Death in the Devil's Acre

by Anne Perry

  “I find it offensive and frightening that anyone should be prepared to ignore it,” he said honestly. Would she think him as pompous as Christina did? She could not be more than a few years older than Christina. That was a realization that shot through him with sudden and startling pain. His face flushed and he felt self-conscious. The past hour’s comfort fled. He was being ridiculous.

  “General Balantyne?” She spoke very gravely, her hand touching his sleeve. “Are you being kind to me? Are you sure I have not offended you by raising such a subject?”

  He cleared his throat. “Of course I’m sure!” He leaned back hard against the upright of his chair, where he could not feel the warmth of her, or smell the faint aroma of lavender and clean hair, a sweet musk of the skin. Wild sensations stirred inside him, and he strained after intelligent thought to drown them. He heard his voice as if it came from far away. “I have tried to discuss the matter. Brandy is most concerned, and Alan Ross as well. But it distresses the women.” Already he was becoming pompous!

  But she did not seem to notice. “It is natural Christina should be upset,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands in her lap. “After all, she knew Sir Bertram Astley, and she knows Miss Woolmer, whom he was engaged to marry. It must be much more painful to her than to you or me. And it is only natural that the police will wonder if Mr. Beau Astley could have envied his brother enough to wish him harm, since he stood to inherit both the title and the estates. And of course Miss Woolmer is very fond of him also—I gather he is most charming. As his friend, Christina is bound to feel for him. His situation must be painful because of his bereavement, and most unpleasant in the suspicions that the uncharitable are bound to exercise.”

  He considered it, but Christina had expressed no sympathy. In fact, she had given him the impression that she was impatient of the whole affair. But then Charlotte was crediting Christina with the emotions she would have felt herself.

  “And, of course, that wretched creature Max Burton used to be footman here,” she continued. “Although you can hardly care about his fate, it is unpleasant to think that any human being you have known should meet such an end.”

  “How did you know it was the same man?” he asked in surprise. He did not recall any mention of Callander Square in the newspapers, or of Max’s previous career. And Burton was not an uncommon name.

  The color rose in her cheeks and she looked away.

  He was sorry for embarrassing her, and yet honesty between them, the ability to say what was truly in the mind, was of overpowering importance to him. “Charlotte?”

  “I am afraid I have been listening to gossip,” she said a little defensively. “Emily and I have been engaged in a great effort to bring the conditions of certain people, especially the young involved in prostitution, to the attention of those who have influence. Apparently one cannot legislate against it, but one can move public opinion until those who practice these abuses find their positions intolerable!” Now she looked up and met his eyes, challenging him to disapprove. Nothing he could say would alter her beliefs in the slightest. He felt a surge of joy well up inside him as he realized it.

  “My dear,” he said candidly. “I should not wish to be able to.”

  A flicker of confusion showed in her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you not defying me to try to change your mind, to disapprove of you?”

  Her face relaxed into a smile, and he realized with horror how much he wanted to touch her. A unity of minds was not enough; there were things at once too strong and too delicate to be transmitted by such limited means as speech. Things long dormant inside him broke open their barrier with great currents of movement, destroying the balance. He wanted to stretch out this afternoon into an indefinite future with no nightfall, to prevent Augusta from returning and bringing back normality—and loneliness.

  Charlotte was looking at him. Had she seen that thought in his face? The light died out of her eyes and she turned away.

  “Only on that subject,” she said quietly. “Because I know I am right. There are plenty of other things in which I might well be obliged to agree with you if you were to find me at fault. I find myself at fault!”

  He did not know what she was referring to, and it would be an intrusion to ask. But he did not think she was saying it for effect, a false modesty. There was some sense of guilt that disturbed her.

  “Everyone has faults, my dear,” he said gently. “In those we love, the virtues outweigh them, and are what matter. The qualities less than good we do not choose to observe. We know them, but they do not offend us. If people were without weakness or need, what could we offer them of ourselves that they could value?”

  She stood up quickly, and for a moment he thought there were tears in her eyes. Did she know what he was thinking—what he was trying to say—and at the same time not to say? He loved her. It was there in words in his mind at last.

  It would be unforgivable to embarrass her. At all costs, he must behave properly. He pulled his shoulders back and sat up straighter. “It sounds a most excellent work that you and Emily are engaged in.” He prayed that his voice sounded normal, not too suddenly remote, too pompous.

  “Yes.” She kept her back to him and stared out the window at the garden. “Lady Cumming-Gould is also concerned, and Mr. Somerset Carlisle, the Member of Parliament. I think we have already accomplished something.” She turned at last and smiled at him. “I’m so glad you approve. Now that you have said so, I can confess I should have been hurt had you not.”

  He felt the heat burn his cheeks again, with a mixture of pleasure and pain. He stood, then picked up the soldier’s letters from the desk. He could not bear for her to go, and yet it was equally intolerable now that she should stay. He must not betray himself. The emotion he felt was so profound and so very unreliable inside him that he must excuse her and be alone.

  “Please take these, and read them again if you wish.”

  She understood the convention well. She accepted them and thanked him. “I will take the greatest care of them,” she said quietly. “I feel he is a friend of both of us. I do thank you for a unique afternoon. Good day, General Balantyne.”

  He took a deep breath. “Good day, Charlotte.” He reached for the bell. When the footman came, he watched her go, her back straight, head high. He stood exactly where he had been when she left, trying to keep her presence with him, to wrap himself in a golden cocoon before the warmth died and he was left alone again.

  Balantyne did not sleep well that night. He chose to be out when Augusta returned, and when he came back to the house he was already late for dinner.

  “I cannot imagine why you wish to walk at this hour,” she remarked with a little shake of her head. “It is totally dark, and the coldest night of the year.”

  “It is quite fine,” he answered. “I imagine presently there will be a moon.” It was irrelevant. He had walked to put off the time of meeting her and having to step out of his dream and back into the pattern of life. To try to explain that would be cruel and incomprehensible to her. Instead he broached another unpleasant subject.

  “Augusta, I think it would be advisable for you to take some counsel with Christina, give her a little advice.”

  Augusta raised her eyebrows and sat motionless, her soupspoon halfway to her mouth. “Indeed? Upon what subject?”

  “Her behavior toward Alan.”

  “Do you consider that she is failing in her duty?”

  “It is nothing so simple.” He shook his head. “But duty does not beget love. She is contrary, too unkind with her tongue. I have seen no softness in her. She is quite unlike Jemima, for example.”

  “Naturally.” She carried the spoon to her mouth and ate elegantly. “Jemima was brought up as a governess. One would expect to find her manner a good deal more obedient and grateful. Christina is a lady.”

  It was not necessary to remind him that Augusta’s father had been an earl, and his own possessed of no distinction but a
military one. “I was thinking of her happiness,” he said steadily. “One may be a princess and yet not necessarily inspire love. She would serve herself better if she were to charm Alan a little more, and take him for granted a good deal less. He is not a man to be dazzled by appearances, or to have his affections heightened by the awareness that other men find her pleasing.”

  Augusta went suddenly quite white, her arm frozen, fingers rigid around the spoon.

  “Are you ill?” he said in confusion. “Augusta!”

  She blinked. “No ... no, I am perfectly well. I swallowed my soup a little carelessly, that is all. What did you mean about Christina? She has always been something of a flirt. It is natural for a pretty woman. Alan can hardly take exception to that.”

  “You are talking about social customs!” Why did she seem unable to understand? “I am talking about love, gentleness, sharing things.”

  Her eyes widened and there was a shred of bitter humor in them he found confusing. “You are being romantic, Brandon,” she said. “I had not expected anything so—so very young of you!”

  “You mean naïve? On the contrary, it is you and Christina who are naïve—in imagining that a relationship can survive without honest emotion and the occasional sacrifice to unreason in the name of kindness. You can argue people into a business arrangement, but not into affection.”

  Augusta sat still for several minutes, considering what he had said and what she should reply to him. “I think we should be interfering where it is no longer our concern,” she said at last. “Christina is a married woman now. Her private life is Alan’s responsibility, and you would be trespassing upon his rights if you were to offer her advice, especially about such personal matters.”

  He was surprised. That was the last answer he had expected from her. “You mean you would stand by and watch her destroy her marriage because you consider it interfering to offer her advice? She did not cease to be our daughter just because she became Alan’s wife, nor did our affection stop!”

  “Of course our affection did not stop,” she said impatiently. “But if you regard the law, as well as the practices of daily life, you will find that Alan is responsible for her now. For a woman to marry is a far bigger change in all her circumstances than you seem to appreciate. What passes between them is private, and we would be deeply mistaken to interfere.” She smiled faintly. “Would you have appreciated it, Brandon, had my father offered you advice upon your conduct toward me?” “I was speaking of advising Christina—not Alan!” “Would you have accepted it from your own father?” The thought was an entirely new one to him. It had never occurred to him that anyone else might have concerned himself in the more private aspects of his life. It was appalling—offensive! ... But this was a totally different matter. Christina was his daughter, and he was seeking for Augusta, as her mother, to counsel her so that she might amend her behavior and forestall a great deal of unhappiness for herself.

  He opened his mouth to point out all this, then saw from his wife’s expression that to her it was precisely the same. He smiled in dry appreciation and looked back at her.

  “I would not have minded had your mother counseled you toward affection rather than duty, if she had considered it necessary. Indeed, I have no idea whether she did or not!”

  “She did not!” Augusta said a trifle sharply. “And nor shall I offer advice to Christina unless she asks it of me. To do so would be to assume that I know what passes between them, and would require an explanation from her as to things which are extremely personal. I shall not place her in that position, nor do I wish her to believe me inquisitive.”

  He could think of nothing more to say. They were arguing in words; they were not really even speaking of the same emotions. He let the silence close the subject, and he did not raise it again. He could not speak to Christina himself; he did not know how to begin, how to avoid her either laughing at him or becoming offended. But he could speak to Alan Ross.

  Feeling he could not afford to wait for an opportunity to present itself, Balantyne went the following day to visit Alan Ross, at a time when he believed it likely Christina would be out. Even if, by misfortune, she was at home, it would not be awkward to excuse himself from her presence and talk alone with Ross.

  It was not an interview he looked forward to, for he had abandoned any idea of trying to be oblique. Since his own emotions had been stripped of their usual protections of ritual and words, he found it surprisingly easier now to contemplate speaking honestly.

  Christina was not at home. Alan Ross welcomed him and showed him into his study where he had been writing letters. It was a pleasant room, entirely masculine, but obviously a place where someone spent a great deal of time and kept personal possessions that were both treasured and frequently used.

  They exchanged trivialities for a few minutes. Normally it would have been a comfortable introduction into any of a dozen subjects of mutual interest, but today Balantyne was too conscious of the reasons for his visit to descend to mere companionship. As soon as the footman had left the tray with sherry and glasses, he turned to Ross.

  “Did you know Bertie Astley well?” he asked.

  Alan Ross seemed to pale. “Not very,” he said quietly.

  Balantyne waited, unsure how to continue. Was there pain underneath that polite reply, the memory of Christina laughing, flirting, being entertained? Somehow he imagined both the Astleys as fashionable and witty, amusing in a way that Alan Ross had never been. He was a graver man, deeper and infinitely harder to win.

  “I never met him,” Balantyne went on. “Do you think he was where they found him of his own accord?”

  Ross smiled slightly and his blue eyes met Balantyne’s. “I should be surprised. He seemed eminently normal on the occasions I saw him.”

  “You mean he flirted a great deal?”

  Ross’s smile widened tolerantly. “No more than usual for a young man who feels the noose of matrimony closing round him, and wishes to taste of freedom to the full while he still may. Miss Woolmer’s mother has a fearsome grip.”

  Balantyne remembered his own last few weeks of freedom, before he had asked Augusta’s father for her hand. He had known he was going to, of course, but it was still sweet to play with the idea that he might not, to savor in imagination all sorts of other possibilities he would never indulge.

  He looked across and caught Ross’s eyes. They understood each other perfectly. “I suppose Christina is very distressed by his death.” It was more an observation than a question. It would account for the strain he saw in her. She hated mourning and would absorb the sorrow in her own way.

  “Not especially, though she was rather fond of him,” Ross replied. Ross had turned away and his face was tight. “She was fond of a number of people,” he said quietly.

  Balantyne felt the sweat prickle on his skin. Fond of? Was that a euphemism for something much coarser, more promiscuous? Or was it only his own rush of feeling for Charlotte, the strong physical desire that made his face burn at the memory, that put in his mind far uglier thoughts of Christina? Had she been drenched with that hunger, but without the love?

  He looked at Ross’s face, still turned toward the fire. As he had observed before, it was a private face, strong-boned but with a very vulnerable mouth. To intrude into his emotions would be unforgivable.

  In that moment Balantyne believed he understood what Ross would never say: Christina was a loose woman. How it had come about he would never know. Perhaps Ross had expected too much of her, a maturity, a delicacy of which she was not capable. Perhaps he had compared her with Helena Doran. A mistake—you should never compare one woman with another. And yet, dear God, how easy to do when you have loved! Was there not at the back of his own mind, painful and bright, a memory of Charlotte’s eyes looking at him that would forever be a comparison with every other relationship—and a damning of it?

  He must think of Christina. Christina as a young bride would have been confused, hurt, not knowing in what way she
had failed to please Ross. A man should teach a woman gently, be prepared to wait while she learned such an utterly new life ... the physical... His thoughts stopped. Or was it new to Christina? Memories floated back from the time of the murders on Callander Square, things Augusta had refused to discuss. She had dealt with so much, been so competent—and never told him.

  Was Christina seeking from other men the reassurance that she was desired because the husband she loved had rejected her, shut her out? Or was she simply a vain and immoral woman for whom one man was not enough?

  But whatever the desire, surely faithfulness ...

  What sort of faith did he keep with Augusta? It was the knowledge of hurting Charlotte that had kept him from excess yesterday, from touching her, from holding her—and ... And what? Anything—everything! And it was selfishness, fear of the rejection he would see in Charlotte’s eyes, her horror when she understood what he really felt. It was not any thought of Augusta.

  And, more than that, Charlotte would have been irreparably hurt to know what storms she had created in him. He would lose her; she would certainly never come to Callander Square again, never be alone with him to share even the sweetness of friendship. Would she think him ridiculous? Or, worse, pitiful? He thrust the thought away; there was nothing absurd in loving.

  But what about Christina? Had she inherited from him this betraying hunger? He had never talked to her of fidelity or modesty; he had left all that sort of thing to Augusta. It was a mother’s duty to instruct her daughter in the conduct of marriage. For him to have done so would have been indelicate, and would have caused only embarrassment.

  But he could have spoken of chastity—simple morality. And he had never done so. Perhaps he owed Christina a great deal? And heaven knew what he owed Alan Ross! ... He looked up and saw Ross’s eyes, waiting for him. Could he have any idea what had been passing through his thoughts?

  “She knew Adela Pomeroy,” Ross said with a slight frown, as if it puzzled him.