by Anne Perry
Unity would have been alone. That was altogether different.
Had she tried to blackmail him? It would be understandable.
Charlotte started to walk back to the house, wondering about Dominic and about the love by which Unity had apparently been so hurt in the past. Perhaps knowing that would prove who the father was—and that it was not Dominic.
Or that it was.
That was a cold, sickening thought. What did she think of Dominic that she feared to find that out? And, she was afraid, the feeling was sharp and far too familiar to deny. She could remember being in love with him herself, and behaving stupidly, feeling so vulnerable, hurting when he seemed to ignore her, floating on air if he smiled or spoke, being consumed with jealousy if he favored someone else, dreaming, imagining all kinds of things. She blushed hot to think of it now.
But that was what obsession was like, the kind of love which is all in one’s own mind, not the kind that is sure and sweet, as she had with Pitt. That had its pain and its darkness as well, its racing pulse and burning embarrassment, but it was rooted in reality, in sharing thoughts and ideas and, above all, feelings about the things that cut the deepest.
She came through the side door into the short passage to the hall. At this point the floor was carpeted, and her feet made no sound. She saw Dominic and Vita standing near the foot of the stairs, close together, almost touching. They stood just about where Unity must have lain when she fell. Vita was looking up at him, her eyes wide, her expression filled with softness as if she had just said something private and very tender. He moved his hand to touch her, then changed his mind and smiled, then he stepped back. She hesitated a moment, then, with a little shrug, went lightly up the stairs.
Charlotte’s mind raced. How could Dominic be so incredibly foolish, so dishonest? Vita was older than he, but she was also charming, beautiful, and acutely intelligent, a woman of passion and wit. He could not possibly be considering having an affair with her, could he? Not the wife of his mentor, his friend, the man in whose home he now lived?
Was it possible?
The past crowded in on her too closely with all its remembered pain and disillusion. It was imaginable … it was possible. Was it Dominic that Unity had fought with at the top of the stairs? Was it conceivable Vita would lie to protect him?
No. No, because others had heard Unity cry out to Ramsay. Tryphena had heard it, as had both the maid and the valet. She felt relief flood through her.
Dominic turned around. There was no embarrassment in his face, not even any awareness that he had been seen in a situation far better to have remained private.
“I’m sorry I left you,” he said with a slight smile. “It was an urgent matter. I am afraid the Reverend Parmenter is not able to care for things as he does normally.” His face was shadowed with concern. “Mrs. Parmenter says he is not at all well. He has the most severe headaches. I suppose that is not to be wondered at, poor man.” He looked at her ruefully. “It’s odd, but I can remember the Cater Street tragedies in retrospect with far more understanding than I think I had at the time.” He was close to her now and spoke very quietly. “I wish I could go back and improve the way I behaved then, show more sensitivity to other people’s fears and pain.” He sighed. “And that’s absurd, because I don’t even know how to help this now. The only thing I can say is that I am trying, whereas I thought only of myself then.”
She did not know what to say. She longed to believe him, but that look on Vita Parmenter’s face prevented her … she hesitated now to use the word love.
She turned away so he should not read her eyes, and started to walk towards the withdrawing room. It was five minutes before teatime.
Tea was actually served nearly ten minutes late, and Vita was not present. It was left to Clarice to host the small gathering and to try to make some sort of conversation. Tryphena was there, but she made no effort to entertain Charlotte. Mallory came in, picked up a dainty sandwich and ate it in two mouthfuls, not bothering with a cup of tea. He stood restlessly by the window, as if feeling restricted in the room but obliged to stay. It was almost certainly not the house but the circumstances which imprisoned him, but those were beyond escape.
Clarice surprised Charlotte by talking both tactfully and interestingly on a number of subjects. She touched on the theater as if the recent death in the house were a normal happening, to be expected in the course of events of life, and there was no need or purpose in speaking in hushed voices or avoiding any mention of happiness or glamour. She referred to a recent visit of foreign royalty written of extensively in the London Illustrated News. She drew Charlotte into the conversation, and for nearly three quarters of an hour it would have been perfectly possible to mistake the occasion for a most agreeable afternoon call between people who were newly discovering each other and might become friends.
Several times Charlotte looked at Dominic and saw the same surprise in his eyes, and also a growing respect for Clarice which apparently he had not hitherto felt.
It was after five when the door flew open and Vita stood in the entrance, her hair disheveled, most of it actually out of its pins and falling over one shoulder. Her face was cut across the cheek and her left eye was swollen and fast showing fearful bruising.
Mallory was aghast.
Dominic rose to his feet immediately, face white.
“What happened? What is it?” he demanded, going over to her.
She shrank back, her eyes wide with horror. She was shaking and looked on the verge of hysteria. She swayed as if she might fall at any moment.
Charlotte got up quickly, skirting around the tea table to avoid knocking it over.
“Come and sit down,” she ordered, taking Vita by the shoulders and with an arm around her for support, guiding her to the nearest chair. “Pour some more tea and a little brandy,” she said to Dominic. “And you’d better find her maid and tell her.”
Dominic hesitated a moment, swinging around to look at Mallory.
“What happened?” Tryphena demanded. “Mama? You look as if somebody hit you. Did you fall?”
“Of course she fell!” Clarice snapped. “Don’t be absurd! Who would hit her? Anyway, we’re all here.”
Tryphena looked around, her eyes wide, and suddenly everyone was aware that the only member of the family not present was Ramsay. One by one they looked back to Vita.
She was trembling violently now, sitting huddled up, her face ashen except for the darkening bruises around her eye and the scarlet slash oozing blood on her cheek. Charlotte held the cup for her; she was shaking too badly to hold it herself.
“What happened?” Mallory asked, his voice rising sharply.
Dominic stood by the door, waiting to hear before he would leave.
Vita drew in her breath and tried to speak, but gulped back a sob.
Charlotte put her arms around her very gently, not to hurt what else must surely be damaged in such an injury. “Perhaps you had better send for your doctor?” She turned to Clarice as being the most likely to be in command of herself and the situation.
Clarice stared back at her without moving.
Tryphena swiveled from one to the other of them, her eyes accusing.
Mallory made as if to move, and then froze.
“Please!” Charlotte urged.
Vita raised her head. “No …” she said hoarsely. “No … don’t do that! I … it is only … a little cut …”
“It is more than that,” Charlotte said seriously. “That bruising may be pretty unpleasant, and one cannot tell how widespread it may be. I am sure a little arnica will help, but I think you should call your doctor all the same.”
“No.” Vita was resolute. She was struggling fiercely to regain control of herself. Tears spilled over her cheeks and she ignored them. Her face was probably too sore to touch. Her whole body still shuddered. “No … I do not want the doctor to be informed.”
“Mama, you must!” Clarice insisted, coming forward for the first time and s
tanding only five or six feet away. “Why ever should you not? He won’t think you foolish, if that is what you are worrying about. People do fall … accidentally. It is easy enough.”
Vita closed her eyes, wincing as the pain struck her. “I did not fall,” she whispered. “The doctor may know that if he comes. I … couldn’t bear it … especially now. We must …” She took a deep breath and almost choked. “We must show … loyalty …”
“Loyalty!” Tryphena exploded. “To what? To whom? When you say loyalty, you mean lie! Cover up the truth …”
Vita started to weep quietly, retreating into herself in misery.
“Stop it!” Dominic was back from the doorway, glancing at Tryphena. “Words like that are not helping anyone.” He knelt down in front of Vita, staring at her earnestly. “Mrs. Parmenter, I think you had better tell us the truth. We can then decide what is best to do about it. But while it is all imagination or suspicion, we are likely to make mistakes. You did not fall … What did happen?”
Slowly Vita raised her head again. “I quarreled with Ramsay,” she said huskily. “It was terrible, Dominic. I don’t even know how it happened. One moment we were talking quite agreeably, then he went to look at his letters which the butler had left on his desk, and without any warning at all he flew into a rage. He seemed to lose all control of himself.” She kept her eyes on Dominic’s all the time she spoke, but she must have been acutely aware of Mallory standing at the edge of the group, his shoulders tight, his face drawn into faint lines of anger and confusion.
Clarice made as if to interrupt and then stopped.
Vita was gripping Charlotte’s hand so tightly it was painful, but Charlotte did not pull away.
“He accused me of opening his letters … which is ridiculous. I would never touch anything addressed to him. But one must have been torn in the delivery, and he just lost his temper and started to say it was I who had done it.” Her voice was low and urgent, sharp with fear. Now that she had started she could not stop herself. The words were tumbling out full of confusion. “He shouted at me, not loudly … shout is the wrong word. He was so furious it was more like a snarl.” Her teeth chattered so she was in danger of biting her tongue.
“Drink some tea,” Charlotte said quietly. “It will help a little. You are terribly shocked. It is only natural.”
“Thank you,” Vita accepted, putting her hands over Charlotte’s to steady the cup for herself. “You are very kind, Mrs. Pitt.”
“I will call the doctor,” Mallory insisted, starting towards the door.
“No!” Vita insisted. “I forbid it! Do you hear me, Mallory? I absolutely forbid it.” Her voice was so strained, her face so full of anguish, he stopped where he stood, reluctant to obey and yet not wishing to defy her.
Dominic started saying something, then caught Mallory’s glare of fury and stopped.
Vita closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I am sure I will be all right. I shall just go and lie down for a while. Braithwaite can look after me.” She made as if to rise to her feet, but her knees would not support her. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I feel so … foolish. I just don’t know what to do. He accused me of undermining his authority, of belittling him, of questioning his judgment. I denied it. I never have … ever in my life! And he … he struck me.”
Clarice stared at her for a moment, then brushed past Tryphena and Dominic and went to the door. She threw it open and they heard her footsteps cross the hallway and go up the stairs, loud on the black, uncarpeted wood.
“This is appalling!” Mallory said in anguish. “He’s mad! He must be. He’s taken leave of his wits.”
Dominic looked acutely distressed, but after only a moment’s hesitation he mastered his own feelings and turned to Mallory.
“We must abide by her wishes. We should not say anything further about it.”
“You can’t do that!” Tryphena protested. “Are you going to wait until he kills her, too? Is that what you want? I thought you cared about her! In fact, I thought you cared a great deal.”
Vita looked at her desperately. “Tryphena! Please …”
Dominic bent and picked Vita up in his arms and walked over to the door.
Charlotte hastened to open it wider for him, and he went through without looking back. Charlotte faced the room.
“I think there is nothing I can do to help except leave you some privacy to make whatever decisions you believe best. I am so sorry this should have happened.”
Mallory recollected his duty as host in his parents’ absence, and hastened to the door after her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pitt. I … I hardly know what to say to you. You came to call upon us out of kindness, and we have embarrassed you dreadfully …” He looked acutely uncomfortable, his face white except for blotches of pink in his cheeks. He stood awkwardly, not knowing how to rest his weight or what to do with his hands.
“I do not think of being embarrassed,” she said with something less than the truth. “I have had tragedy in my own family, and I know how it can change everything. Please do not think of it again.” She was at the front door. She tried to smile as he opened the door for her, and for a moment she met his eyes and was sharply aware of the fear in him, almost panic, and that it lay barely beneath the surface, threatening to break through if there were one more tear in the fabric of his life, however small.
She wished she could have comforted him, but she could not promise it would get better. It probably would not.
“Thank you, Mr. Parmenter,” she said quietly. “I hope next time we meet the worst will be over.” Then she turned and went down the steps and along the pavement to look for a hansom.
Earlier that day Cornwallis had received an unexpected visitor in his office. The constable outside told him that Mrs. Underhill had asked to see him.
“Yes … yes, of course …” He rose to his feet and accidentally knocked over a pen with his cuff. He set it right. “Ask her to come in. Did … did she say what it was about?”
“No sir. Didn’t like to ask her, her bein’ a bishop’s wife an’ all. Shall I go an’ ask her now, sir?”
“No! No, please show her in.” Unconsciously he straightened his jacket and pulled at his tie, actually setting it crooked.
Isadora came in a moment after. She was dressed in a dark shade somewhere between blue and green. It reminded him of the color of ducks’ tails. It suited her pale skin and almost black hair, with its wing of white at the brow. He had not realized it before, but she was beautiful. There was an inner peace in her face which made it remarkable. It was a face he could look at without growing tired of it, or feeling as if he had learned every expression and could predict its next light or shadow.
He swallowed. “Good morning, Mrs. Underhill. How may I help you?”
A smile flickered across her face and vanished. She obviously felt some awkwardness about the matter, whatever it was, and disliked having to broach it with him.
“Please sit down,” he offered, indicating the large chair near his desk.
“Thank you.” She glanced around his office, noticing the ship’s sextant on the shelf and looking quickly at the titles of the books. “I’m sorry. I should not waste your time, Mr. Cornwallis.” She brought her attention back to him. “I think perhaps I was foolish to have come and disturbed you. It is a personal matter, not official. But I felt that we left a most unfortunate impression upon you the evening you came to dinner. The Bishop …” She gave his title rather than calling him “my husband,” as he would have expected. He noticed the hesitation. “The Bishop was deeply distressed about the whole incident,” she went on quickly. “And fearful that the wider repercussions could damage so many people, I think he may have seemed less concerned with Ramsay Parmenter’s own … welfare … than he really is.”
She was obviously finding it extremely difficult to talk, and studying her face, her shadowed eyes avoiding his, he felt that she was as deeply offended by the bishop’s behavior as he was hi
mself. Only for her it was also a profound shame, because she could not dissociate herself from it without disloyalty. She had come here now to try to improve her husband’s image in Cornwallis’s eyes, and she must hate doing it and feel a terrible inner anger at the necessity. Did she wish to tell him her true emotion, but honor forbade her?
“I understand,” he said into the awkward silence. “He has many considerations beyond the purely personal. All men with great responsibility have.” He smiled, keeping his eyes very steadily on hers. “I have commanded a ship myself, and no matter what my feelings towards any individual member of the crew, what like or dislike, what pity or respect, the ship itself always had to come first or we should all perish. They are hard decisions to make, and not always thought fair by others.” He did not think those rules applied to Bishop Underhill. His “ship” was a moral one, fighting the elements of cowardice and dishonor, not of wood and canvas struggling against the ocean’s power. Cornwallis’s commission had included safeguarding the lives of his men. Underhill’s was to safeguard their souls.
But he could say none of this to her. She must know it as well as he … at least—looking at her, the awkwardness of her hands knotted together in her lap, the way her eyes avoided his—he believed she did, and he did not wish to remind her.
“We must all make whatever decisions we feel to be the best in difficult circumstances,” he went on. “It is easier to judge others than to be in that position oneself. Please do not feel I misunderstand.”
She looked up at him quickly. Was she aware that he was trying to be kind rather than honest? He was unused to women. He had only the vaguest idea how they thought, what they believed or felt. Perhaps she saw right through him and despised him for it? That possibility was startlingly unpleasant.
She smiled at him. “I think you are being very generous, Mr. Cornwallis, and I am grateful to you for that.” She glanced around the room. “Were you at sea for long?”
