Half Moon Street

by Anne Perry

  “Well . . . I . . .” He was obviously acutely uncomfortable. He looked everywhere but at her. A moment ago she had been a friend; now, overwhelmingly, she was a woman.

  “You already know,” she concluded, then wished she had not. Perhaps he did not know? Perhaps it was his burning imagination which had driven him to buy such pictures? Then, seeing his agonized face, she was certain he did not know. He was confused, hideously embarrassed by his ignorance and his curiosity, and so self-conscious he was crimson to the tips of his ears.

  “I think you should speak to your father yourself,” she said gently. “What you feel is common to all of us. He’ll understand exactly.” She hoped to heaven that was true. She was far less certain of Ralph Marchand now than she had been even an hour ago. She stood up and left the room without saying anything more.

  She had dealt as well as possible with the issue of the photographs. She would send the address of the dealer to Bow Street for Pitt, then she would have to face Mrs. Ellison again. This could not go unresolved indefinitely.

  But the damage was so deep, how did she reach it? It had years ago become part of the old lady’s character, the anger was consumed into her view of everything. She had hated herself and everyone else for so long she did not know how to stop. If the hatred was removed, would there be anything left?

  It was a cool, clear autumn day, the streets full of hazy sunlight, traffic moving swiftly apart from the occasional crushes at corners, where everyone seemed to be a rule to themselves. At a glance she could see a score of people walking, as she was, simply for the pleasure of it. She was not yet ready to look for a cab. Perhaps that was as much because she dreaded returning home as anything to do with the weather.

  The situation could not continue like this, day after day. Emily would be home in just over a week. It must be dealt with before then. Which raised another question she had been avoiding. What should she tell Emily, or Charlotte?

  She smiled and nodded to two women passing her. She was sure she had met them somewhere but could not think where. They had the same polite, slightly confused looks on their faces. Presumably they were thinking exactly the same.

  She could hardly tell Emily nothing. She had to offer some explanation for the change in the old lady. And whatever she told Emily she would have to tell Charlotte also.

  She pictured Edmund Ellison as she remembered him. He was her father-in-law, a relation by marriage, but to her daughters he was Grandfather, a relation by blood, in a sense part of who they were. That made it different. They would find it far harder to bear.

  And what thoughts would it awaken about Edward also? It had disturbed Caroline herself, made her view certain memories differently, and she had known him intimately. She had all the knowledge with which to dismiss all doubts, see them for the slander they were.

  Honesty was not the only thing that mattered, surely?

  She wished there was someone else she could speak to, someone whose advice she could ask, without laying upon that person a burden it was unfair to ask someone to carry. She certainly could not ask Joshua, especially not now, with a new play just beginning. Even at any time it would not be right. He had not been warned before. He had no experience of this kind of family problem in all its complicated ugliness and ever-widening circles of pain.

  She could not even ask Charlotte, and certainly not Pitt. It was really not a problem she wished to discuss with a man at all, let alone one a generation younger than herself and with whom she had a continuing family relationship.

  A hansom carriage and four swept by with a crest on the door, liveried coachman on the box and footman behind. It was a pleasure to watch them.

  Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould—that was the answer. Of course she might not be in. She might consider this something of an impertinence, a familiarity not warranted by their very slight acquaintance. But on the other hand, she might help Caroline as she had helped Charlotte so many times.

  She hailed the next hansom and gave the driver Vespasia’s address. It was quite an acceptable hour for afternoon calls.

  Vespasia received Caroline with both interest and pleasure, and did not indulge the pretense that it was merely a usual courtesy call.

  “I am sure you did not come to discuss society or the weather. You are plainly concerned about something,” she said when they were seated alone in the light, furnished sitting room looking into the garden. It was one of the most restful rooms Caroline had been in, the sense of space and air and the cool tones were calming, and she found herself sitting more comfortably in the chair. “I hope nothing is going badly with Charlotte?”

  “No, far from it,” Caroline assured her. “I believe she is enjoying herself enormously.”

  Vespasia smiled. The light was silver on her hair and warm on her face, which was beautiful as much because of her age as in spite of it. All the lines were upward, the faint prints of time left by courage and laughter, and an inner certainty no one had seen waver.

  “Then you had better tell me what it is,” she offered. “I have instructed my maid that I am not at home to anyone else, but I have no taste to play games with words. I have reached the age when life seems too short as it is; I do not wish to spend any of it uselessly . . . unless it is fun? And from your face, this is not so.”

  “No, I am afraid it is not. But I should greatly appreciate your advice,” Caroline admitted. “I am not sure what I should do for the best.”

  Vespasia looked at her steadily. “What have you done so far?”

  As succinctly as possible, Caroline told her of meeting Samuel Ellison at the theatre and of his visits to the house and Mrs. Ellison’s increasing tension.

  Vespasia listened without interruption until Caroline reached the point where she had retrieved the letter and confronted Mrs. Ellison and demanded to know the truth. Then she found it unexpectedly difficult to repeat the obscenity of what the old lady had finally recounted.

  “I think you had better tell me,” Vespasia said quietly. “I presume it was extremely unpleasant, or she would hardly have gone to such lengths to keep it concealed.”

  Caroline looked down at her hands, locked together in her lap.

  “I did not know people behaved in such ways. I have always disliked my mother-in-law. I have never admitted that before, but it is true.” She was embarrassed to confess it. “She is a bitter and cruel woman. All my married life I have watched her look for ways to hurt people. Now I find myself sorry for her . . . and angry with myself because I can’t think of any way to help. She is dying of rage and humiliation, and I can’t touch her. She won’t let me, and I can’t break the barrier.” She looked up. “I ought to be able to! I’m not the one who has been abused and degraded!”

  Vespasia sat silently for so long Caroline began to think she was not going to reply. Perhaps Vespasia was too old to deal with such things and she should not have trespassed.

  “My dear,” Vespasia said at last, “wounds such as you imply can sometimes be healed, if they are reached soon enough. A gentle man, a tender man, might have taught her differently, and she would have learned what love can be. In time she might have put the past to the back of her mind, where it could do no more harm. I think for your mother-in-law it is far too late. She has hated herself so long she can find no way back.”

  Caroline felt herself go cold, her hands stiff. It was not what she wanted to hear.

  “It is pointless to blame yourself for not being able to ease her pain,” Vespasia went on. “It is not your fault, but more to the point, self-blame will help neither of you. I do not mean to be harsh, but it is a kind of self-indulgence. The most you can do for her is to treat her with some nature of respect, and not allow your new knowledge of her to destroy what little dignity she has left.”

  “That’s not very much!” Caroline said angrily. “That sounds like self-preservation.”

  “My dear,” Vespasia said gently, “I have found that when something very dreadful happens, and has to be faced, it is
wisest to consider the matter in the most practical terms. What is fair or unfair no longer really matters, only what is or is not. It is a waste of energy you will desperately need to expend anger on injustice you cannot alter. Concentrate your attention on the pain you can reach, and weigh very carefully what is the most likely result of your actions and if it is what you wish for. When you have made the wisest judgment you can, then do it. Let the rest take care of itself.”

  Caroline knew Vespasia was right, and yet she could not help a last protest. “Is that really all? I feel so . . . there ought to be . . .”

  Vespasia shook her head very slightly. “You cannot heal her, but you can allow her time and room to heal herself . . . a little . . . if she wants to. After these years of anger it would take a miracle . . . but miracles do happen from time to time.” She gave a very slight smile. “I have seen a few. Never give up hope. If she can believe that you have hope, she may learn to have it herself.”

  “It doesn’t sound a great deal,” Caroline said reluctantly.

  Vespasia moved very slightly, the light silver on her hair.

  “The damage done by that kind of abuse is very, very deep. The physical is nothing, in comparison. It is the wound to the faith, to what one believes of oneself, that may be irrevocable. If you cannot love yourself, and believe you are worth loving, then it is impossible to love anyone else.” She gave a tiny shrug, the sun shimmering on the silk of her gown. “When Christ commanded us to love our neighbor as ourselves, the ‘self’ part was just as important. We forget that at a terrible price.”

  Caroline considered it for several minutes. She thought also of Pitt, and the photographs of Cecily Antrim, and young Lewis Marchand’s face. In stilted words she told Vespasia about that also.

  When she had finished, Vespasia was smiling.

  “That must have been very difficult for you,” she said with approval. “Please do not chastise yourself over what you cannot change. There is a limit to what any of us can do, and sometimes we take the blame for things far beyond our power to affect. We each have our own agency to choose how we will react to our circumstances. We cannot take that from anyone, nor should we wish to, even if we have the arrogance to believe we know better than they do how they should behave or what judgments they should make. We may beg, plead, argue, we may pray—and we should—but in the end the only person anyone can change is themselves. Please be content with that. It is all you will receive, I promise you. And it is all you should. It is sufficient.”

  “And what about the pictures?” Caroline asked. “We talk very freely about not censoring art. But the people who say that don’t think of the damage they can do. If they had seen young Lewis Marchand’s face, they wouldn’t have thought their freedom worth so much. They aren’t the people with children . . . they . . .” She stopped, realizing how wrong she was. “Yes, they are . . . at least Cecily Antrim is.” She frowned. “Am I old-fashioned, repressed, backward-thinking? She would say I am boring and getting old!” The words hurt as she said them. Spoken aloud they were even worse than silent in her mind.

  “I am not getting old,” Vespasia replied vigorously. “I most assuredly have arrived there. It is not as bad as you may fear . . . in fact it has distinct pleasures. Go and read your Robert Browning, and have a little more faith in life, my dear. And so far as being boring is concerned, kindness and honesty are never tedious. Cruelty, hypocrisy and pretentiousness always are . . . excruciatingly so. A fool may not be interesting, but if he or she is generous and interested in you, you will find you like him, however limited his wit.”

  “Why would Cecily Antrim pose for such pictures?” Caroline followed her thoughts. “When Joshua finds out he is going to be so distressed . . . I think . . .”

  Then suddenly she was terribly afraid he would not be, it would be she herself he thought out of step, critical, imprisoned in old thought.

  Vespasia was looking at her very steadily, her eyes silver-gray in the soft light of this clear, uncluttered room. The sun was bright on the grass beyond the windows, the trees motionless against the blue sky.

  Caroline felt transparent, all her thoughts, her fears, naked.

  “I think you are being a trifle unfair to him,” Vespasia said frankly. “Of course he will be hurt, and wish to judge her more kindly than may prove possible. Disillusion cuts very deep. He will need you to be sure of yourself. I think you should consider long and carefully what it is you hold most dear, and then do not let go of it.”

  Caroline said nothing. She already knew that was true; Samuel Ellison had taught her that.

  Vespasia leaned forward a fraction. It was just a slight gesture, but it gave an impression of closeness. “You are older than he is, and it troubles you.” That was a statement, not a question. “My dear, you always were. He chose you for who you are. Don’t destroy it by trying to be someone else. If he loses a friend he has admired in this miserable business, he is going to need you to be strong, to remain honest and fight for the values you have represented to him. Years are accidents of nature; maturity is very precious. He may very much need you to be older than he is . . . for a little while.” The flicker of a smile touched her mouth. “The time will come when you can reverse the roles and allow him to be stronger, or wiser, or even both! Just be subtle about it, that’s all. Sometimes when we most need help, we least like to know we are receiving it. Set your own doubts aside for a little while. Fight as you would for your children, without thought for yourself. Just don’t lose your temper. It is terribly unbecoming.”

  In spite of herself, Caroline laughed.

  Vespasia laughed also. “May I lend you a pen and paper? Then you may send a note to Thomas to give him the address of this dealer. I shall have my coachman take it to Bow Street. I confess I find it most irritating that Charlotte has gone to Paris. I have no idea what Thomas is doing, and I am bored to doll-rags!” She gave a self-deprecating shrug, pulling the dove-gray silk of her gown. “I have become addicted to police life and I find society infinitely tedious. It is merely a new generation of people doing exactly what we did, and convinced they are the first to think of it. How on earth do they imagine they came into the world?”

  Caroline found herself overtaken with laughter; the blessed release of it was marvelous. The tears ran down her cheeks and she did not even try to stop, she had no desire to at all. Suddenly she was warm again, and surprisingly hungry. She would like tea . . . and cakes!

  While Caroline was worrying about Mariah Ellison and trying in vain to think of some way to comfort her, Pitt was sitting at the table in his kitchen reading the latest letter from Charlotte. He was so absorbed in it he let his tea go cold.

  Dearest Thomas,

  I am enjoying my last few days here in a unique kind of way. It has been a marvelous holiday, and no doubt the moment I leave I shall wish I could recapture it better in my memory. Therefore I am looking at everything especially closely, so I can print it in my mind . . . the way the light falls on the river, the sun on the old stones . . . some of the buildings are quite frighteningly beautiful and so steeped in history.

  I think of all the things that have happened here, the people who have lived and died, the great battles for liberty, the terror and the glory . . . and of course the squalor as well.

  I wonder, do other people come to London and look at it with the same bursting sense of romance? Do foreigners come to our city and see the great ghosts of the past: Charles I going calmly to his death after years of civil war, Queen Elizabeth leaving to rally the troops before the Armada, Anne Boleyn . . . why is it always executions? What’s the matter with us? Riot, bloodshed and glorious deaths . . . I suppose it is the ultimate sacrifice?

  By the way, talking about ultimate sacrifice, well, not ultimate I suppose . . . but a young French diplomat, Henri Bonnard by name, has just made a conspicuous sacrifice on behalf of his friend. It is in all the newspapers, so Madame says. Apparently he is posted in London and has come back to Paris to testify in thi
s case I was telling you about—the man who said he could not have killed the girl because he was at a nightclub at the time? Well, so he was—the Moulin Rouge! And the diplomat was with him—all night. It seems they went there quite respectably, like anyone else, then stayed over when the most infamous of the dancers—La Goulue—was doing the cancan—without her underwear, as usual—and then went on to even more disreputable pursuits. But together! He swears to it—very reluctantly, I might add. His ambassador will not be pleased. All Paris is laughing about it today—I imagine London will know of it by the time you read this. At least some of London will, the people the ambassador cares about. Poor Monsieur Bonnard, a high price to pay to rescue a friend. I hope he does not lose his job.

  We are going to the opera tonight. It should be great fun. Everyone will be dressed in the latest fashion. It’s just like London, the very best courtesans parade at the back and pick up custom, only of course I’m not supposed to know that!

  All this is marvelous to watch, but nothing on earth could persuade me to live this way permanently. It is the best thing of all to know that I shall be home in a few days, and with you all again.

  I don’t suppose you have heard from Gracie? I don’t think she is sure enough of her writing yet, and of course Daniel and Jemima wouldn’t think to write. I hope they are building sand castles, finding crabs and little fish in the rock pools, eating sweets, getting wet and dirty and having an unforgettable time.

  I imagine you are working hard. The case you describe sounds macabre. There must be a tragedy behind it. I hope you are eating properly, and finding where I put everything you will need. Is the house horribly silent without us all? Or wonderfully peaceful? I trust you are not neglecting Archie and Angus? I don’t imagine they will allow you to.

  I miss you, and shall be happy to be home soon,

  Yours always,

  Charlotte

  He read it again carefully, not that he had missed any part of it but that it gave him a sense of her nearness. He could almost hear her quick footsteps down the passage and half expected her to push the door open and come in.