by Anne Perry
“And he’s pleaded diplomatic immunity.” Patrick’s voice trembled with anger. “Now he’s back here in London.”
Daniel could understand perfectly. In fact, he felt the same emotion himself. It was an appalling thing to do, outrageous. He knew all the arguments for diplomatic immunity and for protecting the countless diplomats abroad, but it was certainly not meant to escape punishment for offenses like this. He was embarrassed for his country, humiliated that such a thing should be told to him by his own brother-in-law, and he had no defense for it whatsoever. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say.
“Of course,” Patrick said quietly. “I knew you would be. I want to do something about it, but I’m not sure how. Maybe if he could be charged with anything, and come to trial, all sorts of questions could be raised. Why did such a man have this post in Washington? Why, if he is innocent of the assault of Rebecca Thorwood, did he leave without any preparation, such as ending the rent of his apartment? He took only his clothes, eluding the police to leave the embassy at night and collect his things from his apartment. Then he went to New York, and straight on to the next ship leaving for Southampton. That looks like running away, doesn’t it? Why?” Patrick’s voice in the near darkness was tense with emotion. “Surely the accusation of assault and theft would have to arise if he were in court for any offense committed in England? We’ve just got to get him to trial.” He did not ask Daniel outright to help, but it was threaded through his words.
Daniel thought about it. He could understand Patrick’s sense of outrage. He would have felt it, too, if an American had committed such a disgusting act in London and then fled home, pleading diplomatic immunity. “Tried for what?” he asked slowly. “He’s been in America for the last few years, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, but the British Embassy anywhere is British territory,” Patrick said, “as is any country’s embassy. If he had done something there…” He stopped, looking at Daniel intensely.
“I suppose it would…” Daniel wanted to be cautious. This was far outside his experience, and yet he felt the same anger, pity, and outrage at the injustice that Patrick did.
“Will you help?” Patrick asked. “If there is something you can do?”
“Yes—yes, of course I will.”
Patrick turned toward the light from the drawing-room windows, and Daniel could see his face was lit with a wide, warm smile. He did not need to say anything.
CHAPTER
Two
DANIEL LEFT QUITE late and Jemima noticed how much more relaxed Patrick seemed to be. This had been their second night here, and all the old warmth and familiarity had wrapped around her. She saw that Patrick was beginning to feel it, too. She had not realized how much it mattered to her. Had she been aware of his nervousness at meeting the one member of her family who had not gone to New York for the wedding? It was not Daniel’s choice, of course, but it still left him a stranger to Patrick, apart from Jemima’s frequent references to him.
Now they were upstairs with the bedroom door closed, and the rest of the house was quiet. Jemima had checked on Cassie and watched her for a few moments, sound asleep, her doll in her arms. Sophie, too, was quietly sleeping. She was such a good baby.
Then Jemima changed into her nightgown, ready for bed, her hair loose around her shoulders. Patrick was standing in front of the closed curtains. She had not known when she first moved to New York that there was a certain amount of prejudice there against the Irish. It had struck her like a slap across the face that her charming, funny, and brave husband was unacceptable to some people because he was of Irish descent. She had noticed it only slowly: one incident, then another. Small signs, such as a notice in a boardinghouse window that Irish and Jews were not welcomed in the establishment. Prejudice is so much more apparent when it is not your own. He would never deny his heritage. Loyalty to one’s own people is only strengthened by other people’s attacks. In a way, you are defined by the decision to abandon your heritage, or to double your loyalty when it is attacked. Patrick doubled it. She had wanted him to; she would have been bitterly disillusioned had he not.
She, too, felt a loyalty, sharply reawakened by returning to the familiar Englishness in the house in which she had grown up. There were the watercolor paintings of English scenes, her father’s books on the shelves, not in order of size, but of subject. And there were her mother’s casual, informal arrangements of garden flowers, all sorts together, but to Jemima, it always worked. She was ashamed that it was a young Englishman from the British Embassy in Washington who had attacked Rebecca Thorwood. It felt like a betrayal of all that people like her family held dear.
Jemima clearly remembered Daniel being born. She certainly could remember him at the age Cassie was now. It startled her how protective of him she was. She would never let him know, of course. That would embarrass him, and probably her, too. It would upset the casual ease of their relationship, and the balance of power. He was the man and felt a certain superiority in that, which she would certainly not grant. She was the elder, though the difference had ceased to matter years ago.
“Did you tell Daniel?” she asked.
“What?” Patrick replied, not certain what she was asking.
“About Rebecca…and the assault.”
Patrick came over and climbed onto the comfortable bed. “Yes, of course. We need as much time as possible to act. We won’t be here more than a month. I can’t afford to be away for more than that. I’ve taken this year’s holiday and probably next year’s as well.” He leaned across and touched her gently. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but this really matters. Have you seen Rebecca lately?”
“Yes…” Jemima answered quickly. Anyone who had seen Rebecca at all must have noticed the difference in her. She was now pale, intensely nervous, speaking softly, and only if she was directly addressed. Jemima knew that she slept little and ate without appetite or pleasure. “I know,” she added, “she must feel as if nobody cares, except her own family. What did Daniel say?”
“He’ll help.” Patrick smiled. “He’s pretty decent, your brother. A newly minted lawyer, for sure. And careful! Very English!”
“Of course he’s English!” Patrick likely thought both her father and her brother very Establishment figures, but Jemima knew all about the unconventional background of Sir Thomas Pitt, head of Special Branch.
Her father was so familiar to her, and she had found him comfortable as far back as her memory stretched. But at that time he had been a very ordinary policeman. A tall, gentle man, with untamed hair, which was always too long, and clothes that were always untidy, their collars crooked and the pockets full of things he might need one day: pencils, packets of peppermint bull’s-eyes, scraps of paper, small balls of string. And a woolen scarf in winter.
Inside, he was the same man who became Sir Thomas Pitt, who looked like a gentleman and had always behaved like one. And spoken like one. Pitt was the son of a gamekeeper, but he had been educated alongside the son of the manor house to provide the wealthy boy with a spur to success. Instead, it was Pitt, the gamekeeper’s son, who had outstripped him.
But Patrick didn’t know that. He certainly shouldn’t know that Pitt’s father, her grandfather, had been transported to Australia as a punishment for poaching, a crime of which Pitt had never believed him guilty, but which had been impossible to prove. She did not know how long ago her father had stopped trying.
Maybe she would tell Patrick that, but not yet. Loyalty kept her silent. Once in a great while she had seen the sadness in her father’s face, and knew that it was from a hurt that never totally went away.
She pushed those thoughts aside. “What are you going to do?” she asked Patrick.
He looked at her inquiringly.
“About Philip Sidney? What an honorable name! He doesn’t deserve it,” she answered with sudden heat.
He looked totally confused.
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br /> “There was another Philip Sidney,” she explained. “Sir Philip Sidney, and he was one of my heroes. About the time of Queen Elizabeth, I think. There was a situation where a lot of people were dying, after a battle. They were very short of water. Someone came to him and offered him a flask. He was dying and he said to take it to another man near him who might live.”
Patrick was watching her; the tenderness in his face startled her. She turned away, tears in her eyes, but she reached out a hand to him and he held it too tightly for her to take it back. Not that she wanted to.
“You’re right,” he said. “The name is far too good for him. I resent his soiling it. I’m sorry I have to expose it, but I do.”
“I know. But how?”
“I’ll find a way. The Thorwoods are over here, you know?”
She stared at him. “You didn’t tell them there was any hope…? How could you? They’ll expect something, and there isn’t anything more that…is there?”
“Don’t you ever finish a sentence?” he asked.
“Don’t change the subject! What did you tell them?”
“I didn’t tell them anything,” Patrick replied. They both knew the Thorwood family quite well, in spite of the vast difference in wealth and social station between them. Patrick had had occasion to help Tobias Thorwood professionally on several occasions. Jemima had met Rebecca at an exhibition of British portraiture at the British Embassy. She had seen Rebecca alone in front of a portrait of Anne Boleyn, looking puzzled. Jemima had spoken to her, offering a historical explanation of Henry VIII and his six wives, and then his three children, who had inherited his crown, one by one, lastly the brilliant and long-lived Elizabeth.
They had toured the rest of the exhibition together and become friends from then on.
“The Thorwoods being here has got nothing to do with me, or Philip Sidney,” Patrick said.
“What, then?”
“Aunt May Trelawny.”
“Aunt May…”
“Trelawny,” Patrick repeated. “She was Rebecca’s godmother. She lived somewhere in the Channel Islands and died recently.”
“Not Cornwall?” Jemima said. “Trelawny—it’s a Cornish name. Why is Rebecca here now when you are pursuing Sidney?” Jemima was suspicious, and she knew she sounded it.
Patrick’s smile was definitely twisted. “I suppose it could be Cornwall. And Rebecca is here in her role as heir to her godmother.”
“I’m sorry. That’s very sad,” Jemima replied. “Whatever the estate is, if Rebecca cared for her godmother, I’m sure she would rather have her alive. It’s another blow. Poor Rebecca.”
“I know where they’re staying in London. You could go and see her—as long as you don’t say anything about Sidney, of course. I hope he won’t dare show his face.”
“Hardly! London’s a very big city. It’s difficult enough to find anyone if you want to, never mind if you don’t. Except if you know where they live or what parties or clubs they go to.”
“I shouldn’t think Rebecca would be going to any parties. But it’s important they be here. If I manage to find something to charge Sidney with, and get him tried…”
“Patrick,” she said gently, trying not to sound as frightened as she felt. “Are you sure this is right?”
“Right?” he said with surprise. “Do you think it’s right that Sidney get away with it, Jem? He broke into Rebecca’s home, entered her bedroom in the middle of the night! He assaulted Rebecca in her own bed! Ripped her nightclothes and tore the pendant off her neck, the one that her aunt May left her, a diamond, although that’s not why it’s of value to her. It’s because it was Aunt May’s. He stole it right from around her neck and she still has the scar. Heaven knows what else he would have done, if she hadn’t screamed. He ran, and Tobias Thorwood saw him. There’s no doubt who it was. Tobias saw him quite clearly.”
“I know! That’s not what I meant.” She tried very hard to keep her voice level, but she was deeply distressed for Rebecca. She could hardly even imagine how Rebecca had felt, and was still feeling—the nightmares she must still have. Jemima had never for a moment forgotten how kind Rebecca had been when she was new in Washington. She had been a stranger to America, only just beginning to find her way in New York when Patrick was offered a promotion and the corresponding raise in salary if he moved to Washington. Jemima was proud of him, and certainly pleased for him to get more. She was not used to managing on relatively little. She had tried desperately hard not to let him know that, but the financial struggle was never very far from her mind.
But the change had been a difficult one, especially with a small and very demanding baby. It was Rebecca Thorwood who, ever since the meeting at the exhibition, had been the friend who was never too busy to help, too impatient to listen, or too full of judgment to be gentle with Jemima’s tears or forgetfulness, or the occasional bout of longing for the familiarities of home.
Now Jemima wanted not only what was just, but what would give Rebecca the chance of healing, whether that involved punishment for Philip Sidney or not.
Patrick was waiting, and not with a lot of patience. “What did you mean?”
She shut her eyes so as not to see his face and be distracted. She was still very much in love, even though she knew him better and better every day. She knew his quirks; she did not see them as faults. There was still something magical in seeing him come home every evening, and hearing his laugh, waking up beside him in the morning.
She chose her words carefully. “Are you sure that exposing what happened in court is really best for Rebecca? If you accuse somebody and take them to trial, they have the right to a defense. The only other person who knows what this was is Rebecca…”
“So?”
“So…what is he going to say? She did know him, Patrick!”
“Are you suggesting that she let him in?” His voice was incredulous.
“No! I’m not suggesting it, but his defense might. He isn’t going to fold up and keep a gentlemanly silence! Not if he’s the kind of man who’d break in in the first place. He could say she invited him, and then changed her mind and screamed!”
He raised his eyebrows. “So, he tore the necklace off her throat and ran? Please, Jem, that’s hardly a defense.”
“No, it’s an attack in return. But are you willing to take that risk? Or, more to the point, are you sure Rebecca is?”
He looked startled. He started to speak and then changed his mind, as if realizing she was thinking of something they had not touched on yet.
“I know Tobias wants justice for her,” Jemima tried again. “But at any price? Has he even realized anything of what she feels? I’ve tried to imagine, but I can’t!”
“Wouldn’t you want to see Phillip Sidney punished if he’d done that to you?” he reasoned.
“I don’t know! I might think I did, until it came to telling everybody about it.”
“But it wasn’t her fault!” he exclaimed indignantly. “She’s utterly and completely innocent in all of it!”
“And helpless, in her nightclothes, and lying in bed—”
“Exactly! How could she possibly be more innocent?”
“Or vulnerable, or helpless, or passive?”
He looked at her sharply. “What are you saying? That it is somehow her fault? That she should have taken some kind of…precaution? Like what? Gone to bed with all her clothes on? You’re being unreasonable, Jem.”
“No, I’m not! Or, yes, perhaps I am. I’m trying to put myself in her place and think what I would want,” she explained. “I’m perfectly sure I wouldn’t want to be known as the woman who lay passively while a man broke into her room and tore her clothes and ripped off her necklace and have to sit there while other people’s imaginations go…everywhere. I don’t want to be thought of as a victim!” She felt her frustration with him rising, cross
ing over into anger. “I’d hate it! Even if people weren’t thinking that, wondering if I was telling the truth, or if perhaps I’d let him in.”
“She didn’t! That’s ridiculous!”
“And people’s imaginations are never ridiculous?” she said with amazement. “We think nobody knows what we’re imagining, that it’s private.”
“It is!”
“Oh, please! It’s written on your face half the time. And it slips out in little remarks you think nobody understands, when there are only men present.”
“You’ve never been there when there were only men present.”
“I’ve been there when there are only women present!” She saw the smile melt away. “And so has Rebecca,” she finished.
He remained silent.
“I know Tobias thinks she’ll feel better if Sidney is punished, and he may be right. But what if he isn’t? He can’t take it back.”
“Don’t you think he will be right?”
“I don’t know! But if it all comes out in trial, Sidney’s going to want to deny it.”
“He can’t. Tobias saw him there. Tobias is a very important man. Everybody respects him.”
“In Washington. Over here, they respect Sidney.”
“They won’t when they learn what he did!” Patrick said with contempt.
“Patrick…my darling…people in London are exactly the same as everywhere else: they believe what they want to.”
“So, you shouldn’t accuse important people, because people would rather believe them than you? No wonder they get away with it—they know they will. That’s probably why they do it and will go on doing it!”
She saw the disgust in his eyes and it hurt. She knew the prejudice he had experienced. At least, she knew a tiny bit of it. Her name was now Flannery—obviously Irish—and she had been turned away from one or two places. It had confused her at first, then given her a curious sense of pride in being Patrick’s wife and belonging to his family, his clan, even if only by marriage. Finally, the fury had come that anyone should be treated that way. Maybe Cassie and Sophie would have it one day; then Jemima would tear the offenders to bits.
