by Anne Perry
She faced Pitt confidently.
“That would be by far the best thing to do.”
Pitt looked at her, his curious, penetrating eyes full of knowledge. There was understanding between them. She was not bluffing; she was acknowledging the truth, and he knew it.
“Excellent advice,” he bowed very slightly. “Good morning, Lady Augusta, Miss Balantyne, General, Mr. Balantyne.”
When he was gone Balantyne turned to Augusta, his face puckered.
“What was all that about, Augusta? What is the man playing at?”
“I’ve no idea,” she lied.
“Don’t be ridiculous! You and he understood each other, even I could see that much. What is going on? What has it to do with Max? I require to know.”
She considered for a moment. She had forgotten the strength in him, when he chose to interest himself. She remembered how she had loved him twenty years ago. He had been everything that was masculine, clean, powerful; and a little mystical, because it was unknown. The years had brought familiarity, knowledge that his strength was spasmodic, that hers was deeper, more resilient, would rise to meet everything, day by day; the strength that endures wars, not merely battles.
“Christina, you may go,” she said quietly. “There is no need to worry about Mr. Pitt, at least for the time being. Address yourself to the problem in hand, and prepare for the dinner engagement this evening. Brandy, you may go also.”
“I should prefer to stay, Mother.”
“Probably, but you will go, just the same.”
“Mother—”
“Brandon,” Balantyne said sharply.
In silence Christina and Brandy left.
“Well?” Balantyne asked.
Augusta looked at him incredulously. He still had no idea.
“The girl in question was Christina,” she said baldly. “She was having an affair with Max. I thought you might have perceived as much, Mr. Pitt certainly did.”
He stared at her.
“You must be mistaken!”
“Don’t be fatuous! Do you think I would make a mistake about such a thing?” Her composure slipped at last. She had either to lose her temper, or weep. “Don’t look so alarmed. I am taking care of it.” There was no need to tell him anything about the possible pregnancy. “I intend to see that she marries as soon as possible, preferably Alan Ross—”
“Does he wish to marry her?”
“Not yet, but he will be made to wish to. That is up to us—”
“Us?”
“Of course, ‘us.’ The girl cannot do it entirely by herself. I shall tell you when it is time for you to approach him. Perhaps at Christmas.”
“Isn’t that a little precipitate?” He looked at her narrowly.
“Yes. But it may be advisable.”
His face tightened.
“I see. And may I ask why Max is still in the house? Surely she does not entertain ideas about marrying him?”
“Of course not! She has no interest in him, beyond—the—anyway, it is all over. I will get rid of him as soon as I think of a satisfactory method. At the moment the most important thing is to maintain his silence. That can best be done by suffering him to remain here, at least for the present.”
“You mean until Christina is married.”
“More or less.”
“Augusta?”
For the first time she looked at him.
“No,” she said simply, answering the question in his mind. “I certainly have made a grave error over Max. I did not judge her well, not know her as I should have: but she had nothing to do with the children in the garden. I should have known that.” Peculiarly, she felt ashamed, meeting his eyes like this. It was her job to have known her daughter, and to have seen that this did not happen.
Balantyne said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” she felt compelled to say it.
He put his hand on her arm and patted it, then took it away as if he were not quite sure why he had done it.
“What about the police?” he asked.
“I think Pitt and I understand each other,” she replied. “He is a very clever man. He knows that I know it was not Christina. That will satisfy him, at least for a considerable time. Although he may well believe that Max might have—other—” she shook herself. “Anyway, Mr. Pitt is not our problem for the immediate future. We must consider Christina and Alan Ross.”
“I don’t know how you can be—so—” He looked at her with incomprehension, and something not entirely devoid of distaste.
Surprisingly, it hurt.
“What would you have me do?” she said stiffly. “Weep? Or faint? What help would that be? We must solve the problem now. There will be time enough to indulge our feelings afterward, when she is safely married.”
“And if Ross does not wish to marry her?”
“He must be made to wish to. Or else we shall find someone else. You can begin to think of others, just in case.”
“Don’t you feel anything? Your daughter has lain with a footman, in our own house—”
“What difference does it make where it happened! Of course I feel something—but I do not intend to buckle under it and let a mistake turn into a disaster! Now you had better go back to your papers, that wretched Miss what’s-her-name will soon be here. If you wish to be useful, start to think who else would be suitable for Christina, if Ross proves impossible. I am going to make up my social diary for Christina,” and before he could argue, she went out. There was much to be done.
Charlotte had been shown straight into the library when she arrived and she went immediately to the letters she had been sorting the previous day. She did not notice that it was a half hour before the general appeared.
“Good morning, Miss Ellison.”
“Good morning, General Balantyne,” she looked up as she spoke, as courtesy required, and noticed that he stood unusually stiffly, as though conscious of himself and a new awkwardness. She searched in her mind for some cause for it, and could find nothing.
“I apologize for having kept you waiting,” he said hastily. “I hope you were not—anxious—?”
She smiled, hoping to put him at ease. “Not at all, thank you. I assumed you must have another call upon your attention, and I continued with the letters.”
“Police,” he sat down.
She felt a hypocrite, knowing that it would have been Pitt, and Balantyne had no knowledge that she was his wife. She was here precisely to observe those things they would not willingly have told the police, and yet she now dreaded it. She liked Balantyne, and would have chosen to retain his regard.
“I suppose they have to pursue it,” she said softly. “It cannot be ignored.”
“Better if it could,” he said, staring ahead of him. “Lot of grief to everyone. But of course you are quite correct, the truth must be uncovered, regardless of the consequences. Trouble is—one discovers so much else. Still,” he straightened his shoulders, “we must work. I would be obliged if you would put these in chronological order as well as you can. I’m afraid they are not all dated. Perhaps your history—?” he left it hanging, not wishing to be derogatory about her knowledge.
“Oh, there is an excellent book in that case about Marlborough’s campaigns,” she replied. “I asked you if I might borrow it two days ago, and you were kind enough to allow me to.”
“Oh,” he looked taken aback, and she realized that something had indeed upset him more deeply than she had at first understood. “Oh,” he repeated foolishly. “I forgot. Of course, you will know—”
She smiled at him.
“If you have other business to take care of, I can quite well work on these by myself,” she offered. “You do not need to supervise me, if it is inconvenient.”
“You are very considerate, but I have nothing else that I—at least not now. Thank you,” and with a faint color in his face he bent to his papers.
Once or twice he spoke to her again, but his remarks were inconsequential, and she let th
em pass without question, knowing his mind was preoccupied. Had he newly discovered something about Christina? That she feared she was with child? Or something deeper, worse? Compassion forbade her from making any attempt to discover. She would like to have said or done something to comfort him, indeed her instinct was strong to touch him, reduce some of the stiffness out of his body, suffer him to relax. He would be stronger for having given in to himself for a few moments. But of course it would be totally improper. It would produce not the comfort of one creature for another, but embarrassment, misunderstanding, even fear. There were years of icebound convention between them. Instead she affected not to have noticed anything unusual. She could afford him at least privacy, which was second best, but gentler than nothing, and no doubt what he believed he wished for.
It was not long before midday when Max came in to say that Garson Campbell was in the morning room and wished to see General Balantyne, and could he show him in.
“What?”
Max repeated the request. Looking at him, Charlotte found him one of the most offensive men she had seen. There was a curve to his mouth, a wetness that she found repellent, as if he were forever licking his lips, although in truth she had never seen him do so.
“Oh, yes,” Balantyne acquiesced. “Send him in. I won’t come out, or he’ll think I’ve all day to waste.”
Garson Campbell came in a moment later. It was the first time Charlotte had seen him, and she kept perfectly still in the corner, the book on Marlborough held up to her face, hoping that they might not notice her. She peered over the top of it cautiously to look.
Campbell had a clever face, long nose, hard, humorous mouth, and quick eyes. He stamped his feet slightly, perhaps from the cold.
“Morning, Balantyne.” He appeared not to have seen Charlotte, and she remained motionless, trusting that the general would have forgotten her also.
“Morning, Campbell.”
“Still resurrecting past victories? Well, I suppose they’re better than present apathy: so long as we don’t think they’ll do as a substitute.”
“We can hardly learn from history if we choose not to remember it,” Balantyne replied a little defensively.
“My dear Balantyne,” Campbell sat down, “the day mankind learns to profit from the lessons of history I shall look for the Second Coming. Still, it’s a harmless exercise, and I dare say they make good reading. A lot less dangerous than politics. I wish a few of your military colleagues would occupy themselves as innocuously. Why do men presume that because they purchased a commission in the army, and were fortunate enough not to get killed, that they can also purchase a seat at Westminster and survive the infinitely subtler wars of politics?”
“I have no idea,” Balantyne said tersely. “I am hardly the person to whom you should address such a question.”
“For heaven’s sake, it was an observation in passing. I don’t expect you to have an answer! I don’t expect answers from anyone. The most I ever hope for is that here and there one may find someone who at least acknowledges the question! Have you had the damned police here again?”
Balantyne stiffened.
“Yes. Why?”
“It’s about time they gave up. The whole thing’s only an academic exercise anyway, matter of public image. They should have satisfied that by now. They’ll not find out who did it, and if they’ve any sense they can never have supposed they might.”
“They have to try. It’s a very serious crime.”
“Some wretched girl had a stillborn child, or killed it straight after. For God’s sake, Balantyne, people are dying all over the place. Have you any idea how many paupers’ children die in London every year? These probably never knew anything about it. And what sort of a life would they have had? Don’t talk a lot of sentimental nonsense. What on earth were you like on the battlefield? Terrified to order the charge, in case someone got hurt?”
“You can hardly compare fighting a war to defend your ideals or your country with murdering babies!” Balantyne’s temper was very close to the surface. Charlotte could see the light shine across the tight skin on his cheekbones. It was a stronger face than Campbell’s, leaner, cleaner of bone, but there was a softer line to the closing of the lips, a vulnerability. She would like to have faced Campbell herself, driven back his clever cynicism with her own inner steel. She was not afraid of him, because she knew in her heart that to be without optimism, that core of reasonless hope in the spirit rather than the brain, was a fatal flaw, the seed of death.
Campbell sighed with obvious patience.
“It can’t be undone, Balantyne. For heaven’s sake, let us salvage what is left. I’ve already put in a few words here and there to get the police to withdraw, call it a good effort, and finish. You have friends, and so has Carlton. See what you can do. I’m sure Carlton will. Poor devil has already uncovered a basket of snakes in his own house. Although if he’s surprised, he’s the only one. Full-blooded young woman like Euphemia marries a stuffy old bird like that, don’t know what else he expected! Still, pity it has to become public. Wasn’t necessary, if the police had minded their damned business.”
Balantyne’s face was white. “It does not have to become public, unless you choose to make it so. Which, I imagine, as a gentleman, you will not!” He was half standing in his chair, as if he would offer some physical threat.
Campbell was more amused then frightened.
“Of course not. We’ve all got our skeletons. I never met a man yet who had not something he ought to be ashamed of, and certainly a hell of a lot he wanted kept secret. Do sit down, Balantyne. You look ridiculous. Just thought I’d mention it.” For the first time he glanced at Charlotte and she dropped her eyes immediately, but not before she had seen the humor in him, and the appreciation. What did he imagine she was here for? She found the blood coming to her face as the obvious thought occurred to her. She hoped the general was too innocent, and too stiff, to have thought of it also.
However, when Campbell was gone he turned to her, his own face flushed.
“Charlotte—I—I—apologize for Campbell. I can only presume he did not at first realize you were here. I—I assure you—”
She forgot her own embarrassment in his.
“Of course not,” she smiled. “In truth, I had not thought of it, and knew it to be nothing more than a few unpleasant words. Pray, do not think of it again.”
He looked at her closely for a moment, then relaxed gratefully.
“Thank you, er, thank you.”
It was an additional week before Augusta finally reached a satisfactory solution to the problem of how to get rid of Max. She had required help, and had had to invent a satisfactory explanation for it before approaching her distant relations and offering to exchange favor for favor. Now it was arranged, and it only remained to inform Max.
It was one week before Christmas. She felt vastly better than she had in the appalling morning Pitt had come. Christina had employed herself excellently, and Alan Ross seemed almost resigned to his fate. Indeed she had seen him only this afternoon escorting Christina out for a drive in his carriage. She had been out in the street herself when they had left. Brandy had been on the pavement, talking to that pretty little governess of the Southerons’. Attractive creature, a little thin, but with a peculiar grace, and such a charming smile: just the person to have charge of children.
She was alone in the house. Brandy had left for his club, the general also; and that young Ellison woman had gone home early. She rang for Max.
He came after a few minutes.
“Yes, my lady?” he was smug as always.
“I have made arrangements for you to take another post, Max—”
“My lady—” He stared woodenly at her.
“In London,” she continued, “with Lord Veitch. I have given you an excellent reference, you will be footman and valet when he travels abroad, which he does frequently. He is in London for the season, and goes to the country for the summer, and for the shooti
ng, of course. He very often journeys to Paris, and Vienna. You will travel with him, and he will increase your salary above that which we pay you. An advance, you will agree?”
“Indeed, my lady,” he bowed with a slow smile. “I am most grateful. When do I leave?”
“Immediately. Tomorrow morning. Lord Veitch goes to the country for Christmas, and to Paris for the New Year.”
“Thank you, my lady,” he bowed again, still smiling, and withdrew.
She told Balantyne of it that evening, sitting at her dressing table, her hair loose over her shoulders; her maid had brushed it and been excused.
Balantyne, in dressing gown, stared at her.
“You let the bounder go, to a better position? And what about Bertie Veitch? What has he done to deserve that?”
“He owes me a favor,” she replied.
“Augusta!”
“I warned him,” she said impatiently. “And I will pay the difference in his salary.”
“For how long? And I object to rewarding that—swine—for his vile—”
“He will not profit for long, Brandon. Bertie will take him out of the country, to Paris, and then Vienna. In Vienna he will find some occasion against him, and dismiss him for dishonesty. I dare say Max will not find a Viennese prison to his liking.”
Balantyne stared at her, his face white.
“How could you, Augusta? That is dishonest!”
“It is no more than he deserves,” she said, a chill inside her as she met his eyes, then looked away. “What would you have had me do, permit him to remain here, blackmailing us? In this house with Christina, and Alan Ross?”
“Of course not! But not this!”
