by Anne Perry
She considered lying, but as Emily had said, she was no good at it. Instead she made a strategic withdrawal.
“Emily has not been calling at Callander Square lately. To do so too often would be obvious, and so defeat the purpose. She asked me if I had learned anything about Christina Balantyne. Of course I have not. She is in bed with a chill, and I haven’t even met her. Emily persuaded me that I should endeavor at least to find out who her lover is, and why she does not marry him, instead of taking to her bed.”
“Charlotte?” he frowned, and there was a mixture of amusement and apprehension in his eyes.
She felt totally innocent.
“Yes?”
“What makes you suppose Christina has a lover?”
“Oh,” she realized she had given herself away. Pitt was waiting and there was no evading him now without lying, which she could not do. “Emily found out,” she admitted. “and she told me; Christina is afraid she may be with child. That naturally must mean that she has a lover.”
He stared at her, and she had no idea what thoughts were in his mind. His eyes grew wider and his eyebrows climbed higher. He had the clearest, most penetrating eyes she had ever seen; she felt as if the very inside of his mind reached out into her. Then just as suddenly his mood changed.
“How very enterprising of Emily!” There was a lift of admiration in his voice, and she thought of amusement, also. “That explains why Lady Augusta would not let me see her,” he went on. “That is a most interesting question; why not simply marry, albeit a little hastily?” The interest faded from his expression. “Charlotte, you must tell General Balantyne you cannot assist him any more.”
She was horrified.
“Oh no! I can’t possibly do that! I am less than halfway through—”
“Charlotte. If they have something to hide—”
“There’s no danger!” she said quickly. “I haven’t asked any questions! I merely listen to the servants at meal times. I’m not like Emily, I shall be very discreet—”
He laughed outright.
“My dear, you are nothing like Emily; she is a model of discretion compared with you. You are to make your apologies, say you are unwell, or your mother is—”
“No! What can they do to me? I have no social position to lose: and they don’t even think of me as a person! They won’t suspect anything! I’ll just listen, I promise.” Another thought flashed into her mind, and she played her trump card. “If I leave now, they may indeed wonder why, and take the trouble to discover who I am!” She knew enough not to remind him of any danger to his own career; it would be the last way to deter him. “The best way,” she went on, “is to continue normally, and then they will think nothing of it.” She smiled sweetly, in the last moment, sure of herself.
He hesitated, weighing his decision.
“Will you give me your promise you will not ask questions?” he said finally.
She wondered whether she could keep it. She plunged.
“Yes. I’ll only listen. I give you my word,” she reached up and kissed him, but he still regarded her carefully, assuring himself that she indeed intended her promise.
It was a promise that was increasingly difficult for Charlotte to keep, as the very next day presented her with boundless opportunities to ask questions, discreetly and without seeming anything more than normally sympathetic. And of course she had her promise to Emily to keep as well. The chance to do something about the latter arose at luncheon when the lady’s maid was harassed beyond endurance by a multitude of tasks and Charlotte offered to take up Christina’s tray, to save the poor woman from at least one small chore.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that, miss,” but the girl’s face brightened hopefully.
“Nonsense,” Charlotte swooped in and took the tray from under her nose. “It will be no trouble, and my luncheon is too hot to eat at the minute.”
“Oh, thank you, miss. Don’t let her ladyship catch you!”
“Don’t fear,” the bootboy said cheerfully, “She’s at luncheon ’erself. Won’t leave the table, till the general ’as eaten ’is pudding ’ot. Gives ’im indigestion wicked it does, if ’e eats it cold, then ’is temper’s something awful.”
Charlotte thanked him and hastened upstairs before anything could dissuade them, and had to stop a tweeny on the landing to ask her where Christina’s bedroom was.
She knocked on Christina’s door, and a moment later was inside. It was not so very unlike what her own room at Cater Street had been; a little larger, a little more expensively furnished perhaps. For a moment her girlhood came back to her; it was a sweet memory, but she was content that it was only a memory. She had a happiness now quite different from anything she had dreamed of then, but also it was deeper, with dimensions she had not guessed. She looked at Christina sitting up in the bed, her dark hair piled round her shoulders, her pretty little face now wide with surprise. What kind of happiness did she dream of, and with whom? A girl’s dreams could be so innocent, and so ignorant.
“Who are you?” Christina said a little petulantly.
“Charlotte Ellison,” she only just remembered the “Ellison” in time. “I’m helping General Balantyne with some clerical work, and as your lady’s maid was trying to do three jobs at once, I brought your luncheon for you. I do hope you are feeling better.” She looked at her as she said it, trying to disguise the careful assessment in her eyes as simple courtesy. Christina looked perfectly well, to all outward appearances. Certainly she had a fine color, her eyes were clear, and there was no puffiness in her nose and cheeks, such as one gets with a chill.
“Yes, thank you,” Christina replied coolly, then recollected herself and her situation. “I feel better today, but unfortunately it comes and goes.”
“I am sorry,” Charlotte set the tray down gently. “I daresay it is the weather.”
“I daresay. It was good of you to bring the tray up. There is nothing more I need, thank you, you may leave.”
Charlotte felt her face tighten; to be patronized had always woken her temper faster than anything else. She had to make a considerable effort to control herself.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I do hope you will be recovered soon. It is wretched to be in bed, one misses so much. It is quite distressing in society how quickly one gets left behind!” And with the satisfaction of her parting shot, she sailed out, closing the door with a final click.
Downstairs she cooled, realizing Emily would have charmed, dissimulated, controlled herself, and kept a friend. Instead Charlotte had now assuredly made an enemy. But then she was perfectly sure she could never like Christina, so perhaps she had merely accomplished at once what she would inevitably have achieved in time.
In the midafternoon it was totally different. She was asked as a favor, because the parlormaid was a little faint, if she would run an errand next door to the Southerons’. She accepted with alacrity, another excellent opportunity, and no sooner was she in the Southerons’ kitchen than she met Jemima Waggoner, the governess. She took an immediate liking to her, sensing in her a frankness like her own, and even perhaps feelings that propriety and her dependent situation forbade her expressing. She imagined such things in the wide gray eyes, and a touch of humor in the mouth.
“Would you care for tea, Miss Ellison?” Jemima offered. “It is about that time, and we were preparing to have ours. You would be most welcome.”
“Thank you, indeed it would be refreshing,” Charlotte accepted instantly. The general would have to wait. No doubt he would also stop for tea. If he offered her more on her return, she would have to accept it, even if she were virtually awash. But it was unlikely, he seldom thought of such things; he was singleminded and too absorbed in the dust of battle to think of cups of tea.
A few moments later she found herself alone in the governess’s room with Jemima, sipping tea and eating sandwiches.
“Are you really helping General Balantyne with his war histories?” Jemima asked. “I can never be su
re if gossip is true or not.”
“No one can,” Charlotte agreed quickly. “Unless one had begun it oneself, and even then one cannot recognize it after a week! But this is perfectly true.”
“Do you enjoy it?” Jemima asked as if she expected an affirmative answer.
“Oh yes, I do. It is most interesting, especially the old letters. The letters from the soldiers are so different. We can hardly imagine! But the letters from wives and sweethearts—how little we have changed, all the same concerns, loves, illnesses, children, a little scandal.” She was stretching the truth a little, but she wanted to get back to Callander Square, and she felt that Jemima was not one to gossip easily.
“I suppose scandal doesn’t change,” Jemima said thoughtfully, looking down at the tea swirling gently in her cup where she had stirred it. “It is always speculation about someone else’s follies, or misdemeanors.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to press the point, to say something about Callander Square, and found she did not wish to. Jemima had framed her own thoughts; it was all other people’s sins and misfortunes perpetuated, exaggerated, and relished.
She said as much, and saw the quick sympathy in the other girl’s eyes, and felt a warmth toward her. She found herself smiling back.
“How many children do you teach?” she asked instead.
“Most of the time, just the three girls here, but three times a week Victoria and Mary Campbell come over. Do you know the Campbells? They live over on the other corner of the square.” She pulled a little face with wry humor. “I don’t care for Mr. Campbell very much. He’s very witty sometimes, but there always seems to be a sort of hopelessness underneath it, as if he is only pretending to be amused and he knows the whole thing is futile in the end. I find it depressing, and a little frightening,” she looked at Charlotte to see if she understood.
“Cynicism frightens me too,” Charlotte agreed. “One can fight against so many things, but one cannot argue people into hope. What about Mrs. Campbell, is she like that also?”
“Oh no, she is quite different: quiet and competent. Actually she is about the best mother I have worked for, she neither spoils the children nor is she indifferent or overly strict. I think she is a very strong woman.” This last opinion was given with some thought.
They spoke for a few more minutes about other people in the square, a little about the Balantynes and Charlotte’s work. Charlotte discovered that Jemima had met young Brandon Balantyne on two or three occasions, and from the very delicate color in her fair skin, gathered that she found him attractive, although of course she would not say so. It was not for governesses to have opinions about the sons of generals and the grandsons of dukes.
They had finished their tea when the door burst open and quite the handsomest parlormaid Charlotte had seen came in, her face bright with anger, her uniform disarrayed.
“One day I’m going to slap him good and proper, so help me I am!” she said furiously. “I shall forget myself, I swear!” Then she realized Charlotte was not of the household. “Oh, I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t see you there. Beg your pardon.”
“That’s quite all right,” Charlotte said easily. She forgot her promise to Pitt. “Has someone been taking liberties?”
“Liberties! I should say.”
“Mary Ann,” Jemima broke the slight awkwardness. “This is Miss Ellison, who is helping General Balantyne next door with his papers.”
Mary Ann inclined her head politely; as an employee Charlotte did not rate a curtsey. “I suppose you’ve had your tea,” she said with a glance at the pot. “I expect they’ll have some in the kitchen,” she went out again, twitching her skirt behind her, still not satisfied with its replacement.
“Perhaps it would be a good idea if she did slap him, nice and hard,” Charlotte said when the door was closed again. “One cannot make one’s position too clear.”
“Slap him?” Jemima laughed, turning down the corners of her mouth with a little gesture. “Mr. Southeron is very good-natured, but he would not take kindly to a parlormaid who slapped his face.”
“Mr. Southeron!” Charlotte tried to hide her surprise, and triumph. Now she had really pertinent news to tell Emily, and she had asked no questions; at least only one, and that had been accidental.
She could see that Jemima regretted having spoken so freely.
“I should not have said that,” she was a little abashed. “I only surmise, from what I have overheard. I should not leap to conclusions. Perhaps Mary Ann is exaggerating?”
“She is certainly angry about something,” Charlotte said carefully. “But perhaps we should not speculate too far as to what it might be. I trust you have never been—?” she left it hanging delicately.
To her surprise Jemima suppressed a laugh.
“Well, once or twice I’ve thought he was about to, but I moved out of the way. He did look a bit annoyed. But once you allow any familiarity, you cannot go back, you have abandoned your position, so to speak.” She lifted her eyebrows slightly, to question Charlotte if she understood what she meant.
“Oh yes,” Charlotte agreed; and although she was only guessing, she felt a sharp sympathy with this girl who was obliged to work and to live in other people’s houses, and dare not risk offending them.
She remained a little longer, and then excused herself and returned to General Balantyne, who surprised her by pacing the library floor waiting for her. At first she thought he was going to berate her for her absence, but his temper evaporated and he seemed content to resume work with no more than a short complaint.
Pitt was late home that evening and Charlotte had no chance to tell him what she had learned, and the following morning he was out early. She arrived at Callander Square ready for her duties. Again an opportunity presented itself for an errand elsewhere in the square, and she seized it eagerly. Thus at quarter to two she found herself standing in the Dorans’ crowded withdrawing room with a bunch of dry winter flowers in her hand, facing Miss Georgiana.
Georgiana was swathed in smoke-gray chiffon and artificial flowers. She lay on the chaise longue with one arm resting on the back. She was so bony and pale that, but for the brilliant eyes, she would have reminded Charlotte of an artistic corpse laid out in shroud and flowers, the Lady of Shallott, perhaps, twenty years after! The thought made her want to giggle, and she maintained her composure only with the greatest effort. She could feel the laughter boiling up inside her: her sense of the ludicrous had always been unreliable.
Georgiana looked at her narrowly.
”Who did you say you were?”
“Charlotte Ellison, Mrs. Duff. Lady Augusta wished me to bring you these. I believe they are said to be excellent for the house, a very delicate perfume,” she proffered them to the clawlike little hand, winking with jewels.
“Nonsense,” Georgiana put them to her nose. “They smell like dust. Still, it was civil of Augusta to send them; no doubt she thinks they will suit Laetitia, and I daresay she is right.”
Charlotte could not help glancing at the velvet and plush roses that decorated the couch, the cushions, and Georgiana herself.
Georgiana’s diamond-sharp little eyes caught her.
“Quite different,” she said simply. “I love beauty. I am very sensitive. I suffer, you know, and it helps to have flowers.”
“I’m sure it must,” Charlotte could think of nothing sensible to say to such a remark. She stood awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure whether to remain, or to excuse herself.
Georgiana was regarding her with curiosity.
“You don’t look like a maid. What did you say you were?”
“I am helping General Balantyne with his war memoirs.”
“Disgusting. What does a young woman like you want with war memoirs? Money, I suppose?”
“I find them very interesting,” Charlotte did not feel obliged to prevaricate or hide her feelings. “I think it becomes us all to know the history of our country, and the nature of the sacrifices that h
ave been made.”
Georgiana’s eyes narrowed.
“What a quaint creature you are. Please either take your leave, or sit down. You are tall, and peering up at you makes my neck ache. I am very delicate.”
Charlotte was tempted to stay, but she was aware that the general would be waiting for her, and of her duty to him, both as a matter of honor and because she might lose her position and its opportunities if she were to stretch his patience too far.
“Thank you, Mrs. Duff,” she said demurely, “but I must return. It has been most pleasant to meet you.”
“Come again. You are quite entertaining,” Georgiana lay back, the better to survey her frankly. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to. Give Augusta my thanks. Don’t tell her I do not care for the flowers, or that they smell like unlived-in houses.”
“Of course not,” and Charlotte left her still gazing at the door.
Back in the library Balantyne was waiting for her.
“Georgiana hold you in conversation?” he said, looking at her with a smile, the first she could remember on his face. “Poor old creature. It can’t be easy living there with Laetitia. I sometimes think Helena’s leaving turned her mind a little.”
“Helena?” Charlotte could not place the name, although she thought Emily had mentioned it.
“Laetitia’s daughter,” Balantyne explained. “Wretched girl eloped with someone about two years ago. Never found out who. Poor Laetitia was quite deranged by it. Never mentioned Helena’s name since, pretends she had no children. Husband’s been dead for years and she had no one else, so Georgiana came to live with her.”
“How very sad.” Charlotte saw the waste and her imagination tried to visualize the loneliness, Helena’s love—or temptation—all the regret since. She wondered if the marriage was happy. “Has she never written to her mother since?”
“Not so far as I know. Of course Laetitia admired Ross as well, which made it all the harder.”
“Who is Ross?”
“Alan Ross. He was in love with Helena. We all thought it was only a matter of time before they married. Shows what nonsense we talk!” He sat down behind the desk again, and she found his eyes on her faintly disturbing. “He has never got over it,” he added.
