towards their box she glanced down and saw quite clearly Lord Byam’s dark head. It was quite distinctive in its smooth, handsome shape, and in the sprinkling of silver at the temples. He carried it at an angle not quite like anyone else, and when he glanced around to acknowledge an acquaintance she saw his marvelous eyes. Next to him Eleanor Byam was elegant, but without the remarkable individuality he possessed. She seemed somehow more subdued and not quite as effortlessly graceful. Neither of them looked up, nor in all likelihood would they have remembered her if they had.

At the top of the stairs she turned for one last look down at the foyer and saw a man’s head. He had thick hair, too long, like Pitt’s, but as richly toned as dying leaves, and she wondered if it were the odd young man who at Emily’s ball had seemed so obsessed with the injustices he saw, or thought he saw, in international finance.

Upstairs they had no difficulty in getting to Emily’s box. She had kept it ever since her marriage to George Ashworth, and still retained it now both for necessary entertainments, such as this, and for pleasure, because she genuinely liked the music as well as the occasion.

Vespasia and Lord Anstiss were there ahead of them. Anstiss rose as they came in and held Emily’s chair for her to seat herself at the front where she could see most easily. Charlotte was offered the chair in the center with Aunt Vespasia to her right. As soon as the gentlemen were seated also, Vespasia handed Charlotte her opera glasses to indulge in the beginning of the evening’s entertainment, which was to gaze at the occupants of the other boxes, observe who they were, who they were with, how they looked, what they wore, and above all who called upon them and how they deported themselves.

It was several minutes before she recognized anyone she knew. This was not to be wondered at since she had very seldom been to the opera before. It had not been an occasion her mother had considered likely to produce results in attracting a suitor fitting its expense. However, Pitt had taken
her once or twice as a great treat to see Gilbert and Sullivan at the Savoy Theatre, but that was not quite the same.

“Who have you seen?” Vespasia said softly.

“Mr. Fitzherbert and Miss Morden,” Charlotte replied in a whisper. “He really is extraordinarily handsome.”

“Indeed,” Vespasia said dryly. “A deal too much so. And what of Miss Morden?”

“She looks very well too,” Charlotte said with less pleasure. “And I think she is aware of it, from the way she is sitting with her face in the light and a satisfied smile on it.”

“Do you think so?”

“That is the way I sit when I think I am at my best,” Charlotte admitted with candor. “I dislike women as ostentatiously pleased with themselves as she seems. She has the world on a string, and she contemplates it with some satisfaction.”

“Perhaps,” Vespasia agreed dubiously. “But not everyone who wears a brave face feels as certain underneath. I am surprised that you do not know that. Many a gay laugh hides loneliness or fear of all manner of things. A wild night does not mean a happy morrow.” Her voice softened. “I think perhaps, my dear, it is you, with Thomas to love you, who has grown a trifle complacent.”

Charlotte sat rigid, keeping the glasses to her eyes to hide her face, and hoped no one else saw the slow, hot color burn up her cheeks. Suddenly and quite overwhelmingly she knew Vespasia was right. She had grown very used to happiness, very certain of the things that mattered most. Involuntarily she turned around and looked at Pitt watching Jack and Lord Anstiss talking to each other. He smiled at her and pulled a face.

She turned back, crowded with emotion, and stared across at the box where Herbert Fitzherbert was looking down at the stage, and half behind him, Odelia Morden was smiling vacantly into the air, her thoughts obviously miles from the glittering crowd and the rising buzz of excitement.

Charlotte moved the glasses further around the arc of the balcony and saw Micah Drummond, his eyes on the vast, closed curtain, and three boxes beyond him Eleanor Byam, sitting forward, her hands on the velvet-padded edge of the box, fingers gripping tightly. For a moment she seemed to
be looking at Drummond, then she saw someone she knew and raised her hand in a small, rather stiff salute. Beside her Lord Byam’s face was in the shadows and his expression hidden.

There was a sudden hush, the house lights dimmed and a spotlight blossomed on the stage. The prima donna appeared in front of the curtain, and the orchestra, which had been tuning their instruments under the hum of conversation, began to play the national anthem. At one stroke the chatter died. The prima donna’s glorious voice broke into the words, “God save our gracious Queen,” and as a single person every man and woman stood.

The evening had commenced.

The curtain rose on a magnificent scene, brilliantly lit, static, and the slow, magical story unfolded.

Charlotte found it strangely cold. The music was huge, full of great chords, grand passages, and sweeping gestures, but it had none of the personal passion she had expected from her small knowledge of the Italian operas, and she found her attention wandering. She borrowed Vespasia’s glasses again, and when she hoped no one would notice, she swung them around to watch the occupants of the other boxes.

The slow drama played itself out on the stage in a glory of sound and lights, and in the dim, plush-lined balconies other comedies and tragedies took place of which Charlotte saw snatches and was fascinated. An elderly general, gorgeous in stars and medals, snoozed gently, his white mustache fluttering as he breathed, while his wife smiled and nodded imperceptibly at a young lieutenant in a box opposite. Two women, sisters from their likeness to each other, giggled behind their fans and flirted with a portly middle-aged gentleman who admired them extravagantly. Two duchesses sat together, diamonds blazing, and gossiped about everyone in sight. They could have had no idea whether the work on the stage was
Lohengrin
or
The Mikado.

In the first interval the lights went up and they all arose to take whatever respite they most wished. Jack and Anstiss excused themselves and retired to the smoking room, naturally peopled only by men, where they could discuss politics. Emily granted her permission graciously only because she knew that this was the principal purpose of the whole evening.
The visit to the opera was merely a civilized way of achieving it.

Pitt, a trifle self-consciously, escorted Aunt Vespasia, Emily and Charlotte to the foyer, where he bought them refreshments of cool lemonade in tall glasses, and they swapped greetings, gossip, and trivial conversation with passersby. It was a glorious, gay, noisy, brilliant throng of people, swishing skirts, clinking glasses, blazing jewelry and eager faces. Charlotte found it immensely exciting and could hardly keep her eyes on one person more than a moment or two, because there were so many things to see.

However she did observe Herbert Fitzherbert, so close he almost bumped her elbow, although quite unaware of her. He was speaking to Odelia Morden, their heads together, laughing at some small, private joke, or perhaps no joke at all, simply that they were happy and felt themselves in love.

Suddenly Odelia gave a little start and turned sharply to see a young man accidentally step on the edge of her gown, and blush in embarrassment.

“Oh—I am sorry, ma’am!” he exclaimed in confusion. “I do beg your pardon!”

Odelia stared at him in horror, still uncertain how damaged her gown might be, and not at all sure if the stitches might have been ripped at the waist, leaving her in danger of becoming something of a spectacle should it tear any further.

The young man colored furiously. “I—I am most profoundly sorry, ma’am! If there is any way…” He tailed off, becoming aware there was nothing whatever he could do and all his protestations were quite pointless.

His companion, a remarkably pretty girl with a mass of soft, honey-brown hair in natural curls and a peculiarly vivid face, looked more practically at the damage, then smiled at Odelia.

“It is only two or three stitches at the hem,” she reassured. “It will cause you no embarrassment, and I am sure your maid will be able to repair it. But we do apologize. My brother was bumped against by a gentleman a little too happy for the occasion, and I am afraid he lost his balance.” Her smile was bright and friendly, but there was nothing abashed in it, nor was she going to accept blame for what was not her fault.

Charlotte resisted the pressure to move with the crowd and stayed behind the potted palm where she could both hear and see unobserved. Pitt and Aunt Vespasia carried on.

Odelia breathed out, still uncertain how to react, whether to accept the situation with a gracious wave of her hand, dismissing the whole matter, or whether to remain injured and keep in them a sense of discomfort. She glanced at Fitz.

Fitzherbert looked at the girl, at her bright, frank face, and bowed.

“Herbert Fitzherbert, ma’am.” He turned to Odelia. “And may I present Miss Odelia Morden.” He touched her arm proprietorially. “We are delighted to make your acquaintance, and a small piece of fabric is a trivial price to pay. Please think no more of it.”

The girl smiled and dropped a tiny curtsey.

“Theophania Hilliard, but if you should ever think of me by name, I should greatly prefer it to be Fanny, which is what my friends call me. And this is my brother, James.”

“Fanny!” James said quickly. “We have already intruded more than enough on Mr. Fitzherbert and Miss Morden! They are very unlikely to wish to know us any better, in case we ruin their entire wardrobe!”

“You don’t make a habit of it, do you?” Fitz asked with humor. “If you do, I have several acquaintances I should like you to meet. I think it could be most entertaining …”

Charlotte moved even closer to the palm and tucked her skirts out of the way.

A flash of irritation crossed Odelia’s face. She looked at Fanny. “He is joking,” she said a little stiffly. “I am afraid his sense of humor is not of the most readily understood. I am sure you do not customarily stand …” She tailed off, realizing that she had put herself in a position where to continue would be unnecessarily discourteous.

Fanny smiled at her very briefly, then her eyes moved back to Fitz.

“There is no need to explain,” she said gaily. “I understand perfectly. Such exchanges are like bubbles, very pretty, and fly only if you do not touch them.”

“Perfect!” Fitz said with obvious pleasure. “You have a gift for the exact expression, Miss Hilliard. Tell me, are you enjoying the opera?”

“If you mean the music,” she replied, wrinkling her nose, “not a great deal. There is nothing in it I shall remember, and certainly nothing I shall hum in the street. But the spectacle is wonderful. And the story is certainly romantic enough. It starts all sorts of dreams in my head, and makes me want to go and read the great poems about heroes, like El Cid, and Roland and Charlemagne and the battle at Roncesvalles, and of course King Arthur.” Her eyes were brilliant and she closed them for a moment as if the knights in splendor were riding across her vision as she spoke.