Half Moon Street

by Anne Perry

  “All I know of the reign of William IV was to do with the Irish. Tens of thousands of people left Ireland for America. You will have known some of them, I daresay.”

  There was a sharp compassion in his eyes. “Of course. I couldn’t count how many of them fetched up in New York, haggard faced, their clothes hanging off them as if they were made of sticks underneath, their eyes full of weariness, trying to hope, and yet not hope too much, and homesick.”

  “Your mother must have felt like that too,” Caroline said gently, and it was clear in her face how vividly she was imagining how that unknown woman felt, trying to put herself in her place and understand.

  Samuel must have seen it. His smile was touched with grief.

  Mariah tried to imagine it. She knew nothing of Alys, except that she had gone. Edmund had never described her. Mariah did not know if she had been beautiful or homely, fair or dark, slender or buxom. She knew nothing of her personality or tastes.

  But Alys had gone. That was the one thing that rose like a mountain in her mind, and it made her as different from Mariah as if she had been of another species. That was why she had hated Alys all these years, and envied her, why it choked in her throat to say she admired her, because it was the truth.

  Did she want to know more about her? Did she want to be able to see her in the mind’s eye as a real woman, flesh and blood, laughter and pain, as vulnerable as anyone else? No—because then she would have to stop hating her. She would be forced to think of the differences between them and ask herself why she had stayed.

  Samuel was talking about her. Caroline had asked him. Of course—Caroline—it was always Caroline!

  “. . . I suppose a little taller than average,” he was saying. “Fair brown hair.” He smiled a little self-consciously. “I know I am prejudiced, but I was far from the only one who thought she was beautiful. There was a grace about her, a kind of inner repose, as if she never doubted what she held dearest, and she’d fight like a tiger to protect it. She could get terribly angry, but I never heard her raise her voice. I think she taught me more than anybody else what it means to be a gentleman.”

  There was nothing to say that sounded appropriate, and Caroline held her peace.

  Mariah knew the familiar bitterness that rose up inside her. How could Alys have been such a perfect lady? Wasn’t she broken inside as well, broken and crying like a hurt child, alone in the dark? Why was her anger only a fleeting thing, acted upon and then forgotten, so that she kept her temper and behaved with such sublime dignity . . . and was loved? Mariah’s anger was deep, inward, lacerating until there was no dignity left, and she seldom ever tried to keep her temper these days. What had made Alys so golden, so bright and brave? Was she just a better woman? Was it as simple as that? What had given her the courage?

  “. . . but I want to know more about all of you,” Samuel was saying, looking earnestly at Caroline, then at Mrs. Ellison.

  “It is you I really care about. Where did you live? What happened to you? Where did you go and what did you do? What did you talk about to each other? You are my only link with a father I never knew. Perhaps I need to know more of him to understand myself ?”

  Mariah drew in her breath sharply, and it caught in her throat, making her choke. It was several moments before she could speak.

  “Nonsense!” She coughed violently. Caroline was staring at her. “What I mean . . .” She tried again: “. . . is that you are who you are, regardless of your father.” This was terrible. She must say something that would not make him suspicious. Her mind raced futilely.

  Caroline came to the rescue.

  “Papa-in-law was very charming,” she said gently, as if she thought the old lady’s coughing were to hide emotion—as it was—she thought of grief, not cold, gripping fear. “He was tall, about the height you are, I should think,” she went on. “And he dressed beautifully. He had a gold watch, and he wore the chain across his waistcoat. He liked very good boots, and always had them perfectly polished till you could see your reflection in them.” There was a faraway look in her eyes. “He did not smile very often, but he had a way of listening that gave you his complete attention. You never felt as if he were merely waiting for you to stop so he could say something, without being rude.”

  It was all true. Mariah could picture Edmund as Caroline was speaking. She could almost hear his voice. It surprised her that after all this time she could recall it so perfectly. In her mind she imagined his step across the hall, brisk and firm. Whenever she smelled snuff she thought of him, or felt the faint scratch of good tweed. He used to stand in front of the fire, warming himself and keeping the heat from other people. Edward had done just the same. She wondered if Caroline had noticed it as she had, and if it had annoyed her as much. She had never said so, but then one did not.

  Caroline was talking about Edmund again, telling Samuel some of the stories he used to enjoy, and how he sang sometimes, and how fond he was of the girls, Sarah, Charlotte, and Emily, especially Emily because she was so pretty and she laughed easily when he teased her.

  Was that really how Caroline remembered him, how she had seen him when he was drunk? Why not? It was true, it was all exactly true. What did anybody really know of anybody else?

  And Samuel sat there listening with his eyes on Caroline’s as if he believed every word of it.

  “Your mother must have spoken of him,” Caroline exclaimed ingenuously. “Whatever her reasons for leaving, she knew he was your father, and therefore you had to care about him.” She did not add that he must have asked her, but the implication hung in the air between them.

  Mariah could hear her own heart beating. She was holding her breath, as if that could somehow stop him from answering. This was her worst nightmare come back, no longer a dream but as real as tea and toast, the maid’s footsteps on the stairs, and the smells of soap and lavender or the morning newspapers. It would become part of life, as inescapable as the past, only worse, because the wound had healed over. This would be a second time, without escape ever, and she had not the strength anymore. The first time you don’t know what is coming, and ignorance shields you. This time she did know, and the fear before would be as bad as the fact, and the morning afterwards. Except there would be no afterwards. It would never stop. As long as Caroline knew, it would be there in her eyes every time they met.

  And she would tell Emily and Charlotte, and that would make life unbearable. Emily might tell Jack. The old lady could picture the pity and then the revulsion in his wide, dark-lashed eyes.

  Samuel was talking about his mother again, about Alys. His face was lit with the same tenderness as before, his eyes shining.

  “. . . people made the mistake of thinking that because she carried herself like a lady that she hadn’t the courage to speak out or stick to her beliefs,” he said urgently. “But I never knew a woman with more courage.”

  Mariah cringed inside as if he had struck her. He knew! He must know. It was there in his words, just under the surface. If it was true of Alys, then it was true of Mariah. He would know that, anyone would. People don’t change.

  What possessed Alys to have told him? How could she?

  Mariah imagined telling Edward! Her face burned at the very idea of it. Would he have ever believed her? If it repelled him as it did her, then he would have been unable to accept it, and he would have considered her not only mad but dangerous.

  But then if that same hideous seed were in him, he would have believed, and he would never have looked at her in the same way again. The image of “mother” would be gone and that other terrible one would replace it.

  And that is how Caroline would be now. The old lady refused to think about it. Every shred of dignity, of human worth or value, would be stripped from her abjectly, and leave her grotesquely naked, as no living thing should be. It would be better to be dead. Except that she had not the courage. That was at the core of it, she was a coward— not like Alys.

  Samuel was still talking about Alys,
how beautiful she was, how brave, how everyone admired her, liked to be in her company. She was different, breathtaking, unbearably different, and the knowledge of it was like a red-hot knife twisting in an old wound, gouging deeper till it touched the bone.

  They were still talking about the past, Caroline recounting some anecdote that had happened years before. She made it sound as immediate as yesterday. It could not go on. It was only a matter of time before the truth was said. That must be prevented—at any cost.

  But nothing the old lady said now would make the slightest difference—the only means of stopping this conversation would be to make it necessary for Samuel to leave. If she retired from the room, surely he would go? He said he admired his mother so much, he would attempt to behave like a gentleman.

  “Excuse me,” she interrupted, rather more loudly than she had intended. “I feel a little faint. I think if you will ring for my maid, Caroline, I will retire to my room. At least until dinner. I shall see how I feel then.” She forced herself to look at Samuel. “Pardon me for ending your visit so abruptly. I have not the good health I used to.”

  Caroline looked crestfallen. “I am sorry, Mama-in-law. Would you like a tisane sent up?” She reached for the bell as she spoke.

  “No, thank you. I think a little lavender will suffice. It is one of the disadvantages of age, one has not the stamina one used to have.”

  Samuel rose to his feet. “I hope I have not bored you, Mrs. Ellison. It was very thoughtless of me to have remained so long.”

  She stared at him and said nothing. The man seemed impervious to suggestion.

  The parlormaid opened the door, and Caroline asked her to send the old lady’s maid to assist her upstairs.

  Samuel took his leave—he had no alternative. But even as she was climbing the stairs slowly, not having to ape the stiffness or fumbling hands on the banister—they were all too real—the old lady could hear Caroline inviting him to return and resume their conversation, and his acceptance. It was that which finally sealed the decision in her mind.

  Since she had said she was ill, she was obliged to remain upstairs for the remainder of the afternoon, which was irritating because she had nothing to do and would either have to lie down and pretend to be resting, which would leave her thoughts free to torment her, or else create some task or other and affect to be busy with it. She did not want to face her decision—not yet.

  Mabel was a good woman, both competent and tactful, which was the only reason she had survived in the old lady’s service for so long. She made no comment on the situation, simply brewed her a chamomile tisane, without asking, and brought her a lavender pillow. Both were refreshing, and had she suffered from the headache she professed, they would have helped her immensely.

  She lay on the bed for nearly an hour, quite long enough to have recovered, then, feeling lonely and oppressed with useless thoughts and memories, she went to the small upstairs room where the maids mended the household linen and did a little dressmaking as was necessary. Most reasonably well-to-do women had three or four bought gowns for afternoon wear, the same again for evening, and they had their maids sew the others. It was cheaper, and if the maid was good, quite as effective. She knew Mabel was making something for her, because it was a permanent state of affairs. Emily was generous with supplying fabric, beads, braid, and other trimmings.

  “Are you feeling better, ma’am?” Mabel asked, looking up from her needle. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, thank you,” the old lady said, closing the door behind her. She sat down in the other chair. Mabel resumed stitching. It was growing dusk outside and the lamps were lit. The gaslight caught in the silver needle, making it look like a flash of light itself, weaving in and out of the cloth, in the thimble. Mabel was getting old too. Her knuckles were swollen, rheumatic. She did not walk as easily as she used to either. As always, the cloth she sewed was black. The old lady had worn black ever since Edmund died. Like the Queen, she was conspicuous in her mourning. It had seemed the right thing to do at the time. Grief was an acceptable emotion, very appropriate. Everyone understood and sympathized. It was so much better than guilt, although to onlookers it could appear the same. She could weep, retreat to privacy, or ask for anything, which was freely granted. She was the center of attention and no questions were asked.

  She very easily fell into the habit of being “bereaved.” There never seemed a suitable time to come out of black, and then it was too late. People assumed she was devastated by Edmund’s death. It became impossible to do anything but agree. She told people what she wanted them to believe, which in time she tried to believe herself. It was better that way.

  Now Samuel Ellison had turned up out of God knew where, and everything was crashing in ruins.

  Mabel was threading black beads onto her needle, stitching them on the bosom of the new dress. Why in damnation should Mariah wear black for the rest of her life for Edmund’s sake? He must be laughing in whatever hell he had gone to. It had never suited her, and did so even less now that she was old and sallow-skinned. And to put rouge on her face would make her look like a painted corpse. A painted corpse! That was how she felt, dead inside but still hurting, and ridiculous.

  She wanted to tell Mabel to throw it away, make something of another color—maybe purple; that was half mourning. But lavender would not suit her either, in fact it would look even worse.

  She was afraid to change. Everyone would ask why, and she did not want to mention Edmund at all, let alone offer any explanations. So she sat in silence, idle-fingered. Her head ached.

  She did not go down to dinner. She dreaded listening to Caroline wittering on about Samuel Ellison, and far worse, she might talk about Edmund, ask questions, bring back memories. Of course, what Caroline recalled of him was the face everyone knew, the one the old lady herself had perpetuated deliberately. She could talk about his kindness, his charm, his ability to tell a story and bring it to life. She could recall Christmas, when they walked together through the snow to church on Christmas Eve, how he sang the old songs with such a rich voice.

  Her throat ached. Tears spilled and ran down her cheeks. If only it could all have been like that!

  Who was wrong? Was it she? Was she the one who was different, out of step, cold, stuck in some childish fantasy of the world, a woman who had grown old but had never grown up?

  Then that was how it would be. She could not change now.

  But this was unendurable. She would rather be dead.

  Mabel came to her room and removed the dinner tray, the food half eaten. She said nothing. But then she could not. She had served the old lady for twenty years. They knew all kinds of intimate things about each other, physical things, habits, footsteps, a cough, the texture of skin and hair. And yet at heart they were also strangers. The old lady had never asked what Mabel thought or hoped for in life, what kept her awake at night, and Mabel had no idea now what dread clutched inside her mistress like a cold hand.

  She could not go on like this. She must do something, now, before it was too late. Caroline must never know. She was left with no choice. All the old panic and despair were back, the familiar darkness inside her, eating away at her heart, closing her in, unutterably alone.

  Damn Samuel Ellison for coming from America, where he was safely out of her life. Damn Alys for being beautiful and brave and in control of everything. She had gone—just left. But there was nowhere for Mariah to go. She was not young and healthy with a lovely face. She was old, stiff, bone-weary, and terrified. What would so-lovely, so-clever Alys do if she were here now?

  She would do something! She would not sit waiting for the ax to fall like some helpless rabbit. Then not only would the old lady be despised for what was known, she would despise herself for letting it happen. That was the worst of it, the self-loathing.

  But how could she stop it?

  It took all the resolve she possessed to go down to the breakfast table. But she could not spend the rest of her life in her bedro
om. She had to appear sometime. Joshua would be present at this hour of the day, and that would prevent Caroline from chattering on and on endlessly about Samuel Ellison, and somehow she would contrive to speak to him alone. She must. She dare not leave it any longer.

  The usual greeting and enquiries dealt with, she forced herself to take tea and toast.

  “Have you heard from Thomas lately?” Joshua said, turning to Caroline.

  “Not for over a week,” she replied. “I imagine he is very busy with the death of that man found at Horseferry Stairs. It was mentioned in the newspapers again. It seems he was a very famous society photographer.”

  “Delbert Cathcart,” he said, taking more toast and reaching for the apricot preserves. “He was brilliant.”

  “One wonders why anyone should wish to kill him,” Caroline continued, pushing the butter dish across the table for Joshua. “Envy? Perhaps jealousy over some private matter?”

  “Do you mean a lover?” he asked with a smile. “Why are you being so delicate?”

  She flushed very slightly. “That sort of thing,” she conceded.

  It was an opening. The old lady did not hesitate.

  “When people practice immorality it very often ends in disaster,” she said distinctly. “If people would remember that, we should be able to get rid of half the misery in the world!” She was startled to hear the bitterness in her own voice. She had meant it for Caroline, but waves of loathing were thick in it as well, carrying a passion she would rather not have revealed.

  Joshua was staring at her. He had heard it and was puzzled.

  She looked away.

  “It may simply have been robbery,” Caroline said calmly. “The poor man was out late, and what was intended merely to take his watch or money became more violent than expected. Perhaps he fought.”