Callander Square (21 page)

He looked at her closely, his hazel eyes clouded with a sudden sensitivity to her.

“Oh, not now,” she said quickly. “But in the past I have done. He was my sister’s husband. I grew out of it, I saw him differently. But it hurt at the time.”

He relaxed.

“Please don’t speak of Euphemia,” he asked again.

She thought of Pitt, the babies in the gardens.

“I promise I shall not speak except in her interest,” she said solemnly.

He was not satisfied, sensing evasion in her words.

“What do you mean?”

There was nothing for it but to be honest.

“I was thinking of the police. They know that Euphemia is with child, and that it is yours. They may hold her under some suspicion for the children in the gardens also, you know.”

His face went so blank with horror it was impossible to imagine that he had thought of such an eventuality before.

“To tell them the truth,” Charlotte said softly, “might be greatly to Euphemia’s advantage, do you not think?”

“They wouldn’t believe it,” his mouth was stiff, still shocked.

“They might.”

“How—how did they know of—of the child—about me—any of it?”

“They are quite clever, you know, and they would be looking for such things.”

“I suppose so. Mother said she thought that fellow Pitt was clever, and she’s usually right. And there are not many people whose intelligence she regards well.”

Charlotte did not wish to tell him of her own relationship to Pitt, and she wondered if the warmth of pride that bubbled inside her now was as obvious to him as it felt to her.

“That is all I meant,” she said carefully. “Now I think it might be advisable for us to finish this discussion before the general returns, do you not?”

“Oh—yes, yes it would. You won’t—?”

“No, of course I won’t! I was concerned only for Jemima.”

His mouth curved upward in a slight smile.

“You know, I like Jemima. She’s a little like you, in some ways. And in other ways, you are a little like Mother—”

Charlotte froze at the thought, although doubtless he intended it as a compliment.

His smile broadened into a grin.

“Don’t look so shocked. Mother has more courage than anyone else I know; she’d knock the stuffing out of all the old generals at Father’s clubs! And she was quite a beauty too. Only trouble was she could never flirt; didn’t know how; had no art of deception.”

Charlotte blushed. She had rather charged in, and certainly she had displayed no finesse. Perhaps she was more like Lady Augusta than she would have cared to admit. She looked up at Brandy to say something to excuse herself, make herself appear softer, when the general came in. His face widened in surprise when he saw Brandy.

“Best fire in the house,” Brandy said quickly. “You always bragged it was.”

“That does not mean I intended you to stand by it all afternoon, distracting Miss Ellison from her work.”

“Pity. Can’t think of a pleasanter thing to do on a filthy winter afternoon. Do you see the gutters, simply running over with water?”

“Then go and change your boots. I must get on with my work. You would be better if you found yourself something to do.”

“Can’t write my memoirs yet, I haven’t got anything to remember.”

Balantyne looked at him with slight suspicion, as if he thought he might be being faintly twitted, but Brandy’s face was bland with innocence. He went to the door.

“Good afternoon, Miss Ellison, thank you for permitting me to stand by your fire,” and he went out.

“Was he disturbing you?” Balantyne asked a little sharply.

“Not at all,” Charlotte replied. “He wasn’t here long. I believe I have sorted those Marlborough letters, would you care to look at them?”

Emily had been several times to Callander Square since her last visit to Charlotte over the matter, and had managed to form quite a friendship with Christina. Therefore she was not surprised when Christina confided in her at the end of the first week in January that she was shortly to be married to Alan Ross.

The confidence itself did not surprise Emily; she had spent their entire acquaintance diligently seeking precisely this. But under any other circumstances, the choice of bridegroom would have surprised her considerably. Alan Ross and Christina Balantyne seemed to her judgment an unnatural partnering. From what she had seen of Ross, he was a serious and rather tense man, possibly even a man of deep feeling: whereas Christina was gay, when she chose, deliriously sophisticated, and essentially shallow. Still, he was of good family, and adequate means, and most important, apparently willing to marry at short notice.

“We are to be married at the end of the month,” Christina said, facing Emily in the morning room where they sat by the fire.

“My congratulations,” Emily replied, her mind considering the possibility that Christina might know by now whether she was actually with child or not. She was careful not to glance downward to a betraying waistline, but she had admired her gown earlier, to give herself an opportunity to look carefully then. There was certainly no sign of it. But it was early yet. In fact Charlotte was over four months, and still looked quite normal. Of course Charlotte was a bigger person than Christina, and all these things had to be taken into account.

“Thank you,” Christina accepted without enthusiasm. “I should like you to be there, if you are able?”

“Of course. It will be charming. Which church do you choose?”

“St. Clement’s. It is all arranged.”

“I hope you have a good dressmaker? It is so nerve-racking to be let down at the last moment. I can give you names, if you are not already suited?”

“Oh, I am, thank you. Miss Harrison is most reliable.”

“I’m so glad.” Emily sensed a certain restraint, something beneath the surface that Christina wished to say to someone, and yet could not decide. “You will make a beautiful bride,” Emily went on. “Mr. Ross is most fortunate.”

“I hope so.”

Emily affected to be mildly surprised.

“Have you some doubt? I think you will make him an excellent wife, if you wish to.”

Christina’s little face hardened.

“I’m not sure that I do wish to. I’m not sure that I wish to give up my freedom.”

“Good gracious, girl, there is no need to give up your freedom, or anything else—except money, of course—but even that can be managed properly, with a little forethought.”

Christina looked up, staring at her.

“What do you mean? I am marrying a man I am not in love with. What greater sacrifice of freedom can there be than that?”

It was time she was taught a little common sense.

“My dear, very few women marry men they are in love with,” Emily said firmly. “And even those who do, frequently find that it was a mistake. The kind of man one falls in love with is usually entertaining, witty, and handsome; but equally often he has no means to support one, is highly unreliable, and as like as not, will in due course fall out of love with you, and in again with someone else. To marry, one requires a man with good character, common sense in business, or else a private income of great proportions; he must be moderately sober and not gamble to excess, and be of gentle manners and acceptable appearance.”

“That sounds desperately dull,” Christina said sourly. “I don’t remember George Ashworth being like that!”

“Possibly not, but then I worked a great deal harder than you were prepared to do. I had not your advantages, so I had to create my own. But Mr. Ross seems pleasantly spoken and courteous; he has means, so I hear; and he is certainly well enough to look at. That is all you can reasonably expect.”

“Perhaps, but it is not all that I want!”

“Well, providing you are discreet, you can always fall in love afterward. But in the meantime you would be well advised to make the best of this. You are hardly the sort of person to be happy running off with some penniless romantic, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can begin to work on what you have. And make no mistake, my dear, you will have to work on it.”

“Work on it? I don’t know what you mean. I have done the work; we are to be married before the end of the month. He could not possibly let me down now. It would make his position impossible.”

Emily sighed. She had not realized any girl could grow up so ignorant. Whatever had Lady Augusta been thinking of? Or perhaps the Balantynes had enough money and social influence, and Christina sufficient looks, that they had considered it unnecessary. Or it was even possible that Lady Augusta had given all this advice, and Christina was merely too arrogant to have believed it.

“Christina,” she said slowly, “if you wish to be happy, you must realize that it depends upon your husband being happy, and upon his being agreeable to your conducting your life in the manner that best pleases you. You must teach him to want what you want, and if possible even to think that it is his idea. If he believes he has suggested a thing, he will never refuse you, even if he changes his mind. You must learn to be courteous to him at all times, or nearly all; never to argue with him, or disobey him, in public, and if you must do it in private, then do it either with a smile, or with tears. Don’t waste your time trying to be reasonable, men do not expect it, and it disconcerts them. Always pay attention to your looks; do not be extravagant beyond your means; and see that your servants keep your home properly. Never let there be domestic upsets, men do not like to have the order of things disturbed, above all by quarrels in the household.

“And if you have an admirer, for heaven’s sake be discreet; always, whatever it costs you, be discreet. No love affair is worth sacrificing your marriage for. And to be honest, my dear, I cannot see you loving anyone enough to lose your head over; your heart, for a little; or your desires, if you cannot contain yourself, although you would be better if you could; but never forget what scandal does to a woman. Your husband will tolerate all sorts of things, if you treat him well, but not scandal.”

She looked at Christina’s pretty, rather sulky face.

“And one last thing,” she finished. “If he should show undue interest in another woman, affect not to notice it. Whatever you do, never make a scene. Men hate scenes. Jealousy is the most unbecoming of all behavior. Never lose your temper, and be careful how often you weep. It can become most boring, and then when you need it, it no longer works.

“I am surprised your mother has not given you the same advice.”

Christina stared at her. “She has, she has done for years. I pay no attention. One’s mother is always giving one good advice.”

Emily waited, staring back, eyes unflinching. It was a time for reality.

At last Christina’s eyes dropped.

“I don’t think I really want to be married,” she spoke quietly. “It sounds like very hard work.”

“Do you have any choice?” Emily was brutal.

Christina’s eyes narrowed and her face tightened.

“What do you mean?” she demanded harshly.

Emily assumed innocence.

“That you must make up your mind,” she replied blandly, “and whatever you do, you must do it well. We can none of us afford to do anything else. In society everyone knows what everyone else does; it is talked about and never totally forgotten. You will have to live with it all your life, so think before you act. That is all I mean.”

Christina took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“What a revoltingly practical creature you are. I don’t believe you have an ounce of romance in your soul.”

“Perhaps not,” Emily agreed. “But do not confuse romance with love. I know how to love.” She stood up. “I fear your romance is largely an indulgence, and indulgence is selfishness and has to be paid for.”

“I do not intend to pay if I do not have to. But I shall remember what you say, whether I follow it or not. You may still attend the wedding, if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Emily said dryly. “I should be delighted.”

Emily decided that with regard to the bodies in the square, Christina was no longer of interest; for one thing, she had not the nerve, the decision, to perform such an act. Lady Augusta most certainly would have had, but then she had also, unless Emily had wildly misjudged her, enough sense never to have permitted such a thing to happen.

Therefore it was time to turn her attention to the other houses. Charlotte had told her that Euphemia Carlton was highly unlikely, although she would not say why, but apparently she had satisfied Pitt. And although Pitt was a peculiar creature, Emily had a great respect for him; purely as a policeman, of course, socially he was impossible. But if he was satisfied regarding Euphemia, then so was she.

So she must look further into the other households, as opportunity could be made. From what Charlotte had learned, Reggie Southeron seemed the most promising, but it might also prove productive to cultivate Sophie Bolsover, and to learn a little more about Helena Doran. She had gone about the time of the death of the first child, just over two years ago. It was possible there was some connection, was it not? Why had she never written? Who was the lover no one had even seen? Had he perhaps loved others also—with different results? The time that the first body had been in the ground, some six months, could it have been longer? Long enough to have been conceived before Helena and her unknown lover disappeared? Could that even be why the child had been killed—a legacy from a love affair that had ended in desertion, and hate? It was certainly a mystery very much worth the solving!

With this in mind she planned to visit Charlotte two days afterward, being obliged to attend to her household on the following morning, a small matter of servants, and be at home to callers in the afternoon. One had certain social obligations to maintain.

However, on the second morning she was free to pursue those things that were really of interest to her.

“Who on earth are you calling on at this hour?” George inquired, still sitting at a late breakfast and flicking through the society pages of the newspaper. He looked very elegant in his silk dressing coat. She thought again how fortunate she was that she had been able to marry a man who could offer her all the social and financial advantages she wished, and whom she could genuinely love. Of course he had many characteristics that, when this fascinating business in Callander Square was over, she would hope to work on. But then if there were nothing to work on, a marriage would quickly become intolerably boring; for a woman, at any rate.