Bethlehem Road (30 page)

“It is a very hard truth to face, but—but I believe the time is past—” She stopped, unable to go on, and indeed words were unnecessary. Zenobia knew what she meant. She simply placed her hand over Helen’s, and they continued to walk up the bright, sunlit street amid the hedges in silence.

C
HARLOTTE RETURNED HOME
with a sense of failure. The visit to Parthenope Sheridan had produced nothing new. She was exactly what she seemed to be: a woman deep in the shock of bereavement and suffering the kind of guilt it is very common to feel when suddenly a member of the family is lost to one and there has been no time to speak of love, to repair old wounds, to apologize for misunderstandings and trivial angers and grudges over things now dwarfed by death.

There was no way for her even to guess if the emotion had been anything more, anything deeper. If there were jealousies, greeds, other lovers, Charlotte had caught no whisper of it, seen no clue she might follow, nor even had she formed questions to ask in her own mind.

The single step forward they had taken that day was that Zenobia was convinced that Helen Carfax was not a suspect, either directly or indirectly. James Carfax remained, although Zenobia did not believe he had the courage to have done it himself, nor the skill or power to have procured the service from someone else. Both Charlotte and Vespasia were inclined to agree with her.

Charlotte had told them of her own impressions of Florence Ivory, of the pity she had felt, the helplessness to counter Florence’s anger, and of the terrible wound of injustice which remained inside the woman, poisoning everything that might otherwise have been love. Charlotte concluded reluctantly that she could not dismiss the idea that Florence might indeed be guilty, and they must prepare their minds for that possibility. She had found nothing to help their cause.

Different ideas came to her mind, ugly and terrible, of subtle plans, hatred cold and careful enough to design not only the death of someone known and close to them, but the corruption of another’s soul, the leading to murder and all its long trail of nightmare and guilt. Was it conceivable that all the motives were separate and personal—and the link between them was deliberate conspiracy, each to fulfill the other’s need? It was a monstrous thought, but they had been monstrous acts, and there seemed no other connection except their membership in Parliament, which they shared with six hundred other men, and that they walked home across Westminster Bridge.

Was Florence Ivory really deranged enough to kill, and to go on killing even after Etheridge was dead? Was her regard for life, even her own, so very little? Charlotte searched her heart, and did not know.

She organized Gracie in the kitchen, and Mrs. Phelps, the woman who came in twice a week to do the heavy work, and busied herself with linen and ironing. As she pushed the heavy flatiron back and forth over the linen, meanwhile heating a fresh iron on the stove, she recounted everything she and Aunt Vespasia and Zenobia Gunne had learned, and all that Pitt had told her—and she was left with a confusion of mind that grasped at hope and could not hold it. If not Florence, then who?

Did Barclay Hamilton’s deep, unwavering aversion to his stepmother have anything to do with his father’s death? Did he know or suspect something? That thought was no pleasanter; she had liked them both, and what cause could there be in their antipathy that would inspire murder now? Was the murderer a business or political enemy? Pitt had found neither.

James or Helen Carfax? Nobby Gunne had thought not, and her judgment seemed good. If their own investigations were worth anything—which was growing doubtful; never had Charlotte felt less confidence in herself—then it would be their judgment of character; their knowledge, as women, of other women; their intimacy with Society, which the police could not have; that would make a difference. They had engineered opportunities for observing their subjects in unguarded moments, obtaining confidences because their interest was unsuspected. If they discounted that advantage, then there was nothing left.

And Cuthbert Sheridan? As yet they knew nothing of him, except that his family seemed in no way unusual, nor did they seem to have any reason to desire his death. His widow was a woman newly discovering her own aspirations and for the first time in her life developing independent opinions. Perhaps they had quarreled, but one does not hire a cutthroat to murder one’s husband because he disapproves of one’s newfound political views, even if he forbids them outright. And there was nothing to suggest Cuthbert Sheridan had done that, was there?

Pitt was out now trying to learn something more of Sheridan’s political, business, and private life. But what had he in common with the others that had marked him for death? She had not even a guess.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the postman, who brought the butcher’s bill, the coal merchant’s account, and a long letter from Emily. The bills were for a trifle less than expected, which was cheering: the price of mutton was three ha’pence a pound less than she had budgeted for. She put them on the kitchen mantel, then tore open Emily’s latest letter.

Florence, Saturday

My dearest Charlotte,

What a perfectly marvelous city! Palaces with names that roll off the tongue, statues everywhere, and of such astounding beauty that I stand in the street and stare until passersby bump into me and I feel foolish, but I don’t care. I think sometimes Jack pretends he is not with me! And the people! I used to think that those faces painted by da Vinci lived only in his imagination, or perhaps he had a fixation with one family and painted them over and over again. But Charlotte, there are people here who look exactly so! I saw a perfect “Madonna of the Rocks” standing in the piazza yesterday, feeding the birds while her carriage waited for her and her footman grew impatient. I think she may have been hoping to catch a glimpse of a lover, perhaps waiting for Dante to cross the bridge? I know I am in the wrong century—but who cares? It is all like a glorious poetic dream come true.

And I thought the golden light over the hills in Renaissance paintings was a mixture of the artist’s license and the tint of old varnish. It isn’t: the air really is different here, there is a warmth in its color, a shade of gold in the sky, the stones, even the trees. Utterly different from Venice, with all its shifting patterns, its blue sky and water, but every bit as lovely.

I think my favorite of all the statues is Donatello’s Saint George. He is not very big, but oh so young! He has so much hope and courage in his face, as if he had newly seen God and was determined to overcome all the evil in the world to find his way back, to fight every dragon of selfishness and squalor, every dark idea of man, without having the least idea how long or how dreadful the fight would be. My heart aches for him, because I see Edward, and Daniel, too, in his innocence, and yet he lifts my spirits as well, because of his courage. I stand by the Bargello with the tears running down my face. Jack thinks I am becoming eccentric, or perhaps that the sun has affected me, but I think I have found my best self.

Truly I am having a marvelous time, and meeting so many interesting people. There is one woman here who has been twice betrothed, and jilted on both occasions. She must be close to thirty-five, and yet she approaches life with such an expectation of enjoyment that she is a pleasure to be with. They must be poor creatures indeed who abandoned her for some other. What shallow judgment some people have, to choose one for a pretty face or a docile air; they deserve to end up with someone of disagreeable temperament and with a whining tongue—and I hope they do! She has a kind of courage I find myself admiring more with each day. She is determined to be happy, to see what is good and to make the best of what is not. How different from some of our traveling companions!

And amid all the music and theater, carriage rides, dinners, even balls, there have been some disasters. We have been robbed, but fortunately not much of value was taken, and once the carriage wheel came off and we could not find anyone prepared to assist us. We were obliged to spend the night in a cold and noisy place between Pisa and Siena, where we were obviously unwelcome, and I vow there were rats!

But Jack is perfectly charming. I believe I shall be happy with him even when all the romance is settled, and we begin to live an ordinary life, seeing each other over the breakfast table and in the evenings. I must persuade him to find some occupation, simply because I cannot bear to have him around the house all day, or we should become tired of each other. Nor on the other hand should I wish to spend my time worrying whether he is in poor company. Have you noticed how tedious people are when they themselves are bored?

You know, I think happiness is to some extent a matter of choice. And I have determined to be happy, and that Jack shall make me so—or at least I should say that I shall take every opportunity to be pleased.

I expect to be home in two weeks, and in many ways I am looking forward to it, especially to seeing you again. I really do miss you, and since I have not been able to receive letters from you, I am longing more than ever to know what you have been doing, and Thomas. You know, I think I miss Thomas as much as anybody I know! And of course I miss Edward.

I shall be there to visit you the day I return. Until then, take care of yourself and remember I love you,

Emily

Charlotte stood for a long time with the letter in her hand and a feeling of growing warmth. Without realizing it, she was smiling. She would love to have seen Florence, the colors and sights, the beautiful things, especially the Saint George, and the other splendors. But Emily was right: much of happiness was a choice, and she could choose to look at Emily’s romance and glamor and envy her, or to look at the rare and precious friendship she had with Pitt, his gentleness , his tolerance of her adventures, his willingness to share with her his ideas and his emotions. She realized with a jolt of amazement and intense gratitude that since she had known Pitt she had never felt truly lonely. What was a lifetime of grand tours compared with that?

She spent the day working in the house, talking to herself as she went, tidying, rearranging, straightening, polishing. She sent Gracie out for flowers and fresh meat to make Pitt’s favorite, steak and kidney pudding with a rich suet crust on top as light as a feather. She set the table in the parlor with linen and had the children washed and in their nightshirts when he came home.

She permitted them to run to the door to greet him and be hugged and kissed and sent to bed; then she threw her arms round his neck and held him tightly, saying nothing, just glad to have him there.

Pitt saw the linen and the flowers, saw that Charlotte had taken special care over every detail. He saw the golden pudding and the fresh vegetables and smelled the delicious steam rising from them, and he misunderstood it all. He thought of Micah Drummond’s office and of the promotion, of Emily’s letters, which he had not read, and all the new things a little more money would mean for Charlotte.

The more he thought of desk work, the more he hated the idea, but looking at Charlotte’s smiling face across the table, at the feminine touches in his home—the flowers, the hand-painted lamp shades, the embroidered linen, the sewing box piled with fabric for the children’s clothes—he felt it was a small price to pay for her happiness. He would do it, and he would try hard to see she never knew the cost. Smiling back, he began to share with her the events of the day, little as they had yielded about Cuthbert Sheridan or his family.

Charlotte went with Great-aunt Vespasia and Zenobia Gunne to attend the funeral of Cuthbert Sheridan, M.P. The weather had changed, and the mild winds and sun were replaced by sharp squalls which brought swords of soaking rain one moment, and a cold, glittering light gleaming on wet surfaces, running gutters, and dripping leaves the next.

The three of them traveled in Vespasia’s carriage, for convenience and so they might compare observations, if any, although none of them held any strong hope of learning anything useful. The whole investigation seemed to have come to a standstill. According to Pitt, Charlotte informed them, even the police had progressed no further. If Florence Ivory had killed Sheridan, they had discovered no motive for it, nor any witness who even knew of a connection between them, let alone could place her at the scene with means or opportunity.

Vespasia sat upright in the carriage, dressed in lavender and black lace; Zenobia faced her, riding backwards. She wore a very fine, highly fashionable gown of dark slate blue overlaid with black in a fleur-de-lis design, stitched at the bosom with jet beads, the sleeves gathered at the shoulder. She wore with it a black hat which tilted alarmingly and threatened to take off altogether whenever a gust of wind veered to the east.

As had become her habit, Charlotte had borrowed an old dress of Vespasia’s, of dark gray, and a black hat and cloak, and with her rich hair and honey warm skin the effect was remarkably becoming. Vespasia’s lady’s maid had done a few last-minute alterations, which removed from the gown the marks of five-year-old fashion, and now it was merely a very fine gown in which to attend a funeral and be distinguished but not ostentatious.

They arrived opportunely, after the mourners of duty, other members of Parliament and their wives, and immediately behind Charles Verdun, whom Vespasia knew and drew Charlotte’s attention to in a whisper as they alighted and slowly walked the short distance from Prince’s Road to the vestry of St. Mary’s Church.

They were seated in their pew and able to observe Amethyst Hamilton when she arrived, walking straight and tall herself and a step in front of her brother, Sir Garnet Royce, refusing to accept the arm he offered her. Two paces behind them, holding a silk hat in his hand and looking suitably sad and more than a little harassed, came their younger brother Jasper, with a fair-haired woman who was presumably his wife. Charlotte identified them to Vespasia, and watched them discreetly as they were ushered to a pew in the far side three rows forward, which denied her the opportunity of seeing their faces. Sir Garnet was very striking with his high forehead and aquiline nose. The light from the south windows shone briefly on his silver head before the clouds blew across the sky again and the sunlight vanished. Charlotte noticed many eyes on him, and now and again he nodded in acknowledgment of some acquaintance, but his main attention seemed to be for his sister and her welfare, for which she appeared unaccountably ungrateful.