by Anne Perry
“I wish there were some way it could be kept from that policeman, for Adelina’s sake,” she went on, “but I have not so far thought of any. That is why it might be a good idea for you to approach Robert Carlton to see if he can get the investigation shelved. It can hardly serve any purpose now, even in the unlikely event of their discovering which poor girl was responsible.”
“There is the small matter of justice,” he said indignantly, his feelings stunned once again. How on earth could she speak of it as if it were all irrelevant, as if they had not been human babies, now dead, possibly murdered?
“Really, Brandon, sometimes I despair of you,” she said as she passed him the caramel sauce. “You are the most impractical man I ever knew. Why are soldiers such dreamers? You would think with the command of armies in their charge they would at least be practical, if nothing else, wouldn’t you?” she sighed. “But then I suppose war is really the most idiotic of all pursuits, so perhaps not.”
He stared at her as if she were a totally alien creature, as if she had changed shape from the known to the unknown in front of him.
“Naturally you don’t understand war,” he dismissed the last subject. “But even if justice is too abstract a concept for you, surely as a woman, who has borne children herself, you are moved to compassion?”
She put down her spoon and fork and leaned a little forward.
“The children are dead; whether they were born dead or died afterward, they are beyond our help now. The mother will have been through deeper hell than you can imagine, or probably than I can either. Whatever manner of woman she was, she will have paid for it in grief in this life, and will answer to God for it in the next. What else is it you want from her? Her example will not prevent it happening again, I assure you, as long as there are both men and women in the world.
“Yes, your idea of justice is far too abstract for me. It is a word that sounds sonorous and pleasing to you; but you have no idea what it means from day to day; you have satisfied your ideals, and someone else is left to live it through.
“This thing is better buried. It is a pity those men ever went to plant their tree. If you can persuade Robert Carlton to exert a little influence and have the police leave well enough alone, it will be the best day’s work you have done in a long time.
“Now if you intend to eat that pudding you had better do so before it gets cold, or it will give you indigestion. I am going upstairs to see how Christina is,” and she stood up and walked out, leaving him staring after her, speechless.
Balantyne worked on his military papers in the afternoon, because they were something he was sure of; perhaps in time Augusta would explain herself, or else the matter would fall into recess of memory and cease to be important.
It was early evening, and already dark and turning very cold when Max announced Robert Carlton. Balantyne had always liked Carlton, he was a man whose quiet confidence and dignity appealed to him, the best type of Englishman, who followed the military into all the corners of the empire to govern and teach civilization where it was hitherto unknown. They were two partners to the same cause, and he felt they had an instinctive understanding, an inbred sense of duty and justice.
This evening he was especially pleased to see him because the mass of papers palled on him. It was more difficult without Miss Ellison to assist him, and in truth, gave him less than the usual satisfaction. He stood up with a smile, his hand out.
“’Evening, Robert, come in and warm yourself. Best fire in the house. Have a sherry, or whisky if you like? It must be about that time,” he glanced at the brass carriage clock on the mantelpiece. How he hated the ormolu one in the withdrawing room and the fat cherubs round it; it did not even keep correct time!
“No, thank you, not yet.”
Balantyne looked at him in surprise, then saw his face clearly for the first time. There were gray lines under his eyes and a flat, bare look about his whole aspect. Augusta would have been subtle, but he was incapable of it.
“For heaven’s sake, man, have one, you look as if you need it! What’s the matter?”
Carlton stood by the fire, unsure how to begin, and Balantyne realized he had embarrassed him by noticing a private distress he was not yet able to put into words. He was in turn embarrassed by his own clumsiness. Why could he not be warmer, more instinctive? He knew how to act in a crisis, but so often not what to say.
The silence hung between them, growing worse.
It was Carlton who resolved it.
“I’m sorry. Yes, I would like a whisky. I’m a little upset this evening—” he stopped, still looking not at Balantyne but at the fire. “Am I holding you up from changing to dine?”
“No, no. Plenty of time. Going to the Campbells.”
“Oh yes, of course. So are we. Forgot.”
Balantyne poured two whiskys from the decanter on the sideboard and passed him one. Surely Carlton wanted to discuss whatever it was? Was that not why he had come?
“Anything wrong in particular?” he asked.
“Had that police chap, Pitt, round again.”
Balantyne opened his mouth to ask if the servants were upset, then realized that such a domestic disturbance would hardly cause the distress he thought he saw. He remained silent, waiting for Carlton to frame whatever it was that lay so close under the surface.
It was a few minutes before it came, but this silence was one of patience.
“I think they suspect Euphemia,” Carlton said at last.
Balantyne was stunned. He could think of nothing coherent to say. How could they possibly suspect Euphemia Carlton? It was preposterous. He must have misunderstood: especially since the more he thought about it, the more he honestly believed it was most likely to be some indulgence of Reggie’s, and Reggie knew it, which was why he was in such a sweat.
He suddenly remembered that Reggie had wanted him to get Carlton to have the investigation suppressed! It was ludicrous.
“They can’t,” he said flatly. “It doesn’t make any sense at all, and Pitt’s an ordinary sort of chap, but he’s not a fool. They wouldn’t let him be an inspector if he made wild charges like that. You must have misunderstood something. Apart from anything else, Euphemia could have no reason!”
Carlton still looked into the fire, keeping his face away.
“Yes, she has, Brandon. She has a lover.”
From many men that would have meant little, as long as it were not publicly known, but to Carlton it was a sacrilege against his home, his most private person. Balantyne understood that much, although he could not feel the same inner injury to purity and pride himself. If Augusta had betrayed him, he would have been above all surprised; and yes, angry too; but not wounded except on the surface.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply.
“Thank you,” Carlton accepted it with the same politeness he might have received a compliment or a glass of wine, but Balantyne could see the pain in his drawn face. “You see,” Carlton went on, “they think she might have got rid of the children, in case the—made her—her situation obvious.”
“Yes, of course. But surely, you would have known? I mean—a woman you live with—your wife! If she had been with child—?”
“I do not ask a—a—great deal of Euphemia,” Carlton said awkwardly, his shoulders stiff, his face turned away. “I am considerably older than she is—I do not—like to—” he could not find words to finish, but his meaning was obvious.
Balantyne had never been so delicate about feelings, least of all Augusta’s, and suddenly he saw himself as a boor. He was ashamed for himself, and for Carlton he was inexplicably hurt. How could Euphemia, with a man so sensitive to her, loving her so deeply, have behaved like this? But neither his anger nor his disgust would be of any ease to Carlton now.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Do you know who?”
“No. It is all very—discreet still. The police say as little as they can.”
“Do you know if she—cares for him?”
> “No, I don’t.”
“You haven’t asked her?”
Carlton turned and sheer surprise, for a moment, superseded the pain in his face.
“Of course not. I couldn’t—speak—to her of it. It would be—” he held out his hands helplessly.
“No.” Balantyne had no idea why he agreed. He was agreeing for Carlton, not for himself—he would have had a blazing row about it—but he could see that this quiet man, with whom he had thought he had so much in common, was utterly different. “I’m awfully sorry, Robert. I wish I knew what to say.”
For the first time Carlton smiled very faintly.
“Thank you, Brandon. There really isn’t anything to say. I don’t know why I bothered you with it, except that I felt like speaking to someone.”
“Yes,” Balantyne suddenly found his awkwardness again. “Yes, yes, of course. I—er—”
Carlton drank the last of his whisky and put the glass down.
“Better get back home. Must be toward dinner time. Got to change. Give my regards to Augusta. Good night, and thank you.”
“Good night—” he let out his breath again. There was nothing to say.
He thought several times of mentioning the subject to Augusta, but somehow could not bring himself to do it. It seemed a private matter, between men. For another woman to have known would have compounded the injury.
It was still at the back of his mind when Miss Ellison arrived on Monday morning to continue with the papers. He was surprisingly pleased to see her, perhaps because she was outside the family, and knew nothing of Callander Square or its wounds. Added to which she was cheerful, without being in the least coquettish. As he grew older he found coquettish women increasingly offensive.
“Good morning, Miss Ellison,” he smiled without thinking. She was a pleasing creature, not conventionally beautiful, and yet there was a richness about her, the wealth of mahogany-colored hair, the clear skin, and the intelligence in her eyes. For a woman, she talked remarkably little nonsense; funny, she was probably not more than four or five years older than Christina, who seldom spoke of anything but gossip or fashion, and who might marry whom.
He realized with a start that she was waiting for him to instruct her as to what he wished her to do.
“I have a box of letters here,” he fished it out, “from my grandfather. Would you please sort them out, those that refer to military matters from those that are purely personal.”
“Certainly,” she took the box. “Would you like them categorized?”
“Categorized?” he was still not concentrating.
“Yes. Those from the Peninsular War, those written before Quatre Bras and after Waterloo, and those from the military hospital and during the hundred days? Do you not think they would be interesting also?”
“Yes. Yes, please, that would be excellent.” He watched her remove them and go to sit at the far side of the room, by the fire, her head bent over the old paper and the faded, youthful handwriting. He saw in her, for a moment, his grandmother as she must have read those letters, sitting in an England at war with the Emperor, a young wife with infant children. He had no idea what she had looked like. Had she the same long curve of cheek, slender throat, so very feminine, and the tiny wisps of hair soft on the nape of the neck?
He shook himself strongly. The thought was ridiculous: she was merely a young woman who had an interest in old letters, and was competent to sort them.
Charlotte, on the other hand, was quite unconscious of the general. She forgot him as soon as she read the first sentence in the round, faded writing. Her imagination took her to lands she had never seen, and she tried to feel with the young soldier the emotions he described, his terror of the pressed men in the ranks, which he knew he must hide, his friendship for the surgeon, his awe at meeting the Iron Duke himself. There was humor in them, and unconscious pathos sometimes, and a lot of things he did not say about cold and hunger, aching legs, wounds, and fear, long monotony and sudden confusion of action.
She went down to luncheon in a dream, and the afternoon slipped by before she thought of time. It was dark when she got home, and less than a half hour later Emily arrived at the door, her coach horses stamping in the frost outside, their breath adding to the early fog.
“Well?” she demanded as soon as she was through the door.
Charlotte was still in Spain and the Peninsular War. She stared at Emily blankly.
Emily shut the door behind her and took a deep breath.
“What have you found out at the Balantynes’?” she said patiently. “You have been there, I presume?”
“Oh yes, of course,” Charlotte realized with a wave of guilt that she had done nothing to justify Emily’s trust in her, over the six days she had already been in Callander Square. “Many times,” she added. “I am coming to know some of the servants quite well.”
“Never mind the servants!” Emily said quickly. “What about Christina? Is she with child? And whether she is or not, why does she think that she is? Who is the father? And why does she not marry him, instead of allowing this ridiculous situation? Is he already married, or promised to someone else?” Her eyes widened. “Oh! Of course, he is unsuitable! It is a love match!” Then her face fell again. “No, it isn’t. Not Christina.” She sighed. “Oh Charlotte! Haven’t you found out anything at all?” Her expression crumpled in disappointment till Charlotte felt genuinely sorry for her, and even more strongly that she had let her down.
“I really will try tomorrow. But Christina has been in bed ever since I got there. They say she has a chill, but they haven’t called the doctor—”
“Who are ‘they’?” Emily asked, her interest quickening again.
“The servants, of course. Good gracious, Lady Augusta doesn’t speak to me, except to be civil, and the general never talks of anything but his papers. But servants are very inquisitive, you know. They would not do anything they would be obliged to admit to as gossip, but if it can be disguised as anything else, they will tell you everything they know, and most of what they merely surmise.”
“Well?” Emily said eagerly. “What do they surmise? For pity’s sake, tell me, before I explode!”
“They think that the police will never discover the truth, and will not really exert themselves greatly to try, because whoever is guilty, it will doubtless involve a gentleman, and therefore they will not be able to prosecute anyway! Which I would like to think is nonsense, but I fear they may speak with a bitterness of experience.”
“Which gentleman?” Emily could hardly contain herself, and her words came out in exasperation between closed teeth.
“There are as many ideas on that as there are servants to propose them,” Charlotte replied honestly. “Indeed, there have been some most heated exchanges. One of the housemaids is sure it cannot be young Brandon Balantyne, because he has never made an advance toward her, although the cook tells me he has assuredly been given the opportunity! Another housemaid is perfectly certain that it is him, for precisely the same reason! He has not made an advance toward her either, therefore he must have some dreadful secret—”
“Of course! Euphemia Carlton!” But Emily’s answer lacked any satisfaction. “Somehow I am reluctant to think that it is she, perhaps because I liked her. I fear I am not cut out for detection. But it will soon be appropriate for me to call again, without appearing to be too pushy in the acquaintance.” She sighed again. “But Charlotte, you really will have to do better! You are not trying! How can you possibly consider a war that was over in 1814 to be more interesting than a murder that is going on this very minute?”
“1815,” Charlotte corrected automatically, “and we don’t know that it is murder.”
“Oh, don’t be so pernickety! What does it matter as to the niceties? It is certainly the most terrific scandal! Which is more than you can say for your wretched wars! Do pull yourself together, please, and apply your mind properly!”
“I will, I promise. I will do my very best to see Chr
istina myself, and if possible at least to begin to discover why she does not marry her lover, and who he is, if I can.”
“Thank you,” Emily assumed an air of patient generosity, as one who has decided to overlook an offense. “You might even get the opportunity to speak with other servants in the square. Of course, if you do, you will avail yourself of it!”
It was on Charlotte’s tongue to tell her younger sister not to be bossy, when she took into account Emily’s passion for the matter, and the possibility of her boredom with the pointlessness of her own social round, and instead merely agreed to do her best, and leave no chance unexplored.
When Pitt arrived a moment later, Emily was just leaving, a broad, anticipatory smile on her face.
“She looks like a cat who has spied the canary out of its cage,” Pitt observed when the door was closed.
“She is very well,” Charlotte said noncommittally.
“Beyond doubt,” he agreed. “A cat in excellent health. Who is to be the unfortunate canary this time?”
“That is unfair.” She was very reluctant to let him know anything about it, because as yet he knew only that she was assisting General Balantyne in some clerical work, in which she herself had a longstanding interest that her father had not let her indulge. He had no idea that she was, or planned to be, concerning herself in the Callander Square affair; still less that Emily had ignored her promise to let the matter drop. “She was only indulging in a little speculative gossip,” she finished. That should satisfy him as likely enough, without in any way giving him to believe an untruth.
“About whom?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“Come, Charlotte,” he put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. The warmth and the strength of him still thrilled her. She raised her eyes to look at him, in part quite genuinely because she loved him, and wished him to know it, and only in small part to distract him from his question.
A moment or two later he let go of her.
“Charlotte, what is Emily doing in Callander Square?” he repeated. “And even more important, what are you doing—apart from sorting papers for General Balantyne?”
