Traitors Gate

by Anne Perry

  Just past them Charlotte saw the sturdy figure of Eustace March, standing very upright, talking intently to a broad man with flowing white hair and a booming voice. They both laughed heartily, and Eustace bade him farewell and turned towards Charlotte. He saw her with a look of alarm, but it was too late for him to pretend he had not. He straightened his shoulders and came forward.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt. How pleasant to see you. Supporting a worthy cause, I see!” He laughed jerkily. “Excellent.” Vespasia had stopped to speak to an acquaintance, and he had not seen her. He hesitated, searching for something to say, undecided whether he had satisfied good manners sufficiently to leave yet. “Lovely day. A joy to be out in it. Fine garden, don’t you think?”

  “Delightful,” Charlotte agreed. “Most kind of Mrs. Kennard to lend it for the bazaar. I think there will be a great deal to clear up after all these people.”

  He winced very slightly at her candor in mentioning such a thing.

  “All in a good cause, my dear lady. These small sacrifices are necessary if we are to be of service. Nothing without effort, you know!” He smiled, showing his teeth.

  “Of course,” she agreed. “I imagine you know a great many of the people here?”

  “Oh no, hardly any. I have little time to mix in Society as I used to. There are too many important things to be done.” He looked poised to depart and set about them immediately.

  “You interest me greatly, Mr. March,” she said, meeting his eyes.

  He was horrified. It was the last thing he had intended. She always made him uncomfortable. The conversation so seldom went as he had wished.

  “Well, my dear lady, I assure you … I …” He stopped.

  “How modest of you, Mr. March.” She smiled winningly.

  He blushed. It was not modesty but an urgent desire to escape.

  “But I have thought a great deal about what you said only yesterday concerning organizing together to do good,” she said eagerly. “I am sure in many ways you are right. When we cooperate, we can achieve so much more. Knowledge is power, is it not? How can we be effective if we do not know where the greatest need lies? We might even end up doing more harm, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I imagine that is true,” he said reluctantly. “I am so glad you have realized that hasty judgment is very often mistaken. I assure you, the organization to which I belong is most worthy. Most worthy.”

  “And modest,” she added with a perfectly straight face. “It must have been so distressing for you that Sir Arthur Desmond was saying such disagreeable things about it, before the poor man died.”

  Eustace looked pale, and acutely uncomfortable.

  “Er … most,” he agreed. “Poor man. Senile, of course. Very sad.” He shook his head. “Brandy,” he added, pushing out his lower lip. “Everything in moderation, I always say. A healthy mind in a healthy body. Makes for both virtue and happiness.” He took a deep breath. “Of course I don’t hold with laudanum and the like at all. Fresh air, cold baths, brisk exercise and an easy conscience. No reason why a man shouldn’t sleep every night of his life. Never think of powders and potions.” He lifted his chin a little and smiled again.

  A menacing Richard III walked crabwise past them, and two young women laughed happily. He shook a fist and they entered into the spirit of it by pretending to be frightened.

  “An easy conscience requires a life of extraordinary virtue, frequent and profound repentance, or absolute insensitivity,” Charlotte said with a slight edge to her voice, and only turning to look at Eustace at the last moment.

  He blushed very pink, and said nothing.

  “Unfortunately I did not know Sir Arthur,” she went on. “But I have heard he was one of the kindest and most honorable of men. Perhaps he had pain, and that was what caused him to be wakeful? Or anxieties? If one is responsible for others, it can cause a great deal of worry.”

  “Yes—yes, of course,” Eustace said unhappily. She knew memory was awakening in him, with all its discomforts. If he slept well every night, she felt he had no right to.

  “Did you know him?” she pressed.

  “Uh—Desmond? Oh … well … yes, I met him a few times. Not to say I knew him, you understand?” He did not look at her.

  She wondered if he and Sir Arthur could conceivably have been in the same ring of the Inner Circle, but she had no idea even how many people were in a ring. She thought she recalled from something Pitt had said that it was no more than half a dozen or so, but she was unclear. For it to be effective, the groups would surely have to be larger than that in some way? Perhaps each ring had a leader, and they knew the others, and so on.

  “You mean socially?” she asked with as much naïveté as she could manage. She found it was not very much. “At hunt balls and so on? Or to do with his work?”

  Eustace looked somewhere over his left shoulder, his cheeks pink. “His work?” he said with alarm. “I … I am not sure what you mean. Certainly not.”

  It was sufficient. He had taken her to be referring to the Inner Circle. Had it been a social acquaintance he would have admitted it without embarrassment, but she had been almost sure Eustace March did not move in the higher regions of old society, landed gentry, the true aristocracy where Arthur Desmond lived because he was born to it.

  “I meant the Foreign Office.” She smiled sweetly. “But of course I knew it was unlikely.”

  “Quite. Quite so.” His answering smile was sickly. “Now, my dear lady, if you will excuse me, I must be about my duty. There is so much to do. One must show one’s presence, you know? Buy a little here and there, give encouragement and set the example.” And without allowing her a chance to argue he hastened away, nodding to either side as he saw acquaintances present or wished for.

  Charlotte stood thoughtfully for a few moments, then turned and went back the way Vespasia had gone. Within a few moments she was near Cleopatra’s pincushions again, and found herself interested to observe the interplay of an elderly matron, torn between envy and disapproval, and a young lady fast approaching an unmarriageable age, unless she were an heiress. With them was a gentleman Charlotte’s practiced eye recognized as having had his collars and cuffs turned, to make them wear another six months or so. She had turned enough of Pitt’s to know them when she saw them.

  It was after a few moments she realized she had heard Cleopatra addressed as Miss Soames. Could she be Harriet Soames, to whom Matthew Desmond was betrothed?

  When the purchase was made and the three people moved away, Charlotte went up to the counter of the stall.

  “Excuse me?”

  Cleopatra looked at her helpfully, but without interest. Closer to she was even more unusual. Her dark eyes were very level, her mouth not voluptuous, her upper lip unfashionably straight, and yet her face was full of deep inner emotion.

  “May I show you something?” she asked. “Is it for yourself, or a gift?”

  “Actually I overheard the previous purchaser address you as Miss Soames. Are you by any chance Miss Harriet Soames?”

  She looked puzzled. “Yes. I am. But I am afraid I cannot recall our having met.”

  It was a polite and predictable reply from a well-bred young woman who did not wish to be rushed into an acquaintance with a person she knew nothing about, and to whom she had not been introduced.

  “My name is Charlotte Pitt.” Charlotte smiled. “My husband has been a lifelong friend of Sir Matthew Desmond. May I offer you my felicitations on your betrothal, and my sympathies for the death of Sir Arthur. My husband feels his loss so deeply, I know he must have been a most unusual man.”

  “Oh—” Having received a satisfactory explanation, Harriet Soames was perfectly prepared to be friendly. Her face softened into a charming smile. “How kind of you, Mrs. Pitt. Yes indeed, Sir Arthur was one of the nicest people I ever knew. I expected to be in awe of him, as one usually is of a prospective father-in-law, but from the moment I met him, I felt completely at ease.” Memory in her face was to
uched at once with pleasure and pain.

  Charlotte wished even more sharply that she had met Sir Arthur. She would have felt his death more keenly herself, but she would have been better able to share Pitt’s emotion. She knew that his grief bit very deep and was mixed with guilt, and at the moment she was outside it. It was beyond either of them to alter that.

  “Sir Matthew came to visit us the other evening,” Charlotte continued, largely for something to say. “I had not met him before, but I found I liked him immediately. I do wish you every happiness.”

  “Thank you, that is most kind.” Harriet seemed about to add something further, but was prevented by the arrival of a young woman whose face grew more and more appealing the longer one looked at it. At a glance one would have said she was ordinarily pretty with regular features and typically pleasing English fair coloring, not flaxen, but the warm deep tone of honey, and her complexion was unfashionably glowing with natural color. But with further regard there was an intelligence and humor in her face which made her anything but ordinary.

  Not realizing Charlotte and Harriet were speaking as friends, rather than vendor and purchaser, she did not hesitate to interrupt, and then hastily apologized when Harriet introduced them. The newcomer’s name was Miss Amanda Pennecuick.

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” Amanda said quickly. “How appallingly rude of me. Forgive me, Mrs. Pitt. I have nothing of the least importance to say.”

  “Nor I,” Charlotte confessed. “I was merely introducing myself, since my husband is a very old friend of Sir Matthew Desmond’s.” She assumed Amanda knew of Harriet’s betrothal, and her face made it immediately plain that she did.

  “I am so cross,” Amanda confided. “Gwendoline Otway is doing those fearful astrology readings again, and she promised she wouldn’t. You know there are times when I feel I could slap her! And she has dressed herself as Anne Boleyn.”

  “With or without her head?” Harriet asked with a sudden giggle.

  “With it … for the moment,” Amanda replied grimly.

  “I didn’t know Anne Boleyn was Shakespearean.” Harriet screwed up her brow.

  “Farewell…. ‘A long farewell to all my greatness,’” a beautifully modulated masculine voice said from just behind Amanda’s shoulder, and they turned to see the bright, homely face of Garston Aylmer. “Cardinal Wolsey,” he said cheerfully, looking at Amanda. “Henry the Eighth,” he added.

  “Oh, yes of course. Good afternoon, Mr. Aylmer,” she replied, regarding him levelly, and almost without expression in her face, which was difficult because it was a countenance naturally given to emotion.

  “Why does it displease you so much that she should pretend a little astrology?” Charlotte asked. “Is it not a fairly harmless way of entertaining people and raising money for the bazaar?”

  “Amanda disapproves of astrology,” Harriet said with a smile. “Even as a game.”

  “The stars are not in the least magical,” Amanda said quickly. “At least not in that sense. The truth of them is far more wonderful than a lot of silly names and ideas about classical heroes and imaginary beasts. If you had any idea of the real magnitude …” She stopped, aware that Garston Aylmer was staring at her with intensity, and an admiration in his face so plain no one watching him could have been unaware of it.

  “Forgive me,” she said to Charlotte. “I really should not allow myself to get so upset over something so silly. No doubt she is amusing people who would never look through a telescope even if you placed one into their hands.” She laughed self-consciously. “Perhaps I had better buy a pincushion. Please let me see that one with the white lace on it.”

  Harriet passed it across.

  “Perhaps you would allow me to escort you to tea, Miss Pennecuick? And you, Mrs. Pitt?” Aylmer offered.

  Charlotte knew well enough when not to intrude. She had no idea what Amanda felt, but Aylmer’s feelings were apparent, and she rather liked him.

  “Thank you, but I have come with my great-aunt, and I should find her again before too long,” she declined.

  Amanda hesitated, apparently considering the matter, then coolly accepted, excusing herself to both Charlotte and Harriet. She made her purchase and left, walking beside Aylmer, but not taking his proffered arm. They looked unsuited together; she was so slender and elegant, and he was quite unusually plain, short legged, and definitely too plump.

  “You should have gone,” Harriet said under her breath. “Poor Amanda.”

  “I really did come with my great-aunt,” Charlotte replied with a wide smile. “Honestly.”

  “Oh!” Harriet blushed. “I’m so sorry! I thought you were …” She started to laugh, and a moment later Charlotte joined in.

  Fifteen minutes later she found Vespasia and together they went to the tent where afternoon tea was being served. They saw Aylmer and Amanda Pennecuick just leaving, apparently still in conversation.

  “An unexpected couple,” Vespasia observed.

  “His design, not hers,” Charlotte replied.

  “Indeed.” Vespasia looked at the young girl who had come to offer them sandwiches and little cakes decorated and iced in a variety of designs. They made their choice, and Vespasia poured the tea. It was still too hot to sip when Charlotte noticed Susannah Chancellor at the next table, which was rather more behind them so it was half hidden by a samovar on a stand and a large potted plant with a price ticket poking out of it. However, when for a moment neither she nor Vespasia were speaking, Susannah’s voice was just audible. It sounded polite and curious, but there were the beginnings of anxiety in it.

  “I think you are leaping to conclusions without knowing all the facts, Mr. Kreisler. The plans have been very thoroughly thought through, and a great many people consulted who have traveled in Africa and know the natives.”

  “Such as Mr. Rhodes?” Kreisler’s voice was still on the borders of courtesy, but he was not concealing his disbelief, nor the dislike he felt for Cecil Rhodes and his works.

  “Of course he is one of them,” Susannah agreed. “But certainly not the only one. Mr. MacKinnon—”

  “Is an honorable man,” he finished for her. His voice was still light, almost bantering in tone, but there was an intensity beneath which was unmistakable to the ear. Charlotte could not see him, but she could imagine the unwavering look in his eyes, even if he were pretending to smile. “But he has to make a profit. That is his business, and his honor depends upon it, even his survival.”

  “Mr. Rhodes has a great deal of his own money invested in this venture,” Susannah went on. “Neither my husband nor my brother-in-law would have backed him as they have were he simply an adventurer with no stake in it himself.”

  “He is an adventurer with a very great stake in it himself,” Kreisler said with a slight laugh. “He is an empire builder of the highest order!”

  “You sound as if you disapprove of that, Mr. Kreisler. Why? If we do not, then others will, and we shall have lost Africa, perhaps to Germany. You can’t approve of that, can you? Or of the slavery that goes on now?”

  “No, of course not, Mrs. Chancellor. But the evil there now is centuries old, and part of their way of life. The changes we will bring about will not necessarily get rid of them, only produce war with the Arabs, who are the largest slavers, with the ivory traders and with the Portuguese, and undoubtedly with the Germans and the Sultan of Zanzibar. And most of all, it will set up our own empire in Equatoria, which will eventually overtake Emin Pasha, Lobengula, and the Kabaka of Buganda and everyone else. White settlers with guns will drive out the old ways, and in half a century the Africans will be a subject people in their own land….”

  “You’re exaggerating!” There was laughter and disbelief on the surface of her voice, but underneath a beginning of worry, a sharp note of doubt. “There are millions of Africans, and only a handful of us … a few hundred.”

  “Today,” he said harshly. “And tomorrow, when there’s gold—and land? When the wars have been fought and there i
s adventure and profit to offer all the younger sons with no lands here? For those who’ve made a mess in Europe, or whose families won’t support them or protect them anymore?”

  “It won’t be like that,” she said urgently. “It will be like India. There will be a proper standing army, and a civil service to administer it and keep the law and …” She stopped.

  “Is that what you believe?” he said so softly Charlotte had to strain to catch his words.

  “Well …” Susannah hesitated. “Not exactly, of course. It will take time. But yes, eventually it will.”

  “India is a culture and a civilization thousands of years older than ours. They were reading and writing, building cities and painting great art, dreaming philosophy, when we were running around painting ourselves blue and wearing animal skins!” he said with his contempt barely hidden.

  “We still brought them the benefits of our laws,” she said. “We settled their internal quarrels and united them as a great country. We may be upstarts in some ways, but we brought them peace. We’ll do it in Africa too.”

  Kreisler said nothing. It was impossible to imagine what expression was in his face. Neither Charlotte nor Vespasia had said a word since they had both recognized Susannah Chancellor’s voice. Their eyes had met a dozen times with thoughts that needed no speech.

  “Did you know Sir Arthur Desmond?” Susannah said after a moment or two.

  “No. Why?”

  “No reason, except that he would have agreed with you. He seemed to be worried about Africa too.”

  “Then I should like to know him.”

  “I am afraid that is not possible. He died last week.”

  Kreisler said nothing, and a moment later they were apparently joined by Christabel Thorne, and the conversation became quite general, and to do with the bazaar.

  “A man of great passions, Mr. Kreisler,” Vespasia said, sipping the last of her tea. “An interesting man, but I fear a dangerous one.”

  “Do you think he is right … about Africa?” Charlotte asked.