Belgrave Square (23 page)

“The best I can recall,” he agreed, equally as a matter of form. His eyes moved to Byam with an unflinching gaze. Had he been a less exquisitely civilized man Charlotte would have thought it almost aggressive.

Byam moved as if to continue his journey towards the door, then glanced back at Anstiss, who was still staring at him.

Eleanor Byam stood with a frown puckering her face, for once not sure what to say, or even whether to speak or not.

Beneath the superficial inquiries and answers Charlotte could feel a tension so powerful it was like a heat in the room. She glanced at Emily, then at Pitt, and saw Pitt’s face intent in concentration. Jack was lost, uncertain whether to intrude or not. Charlotte could bear it no longer.

“Is Wagnerian opera always like this?” she said, rushing into the silence, not caring how much ignorance she betrayed.
“Lohengrin
is the first I have seen. It all seems a trifle unreal to me.”

The moment was broken. Eleanor let out her breath in an inaudible sigh. Byam relaxed his tight shoulders.

Anstiss turned to Charlotte with a charming smile, his back to Byam. “My dear, most of it is far more unreal than anything you have seen tonight, believe me. This was eminently worldly and sensible compared with the
Ring
cycle, which concerns gods and goddesses, monsters, giants and dwarfs and all manner of unlikely events, not to say impossible ones.” His eyes were brilliant with wit and imagination. “I think you might greatly prefer the Italian operas, if you like your stories of ordinary men and women, and situations with which one can readily identify.” He saw that that might sound a little patronizing and went on to soften the effect. “I admit I do. I can take only a very small amount of mythology at this level. I prefer my fantasy to have an element of humor, like Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan, even an element of the delightful absurd, rather than the German angst. There is a touch of sophistication combined with innocence in their conception that I find pleases me.”

“You are too English,” Byam said from behind him. “Wagner would say your imagination is pedestrian. We make fun of the grand design because we do not understand it, and
cannot sustain an intellectual passion because at that level we are still children.”

Anstiss swung back to him. “Would he?” he said coldly. “Where did you hear that?”

“I did not hear it,” Byam replied with a touch of asperity. “I deduced it. Now if you will excuse me, it has been a superb evening, but it is now extremely late and I am quite ready to find my carriage and go home.”

“Of course.” Anstiss was smiling again. “Such a comparison of philosophy will keep until another time. We must not keep you. Good night, Lady Byam.”

Byam hesitated as if for a moment he would have pursued the discussion.

“Good night, my lord,” Eleanor said with an unsuccessful attempt to keep the relief out of her voice, and taking Byam’s arm she turned him away and together they went out between the other tables towards the door, without glancing backwards.

Charlotte looked at Pitt, but he was staring into some place in the distance, his brows puckered and his eyes dark with thought.

“How much was said that had nothing to do with what was meant?” Vespasia said so softly under her breath that Charlotte only just caught the words.

“What do you mean?” she whispered back.

“I have no idea,” Vespasia answered. “Or at least very little. But I would swear that the whole conversation was merely a vehicle for a sea of feelings that were quite unrelated to Mr. Wagner or his operas. Perhaps that is so with a great deal of conversations, all the ’good evening’s and ’how are you’s. We are simply measuring each other. It gives one an excuse to stare, to meet each other’s eyes in a way that would be quite unacceptable were we standing there in silence.”

Before Charlotte could think of a reply, which would certainly have been an agreement, they were approached by a considerable group of people who were also wending their way towards the door. Charlotte recognized the man immediately, although it was a moment before she could recall his name. Then it came to her just as the group was passing the next table. It was Addison Carswell, whom she had met at Emily’s ball, and with him were his wife, the woman she
had admired for her good sense, and the three fair unmarried daughters, all dressed in shades from pink through to the richest burgundy. They reminded Charlotte of a drift of magnificent hollyhocks in bloom all toning with one another. They were a striking sight, more effective together than any one of them would have been alone. Charlotte respected Mrs. Carswell’s strategy.

Carswell glanced sideways at their table, as one does when not occupied in speaking. His eyes passed over Jack and Emily with a cursory smile and nod, and acknowledged Vespasia, without knowing who she was, simply that her bearing commanded it. Then his eye fell on Pitt and a tightness came over his features, a stiffness to his body so that quite suddenly his clothes looked uncomfortable and he seemed far more tired than he had the moment before, as if all the evening’s events had caught up with him and exhausted him in that instant. The recognition was quite plain, but he made not the slightest movement to speak or acknowledge Pitt.

Charlotte realized with a shiver of amazement that whatever the circumstances in which he knew Pitt, it must be professional, and that he was distressed by it. And also, from the fact he gave no overt sign now, that his wife was unaware of it.

However Regina Carswell had recognized Charlotte and out of good manners she stopped to speak.

“Good evening, Mrs. Pitt, how very pleasant to see you again. I hope you are well?”

“Very well, thank you, Mrs. Carswell,” Charlotte replied. “How kind of you to stop.” She turned to Vespasia. “Aunt Vespasia, may I present Mrs. Addison Carswell? I am not sure if you are already acquainted.” And she introduced them all around the circle, introducing Pitt to Mr. Carswell. They spoke to each other stiffly and without a flicker of anything to signify they had ever met before.

The group was still exchanging stilted pleasantries, words fumbling on their tongues, minds too tired to think easily of the necessary trivialities to cover the discomfort underneath, when they were made aware by the arrival of Herbert Fitzherbert with Odelia on his arm that they were blocking the aisle. She looked perfectly composed again, her face glowing
with a calm radiance, every hair in place in spite of the lateness of the hour.

“I’m so sorry!” Carswell collected himself and grasped the opportunity to escape. “We are in your way, sir,” he said with alacrity. “I do apologize. If you will excuse us?” He bowed perfunctorily to Vespasia, and made as if to leave.

“Not at all,” Fitzherbert said quickly, oblivious of the panic in Carswell’s face. “My dear sir, we have no desire to spoil your party. It would be unforgivable.” He smiled devastatingly at Vespasia, then glanced at Jack and Emily. “Good to see you, Radley, Mrs. Radley. What a splendid evening, is it not? Ah, Mrs. Pitt. You look extremely well, if I am not impertinent to say so.” He knew perfectly well he was not.

Charlotte would like to have rebuffed him, or at least taken some of the satisfaction from his face, but his charm was so spontaneous she did not know how without being churlish, which would entirely defeat her purpose. And perhaps she was being unfair to Jack. He was perfectly capable of measuring up to Herbert Fitzherbert. And if he were not, perhaps he should not win the selection anyway.

“Thank you,” she said with a sweet smile. “I have enjoyed myself so much it would be hard not to feel well. Good evening, Miss Morden. How pleasant to see you again.”

Odelia smiled a trifle fixedly, and formal introductions were made. Carswell had missed his opportunity to leave without making his departure abrupt to the point of discourtesy. He mumbled something polite, and conversation about the evening was resumed.

He thought a second chance had offered itself when they became aware yet again that they were occupying all the space between the tables and others wished to pass. But when he turned to apologize and offer to leave, his whole body stiffened and the blood rose in a pink tide up his face, then fled, leaving him ashen. Beside him stood young Theophania Hilliard and her brother. Her eager face also looked pale, but it might have been tiredness. It was, after all, well past two in the morning.

“I—er—” Carswell stammered. He seemed to shrink within himself. “I—I’m so sorry, Miss—er—”

“Not at all,” Fanny said huskily. “We have no wish to
intrude.” She swallowed hard. “It was uncivil of us. We shall leave by another route—please—”

“I—er—most—” Carswell breathed deeply.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Fitz said cheerfully. “Miss Fanny Hilliard, are you acquainted with Mr. Addison Carswell, and Mrs. Carswell? And the Misses Carswell?” And completely unaware of any discomfort, Fitz proceeded to introduce them all. Carswell cast one look at Pitt for only the smallest part of a second, then away again. Had Charlotte not been watching him she would have missed the anguish and the mute appeal, so instantly did it vanish again.

Pitt looked at him blankly, and silently. Whatever he felt, he gave no sign.

Gradually Carswell regained some control of himself. The color came back faintly to his cheeks.

“I am delighted to meet you, Miss—er, Hilliard,” he said hoarsely. “Forgive me for leaving so hastily, but we were about to depart, and it is very late. Good night to you.”

“Good night, sir,” Fanny said with downcast eyes. “Good night, Mrs. Carswell.” Her eyes flicked up and she looked at Regina with interest.

Regina was too tired to notice.

“Good night, Miss Hilliard. Come Mabel.” She raised her voice fractionally to her daughter, who was falling into conversation with Odelia. “Come, my dear. It is past time we were at home.”

“Yes Mama,” Mabel said obediently, and with a little shrug of her shoulders, excused herself and trooped off behind her sisters.

“It is certainly time we too were leaving,” Charlotte said quickly, looking at Emily. “Perhaps we might find a hansom, since it would be foolish to take you so far out of your way when we are going to Bloomsbury and you to Mayfair. I am sure it is time you were in bed.”

Indeed Emily had begun to flag a little, and Jack was concerned for her, by the look upon his face, and his arm around her shoulder.

“I shall take you home in my carriage,” Vespasia announced, rising to her feet. “It is not so very far, and I sleep longer than I need to anyway.”

“I would not hear of it,” Pitt said firmly. “It has been a
marvelous night, and I will not spoil my enjoyment of it by taking you out of your way and keeping you up an extra half hour at the very least. We shall find a hansom.”

Vespasia drew herself up with great dignity and stared at Pitt with a mixture of affection and outrage.

“I am not some little old lady whom you need to assist across the street, Thomas! I am perfectly capable of organizing my carriage to do as I please.” There was a tiny smile at the corner of his lips and both Charlotte and Pitt knew precisely why she was taking them home. “And I may lie in bed in the morning for as long as I desire—until luncheon, if it takes my fancy—which is a deal more than you may say. I shall take you home to Bloomsbury, and then go to my own house thereafter.” She fixed Charlotte with a fine, silvery-gray eye, and with a small smile Pitt did as he was told.

They bade good-night to Emily and Jack, thanking them yet again for their generosity, and had the doorman call Vespasia’s carriage. When they were inside, the doors closed, and had begun the journey, Vespasia looked across at Pitt, who as the gentleman was naturally sitting with his back to the driver.

“Well Thomas,” she said quietly. “Is this case something you are not free to discuss?”

“It is … confidential,” he answered carefully. There was no smile on his face, but his eyes were very bright in the light from the coach lamps. He and Vespasia understood each other perfectly, neither the humor nor the knowledge of pity needed to be expressed.

“It may be simply a matter of debt and despair,” he went on. “Or it may be blackmail. I don’t know yet—but it is certainly murder.”

“Of course,” she agreed with a sigh. “They would hardly use you for anything less.”

His answer was lost in the sound of carriage wheels, but apparently Vespasia did not require to hear it.

“Who has been murdered?” Her voice brooked no evasion.

“A particularly disagreeable usurer,” he replied.

Charlotte settled further down into the seat, putting her cloak around her, and listened, hoping to learn some new scraps.

“Who do usurers blackmail, for heaven’s sake?” Vespasia said with disgust. “I cannot imagine their even having the acquaintance of anyone to interest you. It is hardly a political matter—or is it?”

He smiled, his teeth white in a sudden flash of light from the lamps of a passing brougham.

“It may well be.”

“Indeed? Well if I may be of assistance to you, I trust you will let me know.” It was said as a polite offer, but there was something of the imperiousness of an order in it also.

“Of course I will,” he agreed sincerely. “I would be both ungrateful and unwise not to.”

Vespasia snorted delicately, and said nothing.

The following day Pitt left early and Charlotte was busy trying to catch up with some of the domestic chores she should have done the day before, had she not been trying to dress at Emily’s and preparing for the opera. She had done a large laundry of different items which all required special care, instructing Gracie in the finer arts of preserving colors, textures and shape, all the while retelling the events of the evening before, the opera, the clothes, the people, and something of Pitt’s present case.

She washed a lilac dress which needed a pinch of soda in the rinse, exactly the right amount was necessary or it faded the color, and a green cloth gown for which she used two tablespoons of vinegar in a quart of rinse. She had been keeping her best floral dress and two of Jemima’s to wash until she had time to make the recommended mixture she had recently heard of: new ivy leaves added to a quart of bran and a quarter of a pound of yellow household soap.