by Anne Perry
Charlotte could not keep the tears back. If only Sarah could have known that much for certain. Why is it that one does not tell people things while there is time? One lets such trivial things matter.
Now she must not upset all the others by weeping in front of them. She stood up.
“Excuse me,” she said quickly and walked out; to run would betray her need and its urgency.
It was not Dominic Emily was afraid for, but her father. She had never considered the existence of a darker side to her sister’s husband. He was no more than he seemed to be; handsome, pleasant-natured if a little spoiled, witty when he chose, and quite often kind—but also without great imagination. It was funny that Charlotte should have fallen in love with him. He was utterly wrong for her and would have made her dreadfully unhappy. He would never have matched her depth of feeling and she would have spent her whole life seeking for something that was not there.
But Papa was quite different. There were obviously hungers in him that none of them had recognized before. And he had been either unwilling or unable to prevent himself from satisfying them.
Was the woman in Cater Street the only one? She was an old woman now, according to Sarah. When Papa had finished with her, who had replaced her? That was something that she thought had not occurred to the others.
But it occurred to Emily as she sat sewing in the afternoon, and she wondered if it would occur to Pitt when he found out, which he undoubtedly would, either from some gossip in the neighbourhood about Sarah’s visit, or from some slip of the tongue by one of the servants, or possibly even from Charlotte. She was about as transparent as water! Or perhaps he had even been to speak to the woman himself. He might be inelegant, and of very ordinary birth, but he was far from stupid.
Anyway, Emily thought, she had better accustom herself to thinking well of him, because no doubt he would have the courage to make an offer for Charlotte, and she might well take him if she had the courage and the sense. Papa would hum and haw, and Grandmama would have a fit, but that did not matter.
Unless of course Papa really had done something more serious than keep a mistress, or even a series of mistresses? In which case they would all be ruined and the question of marriage to anyone would be moot. Surely he could not have? She could not really believe it, but neither could she dismiss the fear from the back of her mind until she had done something about it. She knew that he was alone in the library. The abominable vicar would be duty-bound to call some time today or tomorrow, now that the police had gone, for the time being at least. Better to get this over with.
Edward looked up with surprise when she went into the library. “Emily? Are you seeking something to read?”
“No,” she sat down in the other big leather chair opposite him.
“What then? You find it hard to be alone? I confess, I’m glad of your company also.”
She smiled very slightly. This was going to be harder than she had anticipated.
“Papa?”
“Yes, my dear?” How very tired he looked. She had forgot how old he was.
“Papa, the woman in Cater Street—how long is it since she was your mistress?” Better to be direct. She could be devious with most people, but she had never been able to deceive him with any success.
“How very like Charlotte you are at times,” he smiled with profound regret, and she knew instinctively he was thinking neither of her nor of Charlotte, but of Sarah.
“How long?” she repeated. It had to be got over now; to have to try again would only extend the pain.
He looked at her. Was he weighing up how much she knew? Whether even now he could lie, evade?
“We know about her,” she said cruelly. “Sarah went to visit her, as a charity. She discovered the truth. Please Papa, don’t make it worse?” Her voice wavered. She hated doing this, but the doubt hurt even more. The suspense was a cancer deeper than the clean wound of knowing. She must not let him lie now, degrade himself.
He was still looking at her. She wanted to shut her eyes, to withdraw the question, but she knew it was too late.
He gave in. “A long time,” he answered with a little sigh. “It was all very brief, that part of it. It was all over a year or two after you were born. But I still liked her. Your mother was often busy—with you. You didn’t know her then, but she was not unlike Sarah; a little stubborn, always thinking she knew best.” Suddenly his eyes filled with tears and Emily looked away, to save him embarrassment. She stood up and walked to the window, to give him time to regain his control.
“Was there anyone after her?” she asked. Better to get it all over in one attempt.
“No,” he sounded surprised. “Of course not! Why do you ask, Emily?”
She wanted to think of a lie quickly, so that he should not ever know what she had suspected. Idiotically, now she wanted to protect him. She had thought she would never forgive him for having hurt Mama, but instead here she was wanting to shield him as if he had been the injured one. She did not understand herself, which was a new experience, but not an entirely unpleasant one.
“For Mama, of course,” she answered. “One can overlook one mistake, especially if it happened a long time ago. One cannot forget something that has been repeated over and over again.”
“Do you think your mother will feel the same way?” His voice sounded pathetically hopeful. She was a little embarrassed by it.
“I should ask her,” she said quickly. “I believe she is lying down upstairs. She is grieving very much for Sarah, you know.”
He stood up. “Yes, I know. I don’t think I realized how much she meant to me either.” He put his arm round her and kissed her gently, on the brow. She found herself suddenly clinging to him, crying for Sarah, for herself, for everybody, because it was all too much to bear.
In the late afternoon George Ashworth called to express his condolences. Naturally these were extended to the entire family, and therefore he was seen formally in the withdrawing room by Edward. It was necessary that afternoon tea should be offered, and equally necessary that it be refused. Afterwards Ashworth asked if he might speak with Emily.
She received him in the library, as somewhere where they might be sure not to risk interruption.
He closed the door behind him. “Emily, I’m so sorry. Perhaps I should not have come so soon, but I could not bear to let you think I was unaffected, that I was not concerned for your grief. I suppose it is foolish to ask if there is anything I can do?”
Emily was touched and surprised that he should have feelings deeper than those required by good manners. She had desired, indeed planned, to marry him for some time; indeed she quite genuinely liked him, but had not perceived in him such sensitivity. It was a pleasant revelation, and curiously robbed her of some of the control she had just recently managed to acquire.
“Thank you,” she said carefully. “It is kind of you to offer, but there really isn’t anything to be done; except endure it, until we can feel it is time to take up our lives again.”
“I suppose they still have no idea who?”
“I don’t think so. I’m beginning to wonder if they ever will. In fact I heard some silly servant the other day suggest that it was not a human being at all, but some creature of the supernatural, a vampire or a demon of some sort.” She made a little choking sound, which was intended as a laugh of scorn, but died away.
“You haven’t entertained the idea?” he asked awkwardly, “have you?”
“Of course not!” she said with disgust. “He is someone from Cater Street or nearby, someone who is afflicted with a terrible madness that drives him to kill. I don’t know whether he kills people for any reason, or just because they happen to be there when his madness strikes. But he’s perfectly human, of that I’m sure.”
“Why are you so sure, Emily?” He sat down on the side of one of the armchairs.
She looked at him curiously. This was the man she intended to marry, to spend the rest of her life dependent upon. He was uncommonly handsome
and, far more importantly, he pleased her—the more today because of his unexpected concern for her.
“Because I don’t believe in monsters,” she said frankly. “Evil men, certainly, and madness, but not monsters. I daresay he would like us to believe he is such, for then we could cease to look for him among ourselves. Perhaps we would even cease to look for him at all.”
“What a practical creature you are, Emily,” he said with a smile. “Do you ever do anything foolish?”
“Not often,” she said frankly, then smiled also. “Would you prefer me to?”
“Great heavens, no! You are the ideal combination. You look feminine and fragile, you know when to speak and when to remain silent; and yet you behave with all the excellent sense of the best of men.”
“Thank you,” she said with a flush of genuine pleasure.
“In fact,” he looked down at the floor, then up at her again, “if I had any sense I should marry you.”
She took in her breath, held it for a second, then let it out.
“And have you?” she said very carefully.
His smile widened into a grin. “Not usually. But I think on this occasion I shall make an exception.”
“Are you making me a proposal, George?” She turned to look at him.
“Don’t you know?”
“I would like to be quite sure. It would be uncommonly silly to make an error in a matter of such importance.”
“Yes, I am?” He made it a question by the expression in his eyes. He looked vulnerable, as if it mattered to him.
She found herself liking him even more than she had thought.
“I should be most honoured,” she said honestly. “And I accept. You had better speak to Papa in a few weeks’ time, when it is more suitable.”
“Indeed I shall,” he stood up. “And I shall make perfectly sure he finds my offer acceptable. Now I had better take my leave, before I have outstayed propriety. Good afternoon, Emily, my dear.”
Chapter Thirteen
THAT EVENING EDWARD decided that he would no longer require Caroline to attempt to soothe Grandmama or to put up with her criticism and bad humour. He sent Maddock with a message to Susannah that as soon as possible Grandmama would be dispatched with her necessary clothes and toiletries, and that they did not look to see her return until such time as they should feel themselves recovered from their bereavement. It would be no pleasure for Susannah, but that was one of the burdens of family life, and she would have to make the best of it.
Grandmama complained with bitter self-pity and at least one dizzy spell, but no one paid her the least attention. Emily was in a world of her own. Edward and Caroline seemed at last to have come to terms with the whole subject of Mrs. Attwood. The previous evening they had talked for a long time, and Caroline had learned many things, not only about Edward, but about loneliness, about the feeling of being outside a close circle of dependence, and about herself. Now there was a new perception between them, and they seemed to have much to say to each other.
Dominic for once exercised none of his usual diplomacy, and Charlotte was even less than ordinarily inclined to mince her words. Accordingly, the following morning Caroline and Emily assisted Grandmama with her packing, and at ten o’clock accompanied her in the carriage to Susannah’s.
Charlotte was thus alone when the vicar and Martha Prebble came to formally convey their sympathy and deep shock at the loss of Sarah. Dora showed them in.
“My dear Miss Ellison,” the vicar began solemnly, “I can hardly find words to express our grief to you.”
Charlotte could not help hoping he would continue to fail to find them, but such was far from the case.
“What a monstrous evil walks among us,” he went on, taking her hand, “that could strike down a woman like your sister, in the prime of her life, and leave her husband and her family bereft. I assure you all the righteous men and women of the parish join me in extending all our deepest condolences to you, and your poor mother.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte withdrew her hand. “I am quite sure of the best wishes of you all, and I shall inform my parents and my sister, and of course my brother-in-law, of your kindness.”
“It is our duty,” the vicar replied, apparently unaware that his remark would rob the visit of any value in Charlotte’s eyes.
“Is there anything we can do?” Martha offered.
Charlotte turned to her in relief, but it was short-lived. Martha’s face was more haggard than she had ever seen it before. Her eyes were bedded in dark hollows, her hair hanging like string in loops over her ears.
“Your sympathy is the greatest help,” Charlotte said gently, moved to a profound pity for the woman. Surely to live with such a duty-suffocated creature as the vicar must be almost more than any human, caring woman could stand?
“When will it be convenient for me to consult with your father about the—er—arrangements?” the vicar went on without looking at Martha. “These things must be done, you know; a proper order preserved. We return to the dust from which we came, and our souls to the judgement of God.”
There was no answer to that, so Charlotte returned to the first question.
“I have no idea, but I would have thought it appropriate to speak with my brother-in-law, at least to begin with.” She was delighted to find some point of propriety on which to correct him. “If he feels unable to do so, then, of course, I’m sure Papa will deal with the matter.”
The vicar endeavoured to hide his annoyance. He smiled, showing his teeth, but his cheeks coloured faintly and his eyes were hard.
“Of course,” he agreed. “I had thought, perhaps—an older man—the grief—”
“It may quite possibly be so,” Charlotte was not about to give him the slightest victory. She smiled also, equally coldly. “But it would be an added unkindness not to consult him, an unnecessary rudeness, I feel?”
The muscles along the vicar’s face tightened.
“Have the police made even the slightest progress towards discovering the perpetrator of these horrendous crimes? I understand you are—somewhat close—to one of the—policemen.” He invested the last word with the same tone he might have used for rat catchers or those who remove the kitchen waste. There was a gleam of pleasure in his eyes.
“I don’t know whom you can have been listening to, Vicar, to gather such an impression.” Charlotte looked him straight in the face. “Have the servants been talking?”
The colour washed up his face in a wave of anger.
“I do not listen to servants, Miss Ellison! And I take it unkindly that you should suggest such a thing. I am not some gossiping woman!”
“It was not intended as an insult, Vicar,” Charlotte lied without the slightest qualm. “Since I am a woman myself, I would not have chosen that phrase in order to be derogatory.”
“Indeed, of course not,” he said tartly. “God made woman, as He made man—the weaker vessel, of course, but still the creation of the Almighty.”
“I understood everything was the creation of God,” Charlotte was going to push every prick home. “But it is indeed comforting to be reminded that we are. To answer your question, I am not aware that the police have made any further discoveries in the course of their investigations, but of course it is not incumbent on them to advise me if they have.”
“I see the whole matter has preyed upon your mind.” The vicar altered his tone to one of sententiousness. “Quite natural. It is far too great a burden for one of your tender birth and years to bear. You must lean upon the church, and put your trust in the Lord Almighty to help you through this crisis. Read your Bible every day; you will find great comfort in it. Observe its commandments diligently, and it will bring joy to your soul even through the darkest vicissitudes of this vale of tears.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said drily. She had hitherto enjoyed her Bible, but this was quite enough to sour it for her. “I will pass on your advice. I am sure we shall all benefit from it.”
“An
d never fear that the wicked shall escape punishment. If they do not meet the justice of this world, then God’s vengeance will catch up with them in the eternities, and they shall perish in hell fire! The wages of sin is death. The lusts of the flesh consume in everlasting fire the souls of the wicked and no man shall escape. No, not the least thought that pursues the pleasures of the flesh shall go unknown in the great judgement!”
Charlotte shivered. She found the idea of comfort in such a philosophy appalling. She had thoughts she was ashamed of, hungers and dreams she would far rather were not known, and as she needed her own forgiven, she would forgive another’s.
“Surely thoughts that are controlled,” she said hesitantly, “and not acted upon—”
Martha looked up suddenly, her face white, the muscles in her jaw clenching. Her voice was rough when she spoke, as if it would not entirely obey her.
“All sin is sin, my dear. The thought is father to the wish, and the wish father to the deed. Therefore the thought itself is evil, and must be plucked out, eradicated like a poisonous weed that will rise and choke the seeds of the Lord’s word in you. If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out! Better a limb should be chopped off, than the whole body should become infected and perish!”
“I . . . I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Charlotte stammered. She was embarrassed by Martha’s intensity, by the passion she felt just beneath the surface of these words. She was almost tangibly conscious of some deep pain in the room with her, something beyond all her previous experience. It frightened her, because she did not know how to comfort Martha.
“You must,” Martha said urgently. “That is how it is. Sin is ever-present, deep in our hearts and minds, the devil striving to claim us for his own, seeking the weaknesses of the flesh, seeking to govern us. He is cleverer than we are, and he never sleeps. Remember that, Charlotte! Always be on your guard. Pray continually for the saving grace of Our Redeemer to show you the Evil One in his true light, that you may recognize him, and tear him out of your bosom, destroy his influence, and remain clean.” She suddenly stopped and stared down at her hands in her lap. “I have the great blessing of a man of God in my house to guide me. God has been extremely good to me, to save me from all my weaknesses, and show me the way. I am not sure I can ever be worthy of such a blessing.”
