by Anne Perry
“Is that what frightens you, losing who you are?” Vespasia looked at her carefully, searching her eyes. “What frightens me is no one else knowing who I am—not what I look like, or what I said that might have interested or amused them, but what I feel like inside.” She gave a rueful little sigh. It was not the time for mock modesty. “It has always been pleasant to be beautiful; it is certainly not a gift one should be ungrateful for.” She moved perhaps an inch. “But love concerns the beauty that is within—and the pain, the mistakes, the dreams, the things that make you laugh, and cry. Love is about how you deal with failure and own your mistakes. It is about tenderness and the courage to admit your own need, to be grateful for passion and generosity of soul. That has nothing to do with whether your nose is straight or your complexion without blemish.”
Emily stared at her, tears welling up in her eyes.
“I don’t know whether Jack still loves me or not,” she whispered. “He doesn’t talk to me anymore, not about things that matter. He used to ask my opinion. It’s … it’s as if I’ve already said everything he wants to hear, and I’m not interesting now. I look in the mirror and I see a woman who’s tired … and boring.” She stopped abruptly, her silence begging for a reply.
Vespasia could not answer her immediately and in the way she wanted. This was too deep an unhappiness to allow a quick remedy.
“Are you bored, Emily?” she asked. “There comes a time when society is not enough, no matter how much you cannot afford to offend it. I remember very vividly when I arrived at that point the first time.” That was absolutely true. She had been younger than Emily, and bored stiff with being ornamental but completely unnecessary. It was a time she preferred not to think of. She had children she loved, but their daily needs were cared for largely by servants. Her husband was not unkind—he had never been that. He was simply without the fire in his soul or the flight of imagination she hungered for. But none of that did she intend to tell Emily, or anyone else.
Emily’s eyes were wide, the tears forgotten. “I can’t imagine you bored. You are always so … so engaged in things. You are not just being … kind to me … are you?”
“I think you mean ‘patronizing,’ don’t you?” Vespasia asked frankly.
“Yes, I suppose so, but I didn’t mean to say it,” Emily admitted, then gave a small, very reluctant smile.
“I’m sure you didn’t.” Vespasia smiled back. “And no, I am not being either kind or, I hope, patronizing. Do you imagine you are the only woman who finds mere comfort insufficient? Of course it is different when you don’t have it in the first place. But one can become accustomed to it very quickly. Perhaps a little downfall is helpful in that way. Not of the physical kind, but of the emotional sort? One can very quickly learn the value of something when you fear losing it. We take the light for granted, until it goes out. You are used to turning on the tap and getting water. You have forgotten what it is like to have to go to the well with a bucket.”
Emily’s eyebrows rose. “Do you think going to the well would make me feel better?”
“Not at all. But if you did so a few times, turning on the tap certainly would. But I mentioned it only as an example. Tell me, is Jack going to work for Dudley Kynaston, do you know?”
“No, I don’t know! That is one of the many things he has not discussed with me.” There was a moment’s conflict in Emily’s face; then she made a decision. “I would like to tell you to ask Charlotte. She seems to know everything. But that would only cut off my nose to spite my face, as they say. Somerset Carlisle was asking questions about Kynaston in the House. What do you make of that? Do you think there is really something wrong?” Now her concern was sharp and very visible.
Vespasia knew exactly what she was afraid of. It was not so long ago that Jack had received a promotion from a remarkable man, in high office and who had favored him. That man had proved to be a traitor, and Jack was fortunate to have escaped with his own reputation intact. Was history going to repeat itself? It was not an unreasonable fear.
“I dare say Jack is as concerned as you are,” Vespasia said. “He will feel that he has let you down if he makes another error of judgment. And yet Kynaston may be totally guiltless in the disappearance of this unfortunate maid. She may simply have gone off with a young man and be living happily somewhere well outside London.” She sighed. “Or, of course, she may have made a most unfortunate choice of lover, and it was indeed her body in the gravel pit, and she would have been perfectly safe had she stayed at the Kynaston house. Maybe Jack is trying to postpone his decision until Thomas has proved the matter one way or the other.”
“That would be pretty difficult,” Emily pointed out. “It’s going to be obvious what he’s doing, and why. He would be letting the whole world know that he thinks Kynaston might be guilty.”
“Quite so,” Vespasia agreed. “And that is enough to embarrass him, and make him wish he could be more decisive. I would lie awake at night were I to be faced with such a decision.”
“Then why doesn’t he ask me?” Emily demanded.
“Possibly because he is stubborn, and proud. And also perhaps because he does not wish to burden you with the choice, because if it should turn out badly he will take the blame himself.”
“Do you think so?” There was a lift of hope in Emily’s voice.
“Expect the best,” Vespasia advised. “Then you will not be filled with guilt if you receive it. In the meantime, for heaven’s sake find yourself something in which to be interested. You fear being boring because you are bored with yourself. And I do not mean that you should play at being detective! That would be dangerous, and highly undignified.”
“What do you want me to do? Go and visit the poor?” Emily’s face was filled with horror.
“I don’t think the poor deserve that,” Vespasia said drily.
“Some of the poor are very nice!” Emily protested. “Just because … oh! Yes. I see.”
“Exactly my point, my dear,” Vespasia replied. “They do not deserve to be patronized either. Do something useful.”
“Yes, Great-aunt Vespasia,” Emily said meekly.
Vespasia looked at her with alarm. “You intend to find out about Kynaston! Don’t you?”
“Yes, Great-aunt Vespasia. But I shall be very careful, I promise you.”
“Well, if you must meddle, find out about his wife. And if you say ‘yes, Great-aunt Vespasia’ again I shall … think of something suitable to control your impudence.”
Emily leaned forward and kissed her gently. “Bed without any supper,” she said with a smile. “Cold rice pudding in the nursery? I hate it cold.”
“I daresay you are well acquainted with it!” Vespasia observed, but she could not keep either the affection or the amusement out of her voice.
CHAPTER
9
EMILY’S RESOLVE REMAINED STRONG for at least two days. It crumbled only when she faced Jack across the breakfast table on the third morning. He sat studying a folded copy of The Times. At least he did not hold it open so that he was entirely hidden behind it, as she had seen her father do on more than one occasion.
“Has something now occurred?” she asked, trying not to sound either plaintive or sarcastic, which was not easy as she felt a little of each.
“The world situation is worrying,” he replied, without lowering the newspaper.
“Is it not always?” she asked.
“I pulled the court circular for you.” He indicated a couple of sheets he had folded and placed on her side of the table. “The Times doesn’t do fashion.”
She felt her temper flare up like fire in dry wood.
“Thank you, but I already know exactly what is fashionable, and probably possess it, and frankly I couldn’t be less interested in the appointments for the day of numerous royal grandchildren and their families. I have no intention of attending any of them.” She sounded waspish, and she knew it. It embarrassed her because it displayed her vulnerability, and yet she did n
ot seem to be able to help it. “I am much more interested in politics,” she added.
There was a minute or two’s silence, then he folded the paper and put it down. “Perhaps I should get you a copy of Hansard,” he suggested, referring to the written report of what had transpired in Parliament.
“If you can’t remember what happened, then I suppose I shall be reduced to that,” she responded, this time not even attempting to be polite.
Jack remained impassive, if a little pale. “I can remember exactly what happened,” he said levelly. “I just don’t remember anything of the remotest interest. But I was not there all day. Is there something about which you have a particular concern?”
She felt the tears prickle her eyes, which was ridiculous. Grown women, approaching forty, did not weep at the breakfast table, no matter how alone or unnecessary they felt. The only way to stop it was to replace hurt with anger—carefully controlled.
“You didn’t think that I might from time to time wonder about Dudley Kynaston and the disappearing maid, not to mention the mutilated corpse found within a quarter of a mile of his home on Shooters Hill? Of course, if you have declined the offer of a position with him then it is no longer my husband’s future at stake, not to mention my own, it is simply a matter of speculation, much as any other particularly grotesque murder might be.”
Jack was very pale now, and a tiny muscle was ticking on the right side of his face.
Emily swallowed the lump in her throat. Perhaps she had gone too far?
“I am quite aware of the public speculation on the subject,” he said gravely. “I am also aware that neither the police nor Special Branch has identified the corpse as being that of Kitty Ryder. Somerset Carlisle, who is as irresponsible as a man can be, has used his Parliamentary privilege to suggest that the body is Kitty Ryder, and that her death is connected with her service in Kynaston’s house, but there is no proof of it, or even any evidence.”
“People won’t care about that!” she said hotly.
“I care!” His voice was hard, angry in a way she had never seen before, and it chilled her deeply. This was not the man who had wooed her, adored her, held her in his arms as if he would never let her go. This was someone she barely knew.
Loneliness drowned her, sweeping her off her balance like a riptide.
“I’ve learned better,” he said grimly, measuring each word. “I’m surprised you haven’t. When George was killed … murdered … many people thought it was you who had done it. Do you remember that? Do you remember how afraid you were? How you felt everyone was against you, and you couldn’t find any way to prove your innocence?”
Her mouth was dry. She tried to swallow and couldn’t. “Yes,” she whispered. Now, suddenly, she could remember it hideously well.
He looked at her very steadily across the table. “And what would you think of me if I assumed Dudley Kynaston was guilty of having murdered his wife’s maid, brutally, breaking the bones in her body and mutilating her face, when we don’t even know that she’s dead? Would you admire me for that? Even if I did it so that I wouldn’t be stained by association should it turn out to be true?”
She took a very deep breath and let it out in a sigh.
“I would not admire you,” she said quite honestly. Then continuing in the same vein: “But I would have appreciated your talking it over with me, so I understood what you were doing, and why. I don’t know how to interpret silence.”
He looked startled, as if it required a moment or two of thought before he understood. “Don’t you?” he said at length. “I thought you understood that … I told you …”
“No, you didn’t!” She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, and I don’t know what you’re going to do.”
“I don’t know myself,” he said reasonably. “I really can’t believe Dudley would have an affair with a maid …” He stopped, looking at the lopsided, rueful smile on her face. “Not that he’s so righteous, Emily! I know perfectly well that plenty of men do! I just don’t think Dudley Kynaston’s taste runs to maids! Even handsome ones!” He was very slightly flushed. She saw it in his face, and the way his eyes almost avoided hers, and then didn’t.
“You know who it is, don’t you?” she said with conviction.
“Who what is?”
“Jack! Don’t play games with me! You know he’s having an affair. You know with whom! Which is why you don’t think it is with the maid …”
He was on his feet, and she stood up, too. “Why on earth don’t you tell Thomas? You could save Kynaston … practically from ruin! Thomas isn’t going to make it public. He’ll keep it just as secret as you do, if it … oh!” She stared at him, looking into his beautiful, long-lashed eyes, still feeling the beat of her heart shaking her. “It’s worse than the maid! Could it really be? Like whom? Someone he can’t ever be seen with …” Her imagination raced.
“Emily, stop it!” he said firmly. “I said I didn’t think maids were his taste, that’s all. I don’t know the man that well, and I certainly don’t have his confidence in romantic affairs! Or even merely lustful ones. I very much want to work with him, but I don’t know if it will be possible. I’d rather err on the side of thinking too well of him than of assuming his guilt before there’s even proof of a crime he might be involved in. Wouldn’t you? Isn’t that what you want?”
She did not answer. She wanted him safe, and she wanted him to talk to her. Above all she wanted him to love her the way he had before he became a member of Parliament. But to say so would be appallingly childish, embarrassingly so. She blushed hot at the idea he might even guess that that was what she meant.
“I imagine I might,” she agreed. “But there’s something in your voice that makes me think you don’t trust him, for all your generous words. I daresay you are right, and he wouldn’t have an affair with a maid, or even take advantage of her in something less emotional than an affair. But there is something wrong, you just don’t know yet whether it is something you should take notice of or not.”
He looked disconcerted for a long moment, then he smiled, with the same warm, easy charm she had known right from the beginning. She should stop telling herself she was not still in love with him. She knew better than to believe such a lie anyway.
“You have a gift for putting things horribly plainly,” he said with a degree of approval. “You would never be a success in Parliament. I don’t know how you do it in society. I wouldn’t dare!”
“You have to smile when you say things people don’t want to hear,” she replied. “Then they think you don’t really mean it. Or at worst, they aren’t sure that you do. And it’s quite different for me anyway; nobody needs to care very much what I think. They can always discount it, if they want to. Except, of course, if I tell them they look marvelous and are up-to-the-minute in fashion. Then, naturally, I am talking perfect sense, and my opinion is infallible.”
He looked at her for a moment, not sure himself how much to believe. Then he shook his head, kissed her briefly but softly on the cheek, and left the room.
It was better than it might have been, not yet a disaster, but it was still very much too close to the brink.
She must do something! And not with Charlotte this time. Regardless of who did what, Charlotte always got the credit.
Emily was ideally placed to spend an afternoon with Rosalind Kynaston. She looked through the newspaper that Jack had discarded and found a suitable event, and another for tomorrow, and the day after. Then she used her telephone to call Rosalind and invite her to an exhibition of French Impressionist paintings, and then perhaps afternoon tea. Very deliberately she did not invite Ailsa. She did not like her, and felt Rosalind was not herself around her sister-in-law.
She was happily surprised when Rosalind replied that she had no engagements that afternoon that could not be put off, even though it meant that Emily was not nearly as well prepared as she would like to be as to exactly how she would conduct herself to gain the best advanta
ge she could. She knew perfectly well that she wanted to acquire some information that would assist Pitt, and therefore Jack, in determining what had happened to Kitty Ryder, and who had caused it. She would very much like the perpetrator not to be anyone in the Kynaston house.
She took great care dressing. The pink had been a disaster. Simply because of the memory of that awful night, apart from anything else, she would not wear it again. In fact, she might well avoid all warm, light colors! She had sufficient means to choose anything she wished. With her fair hair and pale skin, especially after the winter, something delicate and cool was the obvious choice. How had she been so foolish as to do otherwise? Desperation is never a good judge!
She chose a very pale teal, halfway between blue and green, with a white silk fichu at the neck. She regarded herself critically in the glass, and was satisfied. She must now forget the whole dress issue and concentrate on what she would say.
THEY MET ON THE steps of the gallery, Rosalind arriving only moments after Emily. They greeted each other warmly and went inside. It was a very pleasant day, but the wind still had a February bite to it.
“I apologize for such inconsiderate haste,” Emily said as they reached the entrance hall. “I just had a sudden urge to go somewhere simply for the sake of it, not just to be correct, and seen, and have to make conversation with everyone.”
“I was delighted,” Rosalind said with feeling. She glanced at Emily very directly. “We shall play truant from obligation for a whole afternoon.” She did not add anything about her sister-in-law, but somehow her presence—or lack thereof—hung in the air between them. The very absence of her name was notable in itself.
Emily knew she must not be too direct too soon. She smiled as they walked towards the first gallery.
