Cardington Crescent (8 page)

“Sounds fascinating.” Jack Radley looked away from Emily for the first time and towards Vespasia. “Which particular foundation is he working on at the moment, Lady Cumming-Gould?”

“Suffrage for women,” Vespasia replied immediately.

“Ridiculous!” Eustace snorted. “Dangerous, time-wasting nonsense! Give women the vote and heaven only knows what kind of Parliament we’d have. Full of hotheads, and revolutionaries, I shouldn’t wonder—and incompetents. The man is a threat to all that makes England decent, all that has created the Empire. We raise great men precisely because our women preserve the sanctity of the home and the family.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Vespasia said smartly. “If women are as decent as you suppose them, they will vote for members who will uphold exactly what you value so much.”

Eustace was thoroughly angry. He controlled himself with a visible effort. “My dear, good woman,” he said between his teeth, “it is not your decency that is in question, it is your sense.” He took a deep breath. “The fairer sex are designed by God to be wives and mothers; to comfort, to nurture and uplift. It is a high and noble calling. But they do not have the minds or the fortitude of temperament to govern, and to imagine they have is to fly against nature.”

“Eustace, I told Olivia when she married you that you were a fool,” Vespasia replied. “And over the years you have given me less and less reason to revise my opinion.” She dabbed her lips delicately with her napkin and stood up. “If you think I am an unsuitable chaperone for Tassie, why don’t you ask Sybilla to accompany her. Presuming she gets out of her bed in time.” And without even glancing behind her she swept from the room, the parlormaid opening the doors and closing them behind her.

Eustace’s face was scarlet. He had been insulted in his own domain, the one place in the world where he was the absolute authority and should have been inviolable.

“Anastasia! Either your sister-in-law or your grandmother March will accompany you.” He swung round. “You, Emily, will not. You are scarcely better than your great-aunt. Such of your past behavior that I know of has been deplorable, but that is George’s problem. I will not have you misguiding Tassie.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Emily snapped back with a blinding smile. “I’m sure Sybilla is much better suited to be an example to Tassie as to how a decent and modest woman should behave than I could ever be.”

Tassie choked into her handkerchief; Jack Radley tried frantically to find something to occupy himself with looking at, and failed. William, white to the lips, rose awkwardly, dropping his napkin and rattling his cup in its saucer.

“I’m going to work,” he said brusquely, “while the light is so good.” Without waiting for comment he left.

Emily was sorry: by allowing her temper to reveal her own pain she had also hurt William. He must be feeling somewhat the same as she was; confused, rejected, terribly alone, and above all, humiliated. But to seek him out and apologize now would only make it worse. There was nothing to do but pretend not to have noticed.

She forced down enough of her breakfast to make it appear she was quite normal. Then she excused herself and went determinedly upstairs to find George and demand he exercise at least discretion, even if he could not or would not exercise morality.

She knocked briskly on the dressing room door and waited. There was no answer. She knocked again, then when nothing happened, turned the handle and went in.

The curtains were open and the room full of sunlight. George was still in bed, the sheets rumpled, the morning coffee tray sitting on the table, obviously used. In fact, there was an empty saucer on the floor near the foot of the bed where he must have shared his coffee with the old lady’s spaniel.

“George!” Emily said angrily. She did not even wish to think what he had been doing all night that he was still asleep at nearly ten in the morning. “George?” She was standing beside the bed now, staring down at him. He looked very white, and his eyes were sunken as though he had slept badly, if at all. In fact he looked ill.

“George?” Now she was undeniably frightened. She put out her hand and touched him.

He did not move. There was not even a flutter of the eyelids.

“George!”
She was shouting, which was ridiculous. He must be able to hear her; she was shaking him roughly enough to waken anyone.

But he was motionless. Even his chest did not seem to rise and fall.

Appalled, her mind already guessing at the impossible and terrified of it, she ran to the door, wanting to cry out for someone—but whom?

Aunt Vespasia! Of course. Aunt Vespasia was the only one she could trust, the only one who cared for her. She flew down the stairs and across the hall, almost pitching into a startled housemaid, and threw open the morning room door. Vespasia was writing letters.

“Aunt Vespasia!” Her voice was shaking, and was far louder than she had intended. “Aunt Vespasia, George is ill! I can’t wake him! I think—” She took a choking breath. She could not form the words that would make it real.

Vespasia turned from the rosewood desk where her paper and envelopes were spread, her face grave.

“Perhaps we had better go and see,” she said quietly, laying the pen down and rising from the chair. “Come, my dear.”

Heart pounding, scarcely able to swallow for dread of what she would find this time, Emily followed her back up the stairs to the landing with its peony-patterned curtains and bamboo jardinière full of ferns. Vespasia tapped smartly on the dressing room door and, without waiting, opened it and walked over to the bed.

George was exactly as Emily had left him, except that now she saw the white stiffness of his face more clearly and wondered how she could ever have deceived herself into imagining he was alive.

Vespasia touched his neck gently with the backs of her fingers. After a moment she turned to Emily, her face weary, her eyes brimming with sorrow.

“There is nothing we can do, my dear. I think, from my very little knowledge, it was his heart. I daresay he felt little beyond a moment. You had better go to my room, and I will send my maid to help you while Millicent gets you a stiff brandy. I must go and tell the household.”

Emily said nothing. She knew George was dead, and yet she could not grasp it—it was too big. She had experienced death before; her own sister had been murdered by the Cater Street Hangman.
²
Everyone was used to loss: smallpox, typhus, cholera, scarlet fever, tuberculosis, all were commonplace, and too frequently bringers of death—as was childbirth. But it was always someone else. There had been no warning of this—George had been so
alive!

“Come.” Vespasia put her arm round Emily’s shoulder and without Emily’s realizing it she was walking along the landing again past the ferns and into Vespasia’s room, where her lady’s maid was making the bed.

“Lord Ashworth is dead,” Vespasia said frankly. “He appears to have had a heart attack. Will you stay with Lady Ashworth, please, Digby. I will send someone up with a stiff brandy, and inform the household.”

The maid was an elderly North Country woman, bright of face, broad of hip. In a lifetime of service she had seen many bereavements and suffered a few of her own. She made only the briefest of replies before taking Emily gently by the arm, sitting her on the chaise longue with her feet up, and patting her hand in a fashion which at any other time would have annoyed her profoundly. Now it was human contact and absurdly reassuring, a memory of safety more real than the sunlight in the room, the elaborate Japanese silk screen with its cherry blossom, the lacquer table.

Vespasia left the room and went downstairs slowly. She was filled with grief—most of all for Emily, of whom she was deeply fond, but also for herself. She had known George since he was born. She had watched him through childhood and youth, and she knew both his virtues and his faults. She did not condone all he did by any means, but he was generous, tolerant, quick to praise others, and within his own parameters, honest. The obsession with Sybilla was an aberration, a piece of stupid self-indulgence which she did not forgive.

But none of that altered the fact that she had loved him, and she felt a profound sorrow that he should have been robbed of life so young, barely yet half her own age.

She opened the breakfast room door. Eustace was still at the table with Jack Radley.

“Eustace, I must speak with you immediately.”

“Indeed.” He was still nursing his affront and his face was cold. He made no move to stand up.

Vespasia fixed Jack Radley with a glance, and he saw that there was something deeply wrong. He rose, excused himself, and left, closing the door behind him.

“I would be obliged, Mama-in-law, if you would be more courteous to Mr. Radley,” Eustace said with ice in his voice. “It is very possible he may marry Anastasia—”

“That is extremely unlikely,” Vespasia cut him off. “But that is far from important at the moment. I am afraid George is dead.”

Eustace swung round, his face blank. “I beg your pardon?”

“George is dead,” she repeated. “He appears to have had a heart attack. I have left Emily in my room with my maid. I think you had better call the doctor.”

He drew breath to say something, but found it inadequate. The normally ruddy color had vanished from his face.

Vespasia rang the bell, and as soon as the butler appeared she spoke to him, disregarding Eustace.

“Lord Ashworth has had a heart attack in the night, Martin, and he is dead. Lady Ashworth is in my room. Will you send someone up with a stiff brandy. And call the doctor—discreetly, of course. There is no need to put the house into an uproar. I myself will inform the family.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said gravely. “May I say how extremely sorry I am, and I am sure the rest of the staff will wish me to say the same on their behalf.”

“Thank you, Martin.”

He bowed his head and left.

Eustace stood up awkwardly, as if he were suddenly rheumatic.

“I will tell Mama. It will come as a terrible shock to her. I don’t suppose there’s anything that can be done for Emily, poor creature?”

“I expect I shall send for Charlotte,” Vespasia answered. “I admit, I feel most distressed myself.”

“Of course you do.” Eustace softened a fraction. After all, she was well over seventy. But there was another thought uppermost in his mind. “I really don’t think we need to send for her sister. I gather she is a rather unfortunate creature, whose presence would be anything but helpful. Why not send for her mother? Or better yet, take her back to her mother, as soon as she feels well enough to travel. Surely that would be the kindest thing to do.”

“Possibly,” Vespasia said very dryly. “But Caroline is on the Continent, so for the time being I shall send for Charlotte.” She fixed him with such a glare the protest died on his lips. “I shall dispatch my carriage for her this afternoon.”

Vespasia left the room and went back upstairs. There was one more duty to perform, which was bound to be arduous. And because, in spite of the young woman’s inexcusable behavior over the last few weeks, she was fond of Sybilla, she wanted to tell her herself rather than let her hear from the servants—or worst still, from Eustace.

She knocked on the bedroom door and opened it without waiting for a reply. The breakfast tray, finished with, sat on the side table. Sybilla was propped up in the large bed, lace-edged shawl thrown carelessly round her, peach satin nightgown sliding a little off one pale shoulder, and her black hair coiled at the nape of her neck and falling over her shoulder and down her bosom. Even at a moment such as this, Vespasia was struck by what a beautiful woman she was. It was a little overpowering.

“Sybilla,” she said quietly, entering and sitting down on the edge of the bed uninvited. “I am sorry, my dear, but 1 have some very sad news for you.”

Sybilla’s eyes opened wider with fear, and she sat upright. “William—”

“No. George.”

“What ... ?” Sybilla was obviously surprised, confused. Her first thought had been for William, and she had not adjusted whatever threat had been in her mind. “What has happened?”

Vespasia reached forward and took the white hand that was closest to her, holding it hard. “George is dead, my dear. I am afraid he had a heart attack some time early this morning. There is nothing you can do, except to behave with the discretion you have so singularly failed to display so far—for Emily’s sake, and William’s, at least, if not for your own.”

“Dead?” Sybilla whispered, as if she did not understand. “He can’t be! He was so ... so healthy! Not George—”

“I am afraid there is no doubt.” Vespasia shook her head. “Now, I suggest you have your maid draw you a bath, get dressed, and remain in your room until you feel you have composed yourself sufficiently to face the family. Then come down and offer your assistance in whatever way it may be useful. I assure you, it is the best way in the world of overcoming your own distress.”

Sybilla smiled so slightly it was barely a shadow. “Is that what you are doing, Aunt Vespasia?”

“I suppose so.” Vespasia turned away, not wishing to betray the pain that was so close beneath the surface. “That should surely recommend it to you.”

She heard the slither of sheets as Sybilia got up, and then a minute later the movement of the bellpull. It would ring in the servants’ hall and in her maid’s room, and wherever the girl was, she would come.

“I must go and tell William,” Vespasia continued, trying to think what else there was to do. “And no doubt there will be arrangements, letters and so on.”

Sybilia started to say something; it was going to be about Emily. But her nerve failed her before the sentence was complete enough to be spoken aloud, and Vespasia did not press her.

The doctor came a little before noon, and Eustace met him and conducted him to the dressing room, where George was still precisely as Emily and Vespasia had found him. He was left alone, but for a footman to attend to any requirements he might have, such as hot water or towels. Eustace had no wish to be present for such a distressing matter, and he awaited the doctor’s remarks in the morning room with Vespasia. Emily and Sybilla were still in their respective rooms; Tassie had returned from the dressmaker and was in tears in the withdrawing room. Old Mrs. March was in the hot pink boudoir, which was her special preserve, being comforted by Jack Radley, whose attention she demanded. William was in the conservatory, the corner specially cleared for him to use as a studio. He had returned to his painting, pointing out that there was no purpose to be served by his sitting wringing his hands in the boudoir, and he found it more relief to his feelings to be alone and struggling with brush and color to translate some of his emotions into vision. He had two pictures in progress, one a landscape commissioned by a patron, the other a portrait of Sybilla for his own pleasure. Today he was working on the landscape; spring trees, full of April sunlight and sudden, stabbing cold. It was a mood evoking the frailty of happiness and the eternal imminence of pain.