Half Moon Street

by Anne Perry

  She watched the clock. Eight minutes, and she could not bear the tension. She went down the stairs again slowly, gripping the banister. She reached the bottom and crossed the hall.

  What if he had mentioned the letter, even shown it to Caroline, and she had denied it? What if they had guessed the truth, and he was at this moment telling her all about his mother and why she had gone. The hall swam around the old lady. She struggled for breath.

  She could not go in. She couldn’t bear it! There was nowhere to run. Her heart was pounding so violently her body shook. She could hear it in her ears.

  She stood there paralyzed. Seconds ticked by. Or was it minutes?

  She had to know. Nothing could be worse than this. It was as bad as knowing, and yet every so often there was this hope so sharp it was like sickness, leaving her dizzy. Knowledge, even despair, would be worse.

  She walked towards the withdrawing room door and opened it. It was like a dream, like moving underwater.

  Samuel was sitting in the chair Joshua usually chose, and Caroline was very upright in the one opposite. Her color was high, and they both turned rather quickly as they heard the door.

  Mariah looked at Samuel. She did not want to meet Caroline’s eyes. He did not look any different. He seemed puzzled, but not contemptuous, not angry, certainly not knowing. He did not understand . . . not yet.

  The old lady took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “I have . . . a slight . . . headache,” she said with difficulty. She had meant it to sound casual, quite natural, but she had not the control of her voice she had wished.

  Samuel murmured something.

  “If you don’t mind,” she went on. “I shall go into the garden for a little while. I shall be just around the corner. The air might do me good.” And without waiting for either of them to reply, she crossed the room and went out of the French doors onto the small patch of grass, and down the steps out of sight.

  It was another ageless fifteen minutes before she heard the voices and came back up the steps to eavesdrop at the French doors.

  Joshua was standing just inside the withdrawing room. Samuel was by the fireplace and Caroline was in between them. Even from where she stood, Mariah could see the color high and bright in Caroline’s neck and staining her cheeks.

  “Caroline, please leave us” Joshua said softly. From his tone and his gestures he was repeating himself.

  She said something, a protest. She had her back to the window, and Mariah did not hear her words.

  Joshua did not answer but stood very still, his face cold, eyes steady.

  Caroline walked to the door and went out, closing it behind her.

  “You were made welcome in my home, Mr. Ellison,” Joshua said in a tight, low voice. “But your behavior in visiting so frequently, and spending your time alone with my wife, is inappropriate and is compromising her reputation. I regret I must ask you not to call again. You have left me no room to do anything else. Good day, sir.”

  Samuel stood perfectly still, his face scarlet. Once he made as if to speak, hesitated, then walked past Joshua to the door. Again he seemed about to say something.

  “Good day, sir,” Joshua said again.

  “Good day,” Samuel answered, and opened the door.

  It was done, accomplished. Samuel Ellison had left and he would not return. He had been prevented from saying anything.

  But Mariah did not feel any sense of elation. She was cold in the afternoon sun, and she could not bear to go into the withdrawing room. She turned away and walked all the way around to the areaway and in at the scullery door, through the kitchen without looking to right or left, and up to her own room, where she sat on the bed with the tears running down her face.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Caroline stood at the top of the landing, confused and wretched. The whole scene with Samuel had been acutely embarrassing, and she had no idea what had produced the change in his attitude. He had been friendly and open from the beginning, much less formal than an Englishman would in the same circumstances. She had found it refreshing and not in the least out of place. She had not misunderstood it for forwardness, and she felt that she had responded only appropriately.

  Then today he had arrived at an unusual hour and behaved as if she had invited him—more than that, as if there had been something peculiarly intimate about her invitation, and urgent.

  She racked her brain to think of anything she could have said which could be so misinterpreted, but nothing came. She had listened to all his stories with interest, perhaps more than courtesy demanded. But they were extraordinary and fascinating to her. Anyone else would have done the same. It was immeasurably more than drawing room chatter. And he was a relative turned up from nowhere, a brother-in-law she had not known she had. At a glance, before he spoke, he was so like Edward, perhaps she had offered a friendship more instant and natural than was normal, but surely she had not implied anything else.

  Had she?

  She was touched by guilt as she realized how much she had enjoyed his company. No, not just his company, the way he had flattered her by liking her so much, by the unspoken suggestion that he found her equally interesting, charming, attractive. It was such a welcome contrast to Cecily Antrim’s subtly patronizing air that she had reveled in. It made her feel feminine, in control of herself and the situation again.

  Now it was completely out of control, out of even her attempts to understand what had gone so disastrously wrong.

  What did Joshua believe she had done? Why had he come racing home from a rehearsal in the middle of the late afternoon and in such ice-cold anger commanded her to leave the room, and then seemingly ordered Samuel from the house? Did he really not know her better than to believe she had . . . what? Had an assignation of some sort, here in her own house? In his house! That was absurd! It was only the merest coincidence that Mrs. Ellison had not been in the room with them the entire time, as usual. And the old lady missed nothing; she was as quick as a ferret, and twice as vicious.

  Should she try to explain? Samuel had left, but her courage failed at the thought of going down to Joshua. She had never seen him really angry before, and it hurt her more than she could have imagined. No, hurt was the wrong word. It frightened her. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of what she might lose, not to Cecily Antrim but because of her own behavior, something stupid, unintentionally immoral, she had done. It would not be that he had found Cecily more alluring, more exciting, but that he found Caroline contemptible, not to be trusted to behave with honor, with inner cleanness of spirit.

  That cut to the heart.

  And it was not true. Not really. If it was true at all, it was by omission, carelessness, misunderstanding . . . never intent.

  She went down the first step, but Joshua came out of the withdrawing room and went straight across the hall and out of the front door without looking back. He had not even tried to speak with her. It was as if he no longer cared what she thought.

  A new kind of darkness had begun, a pain inside she could not believe would ever heal.

  She turned and went back up to her room, not her bedroom, which she shared with Joshua, but her sitting room upstairs, where she could be alone. She could not eat dinner, and she certainly could not face the prying, jubilant eyes of the old woman. She had warned her this would happen. She would be triumphant now that it had.

  Caroline went to bed a little after ten o’clock. Joshua had not come home. She had thought for a moment about whether she wanted to wait up for him, however long it would be, but she dreaded the confrontation. What would she say? It might only make things worse. He would be tired. They could neither of them pretend that nothing had happened.

  She might have considered sleeping in the spare bedroom, and perhaps he might also, but Mrs. Ellison was in it, so that was impossible.

  Of course the worst possibility was that he would not come home at all. That was too painful to hold in her mind. She thrust it away. This might be the death of trust .
. . for a while, even a long while . . . but it could not be the end of the marriage. He could not believe she had done anything but be indiscreet, surely?

  She lay in the dark longing for sleep, starting at every sound in case it was his footsteps. Eventually, about midnight, she drifted into oblivion.

  She woke again with no idea what time it was, and knew instantly that he was there beside her. He had come in and gone to bed and to sleep without disturbing her, without speaking or touching her.

  She lay listening to him breathing. He was on the far side of the bed. She could barely feel the weight or the warmth of him. He was as separate from her as if they were strangers, together by chance in the crowd in some public place. She had never felt more crushingly alone.

  Part of her wanted to wake him now and end the terrible tension, provoke a resolution, for better or worse. Her stomach was sick at the thought of what the worst would be. Could he really think that of her? Did he not know her better than that? She remembered the moments of tenderness, the laughter, the quick understanding, the vulnerability in him, and the hot tears filled her eyes.

  Don’t wake him now. It would be childish. Wait. Perhaps in the morning it would be better, there would be some sense in it. He would speak to her and explain. But when she woke, headachy and still tired, he was already gone and she was alone.

  The old lady also slept little, in spite of her triumph. Nothing would warm the coldness inside her. She drifted in and out of nightmare. She was alone in an icy swamp. She cried out and no one heard her. Blind, inhuman faces peered and did not see. Hate. Everything was drenched and dark with hate. Guilt brought her out in a sweat, and then froze, leaving her shuddering under the bedclothes.

  When Mabel finally came at half past eight with hot tea, the old lady had dozed into a fitful sleep again and was actually grateful to be startled into wakefulness in a sunlit room and see the familiar, plump figure of the lady’s maid, whose ordinary face held no alarm and no accusation.

  The tea had never been more welcome. Even almost scalding as it was, it was clean and fragrant and it eased her dry mouth and pounding head. She had no desire to get up and get dressed and face the morning, but to lie there in bed alone with her thoughts would be unendurable.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Ellison?” Mabel said with concern.

  “I . . . I didn’t sleep well. I think I may have to remain upstairs.”

  “Oh dear.” Mabel looked suitably sympathetic.

  The old lady wondered suddenly what Mabel really thought of her. Was she anything more than the source of a good position, someone to look after until she died, because Mabel was secure in Ashworth House, always warm enough, always well fed and treated with respect? Did she have any personal feelings for her? Perhaps it would be better not to know. They might be of dislike. And if she were to think of it honestly, she had given Mabel very little cause to feel anything else. One did not treat servants like friends; they did not expect it or want it, it would be embarrassing. But there were always degrees of consideration, and of the occasional word of thanks. Usually a lady’s maid could expect as part of her remuneration to receive her mistress’s clothes when they were past her best use of them. However, since Mariah had worn black for the last quarter of a century, that was of less value to Mabel than might have been foreseen. But she never complained, at least not as far as the old lady knew.

  “Thank you,” she said aloud.

  Mabel looked startled.

  “For your care,” the old lady said tartly. “Don’t look like that at me, as if I’d spoken to you in Greek!” She moved to get up, impatiently, and a stab of pain brought her up with a gasp.

  “Would you like a doctor, ma’am?” Mabel asked helpfully.

  “No, thank you, I would not! Here, give me your arm.” She took it and hauled herself heavily out of bed and stood up, steadying herself with difficulty. She really did feel unwell. She had had no idea her plan would leave her with this kind of reaction. She should have felt the weight lifted, not added to. After all, Samuel Ellison was gone. She was safe. She had achieved what she wanted to—no, needed to. It had been a matter of survival.

  He had threatened to destroy her, unwittingly perhaps, but destroy her nevertheless.

  But that did not relieve the darkness. In fact, it hardly seemed even to matter.

  She dressed with Mabel’s help. Pity about the black. There would be nothing decent for Mabel to inherit when the time came. Perhaps that would not be long. What was she clinging to life for? She was old, worn out and unloved. Maybe she would wear something lavender or dark blue.

  “Mabel!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ellison?”

  “I want three new dresses . . . or perhaps two new dresses and a suit . . . a skirt and jacket.”

  “I’m making one now, ma’am. Is that three including that?”

  “Not that one!” she said impatiently. “Three more. Put that aside for now. I want one in dark blue, one in lavender, and . . . and one in green! Yes . . . green.”

  “Green! Did you say ‘one in green,’ ma’am?”

  “Are you losing your hearing, Mabel? I would like a green dress, a dark blue one, and a lavender one. Unless you don’t care for lavender, in which case make it something else . . . burgundy, perhaps.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ellison.” The incredulity was high in her voice. “I’ll fetch some designs for you to look at.”

  “Don’t bother, just do whatever you think is becoming. I trust your judgment.” Heaven forfend she chose something outlandish and the old lady lived long enough that she had to wear them! But an unbecoming dress was really the least of her worries now. Yesterday it would have been merely irritating, two weeks ago it would have been a major catastrophe. Now it was nothing at all. “See to it,” she added firmly. “I shall give you the money immediately.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ellison,” Mabel said quietly, her eyes wide.

  But it was a wretched morning. It was impossible to concentrate on anything, not that she had any tasks of importance to do. She never had. Her entire life was a round of domestic trivialities that did not matter in the slightest.

  She did not want to spend the morning with Caroline. She could not bear to see her, and sooner or later she would be bound to say something about yesterday’s disastrous events. What answer was there? She had thought she could cope with it, be evasive, or even tell Caroline she had brought it upon herself. But now that it was accomplished, she felt nothing but a black despair—and a weight of guilt that was like a physical pain.

  She busied herself doing small domestic chores, to the considerable irritation of the maids. First she gathered several pieces of used string and undid the knots, all the while instructing the youngest maid how to do it herself in the future.

  “Never throw away good string!” she said imperiously.

  “It’s full o’ knots!” the girl pointed out. “I can’t get them undone! It’s more’n me fingers is worth!”

  “That is simply because you don’t know how,” the old lady pointed out. “Here. Fetch me a wooden spoon. Quickly!”

  “A wooden spoon?” The girl, who was perhaps thirteen, was nonplussed.

  “Are you deaf, child? Do as you are told! And quickly! Don’t stand there all day.”

  The girl vanished and returned in a few moments with a large wooden spoon. She offered it, handle first.

  “Thank you. Now watch and learn.” The old lady took the first piece of knotted string, placed it on the table in front of her, and, turning the knot over as she went, struck it hard several times with the spoon. Then she took a tiny pair of scissors from her pocket and inserted the points into the middle of the knot. Gradually she eased it open. “There you are!” she said triumphantly. “Now you do the next one.”

  The girl obeyed with enthusiasm, pounding the knots and gouging them undone. It was a considerable victory.

  Next she taught the child how to clean the cane stand in the hall with lemon juice and salt, then how to shine t
he brass in the withdrawing room with olive oil, and then sent her to find beer from the servants’ hall and have Cook set it on the hearth for a few minutes to warm it. With that, she instructed her how to clean the dark wood of the mantel.

  “I’d teach you how to clean diamonds in gin,” she said tartly, “if Mrs. Fielding had any diamonds!”

  “Or any gin,” the child added. “I never met anyone afore wot knows so much!” Her eyes were wide with admiration. “D’yer know ’ow ter get rid o’ scorch marks an’ all? We got a terrible one on the master’s shirt yesterday, an’ the mistress’ll be proper tore up w’en she knows.”

  “If she were any use she’d know how to get it out herself !” Mariah said with satisfaction. Here at the back of the house she could not hear every carriage that passed, or footsteps coming and going. She would not see Caroline, or Joshua if he came home. She would not have to hear them, the confusion, the pain. “Vinegar, fuller’s earth, washing soda and a small onion chopped fine,” she went on. “You should know that! Can’t throw out a good piece of linen just because there’s a scorch mark on it. Make a paste, spread it on the stain, and let it dry. Brush it off the next day.”

  “ ’Ow much vinegar?” the girl asked.

  “What?”

  “ ’Ow much vinegar, please, ma’am?”

  She took a deep breath and told the girl the proportions.

  The rest of the morning passed with other minor duties, excuses to fill the time. She ate no luncheon. It was as if her throat had closed.

  By mid-afternoon she could no longer avoid Caroline without some very good excuse. She considered saying she was ill, or even that she had fallen downstairs and was in too much pain to remain out of her bed. But then Caroline would send for the doctor, whether she wanted it or not, and that might provoke all sorts of worse things. She would be proved a liar. No. Far better she exercise courage and self-mastery. She was going to have to for the rest of her life. This afternoon was an excellent time to begin.

  She changed into a suitable black bombazine afternoon dress with jet beading on the bodice, and put on a smart brooch she had not worn for thirty years. It was not a mourning brooch, with a carefully preserved coil or braid of hair. It was a handsome crystal piece with pearls.