Callander Square (22 page)

“Charlotte,” she replied. “It doesn’t matter what time I call on her.”

“You’ve become uncommonly fond of Charlotte lately,” he said with a slight frown. “What are you doing, Emily?”

“Doing?” she opened her eyes wide.

“Yes, ‘doing,’ my dear. You are far too pleased with yourself not to be doing something. I want to know what it is.”

She had already foreseen this occasion and had her answer prepared.

“I am introducing Charlotte to a few of my acquaintances, in a range of society that she may enjoy,” she said easily; which was true enough, although not for the reason she implied. Charlotte had no interest in Callander Square, except for the purpose of detection. Neither, for that matter, if she were honest, had Emily.

George squinted at her round the paper.

“You surprise me. I didn’t think Charlotte gave a fig for any part of society. I would say don’t push her into anything she does not wish, just because you enjoy it; only I doubt you would be able to. As I remember Charlotte, she is very unlikely to do anything unless she wishes to herself.” He put the paper down. “But in the event she does wish to look at society, why don’t you ask her here? We’ll give a party and introduce her properly. She’s a handsome enough creature, not traditional perhaps, but very handsome.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Emily said quickly. “It has nothing to do with her looks, it is her tongue. You can’t take Charlotte anywhere, she says whatever comes to her mind. Ask her her opinion of anything, and instead of judging what is appropriate to say, she will tell you what she really thinks. She would not mean to, but she would ruin herself in a month, not to mention us. And of course Pitt is not a gentleman. He is far too intelligent, for a start.”

“There is no reason why a gentleman should not be intelligent, Emily,” he said somewhat tartly.

“Oh, of course not, my dear,” she replied with a smile. “But he should have the good taste not to show it. You know that. It makes other people feel uncomfortable, and it implies effort. One should never appear to make an effort. It is like enthusiasm; have you noticed how ladies are never enthusiastic in public? It makes one look so naive. Still, I suppose there is nothing public to be enthusiastic about. Shall you be in for dinner?”

“We are engaged to dine with Hetty Appleby,” he said, fixing her with a penetrating eye. “I presume you had forgotten that?”

“Completely,” she admitted. “I must go now, I have a lot to say to Charlotte.”

“You could always ask her to dinner here anyway,” he called after her. “I rather like Charlotte. She may not be good for society, but I think she might be rather good for me!”

Emily quite naturally found Charlotte at home at that hour of the day and pleased at the excuse to leave her housework, although her home, she would be the first to admit, had fallen into a rather haphazard state since her assistance to General Balantyne began.

“We can discount Christina,” Emily said immediately, walking in and pulling off her gloves. “I have looked at her carefully, and I don’t believe she would have the nerve.”

Charlotte made an effort to conceal a smile, and failed.

“I’m so glad.”

“Why? You cannot possibly tell me you like her?”

“Oh no, I don’t! But I like the general; and I think I like Brandy too.”

“Indeed?” Emily was surprised. “Why do you like Brandy? I told you about Euphemia Carlton!”

“I know you did. Where do you wish to look next? I think Reggie Southeron. He definitely pays considerable attention to his parlormaids. I don’t imagine it is a newly acquired habit—”

“Certainly not. But as well as that, we should consider the mystery of Helena Doran.”

“Why, for goodness’ sake? She’s been gone for two years.”

“I know that,” Emily said impatiently. “But what about her lover? Who was he? Was she the only one? Why not court her openly, if he were a man of honor? Why does no one know who he was?”

Charlotte understood immediately.

“You mean he may have courted others, and the babies could have been theirs? Thomas said the times of death were only very approximate.” She wrinkled her nose a little. “It depends on the nature of the soil, the wetness, and so forth. It seems horrible to think of human beings like that: but I suppose we must all be buried some time. We are only clay anyway, after the soul has gone. It’s foolish how much we love our bodies. I can ask Jemima a little about it.”

Emily knew her sister well enough to realize without effort that this last sentence referred back again to Helena Doran’s disappearance.

“What is she like, this Jemima?” she inquired.

“Very reliable.” Charlotte viewed her as a witness, rightly guessing that Emily was not interested in her qualities of warmth or humor.

“She wouldn’t be the one, I suppose.” Emily looked at her a little sideways.

“No,” Charlotte said firmly. “At least I would say not, if character is anything at all to judge by.”

Emily considered for a moment.

“It isn’t,” she decided. “Still, we’ll concentrate on Helena first. There is a mystery there, beyond question. You ask Jemima, and for goodness’ sake be a bit more discreet than you usually are. I shall speak to Sophie Bolsover again. She is always only too willing to gossip a little. I must think up what I know to tell her in return.”

Having stayed for a little further discussion, and the quite real pleasure of visiting with her sister, Emily took herself home again and prepared to launch her new offensive. First she would call upon Sophie when she might reasonably find her alone; then she would pursue the acquaintance of the last woman in the square whose establishment she believed a possible refuge for secrets, Mariah Campbell.

She was very put out to discover Sophie not at home, and in a considerable pique left her card and gathered her wits to think of something to say to Mariah Campbell, a fit excuse for calling unasked upon someone she had barely met. Any message could perfectly easily be left with servants, therefore she must inquire after something. What?

She was already at the door. It would appear most odd to remain in a stationary carriage, therefore she must alight, and trust to her wits to think of something, should Mariah Campbell be in and able to receive her.

She inquired of the parlormaid, and was courteously received. Yes, Mrs. Campbell was in, and yes, Mrs. Campbell would be happy to receive her. She was shown into the small family parlor where Mariah was sitting with her daughters. Apparently they had not yet resumed lessons after the celebration of Christmas. They both stood and curtseyed as Emily was announced, then retired obediently.

Mariah Campbell was a pleasant-looking woman, not beautiful, but with a distinction about her that was perhaps longer lasting than mere prettiness. She was becomingly dressed, but with no concession to the trimmings of fashion.

“How very civil of you to call,” she said, also rising to meet Emily, since Emily was a lady of title, and she was not. She did not pretend any false warmth; they were strangers and both knew it. “I hope I may offer you some refreshment; tea, perhaps?”

“I should be delighted,” Emily accepted. She could not possibly give her true reason for having called—curiosity; she must rapidly produce another. “I heard from Lady Anstruther,” she sincerely hoped there was no such person, “that you had stayed in Scotland, with the Taits,” another invention. “My husband is quite set upon our going too—we have been invited, you know. I have heard that the house is quite impossible! As cold as a tomb, and with servants who can never be found when one wants them, and don’t speak English even then. I was hoping you could tell me if that is true. Dear Marjorie does tend to exaggerate, to color a story to make it the more lively!”

Mariah looked totally foxed. Quite naturally, she had even less idea what Emily was talking about than Emily herself.

“I’m afraid I have no knowledge,” she admitted. “Lady Anstruther—did you say?—must have confused me with someone else. Campbell is a Scots name, it is true, but quite a common one. And I have never been to Scotland myself. I’m so sorry, I cannot be of any guidance to you.”

“Oh, never mind,” Emily waved her hand to dismiss it before she got too bogged down, and perhaps contradicted herself, having forgotten what she had first said. “I dare say I can persuade George not to go at all. He isn’t really very fond of shooting anyway.” She had no idea whether it was even the season for shooting; but then with luck Mariah would not know either.

“And of course,” Emily continued with a sudden flash of inspiration, “I must be here for the wedding!”

Mariah blinked.

“Wedding?”

“Christina Balantyne and Mr. Ross!” Emily went on with enthusiasm. “I am so very happy that poor Mr. Ross has entirely recovered from Helena Doran’s leaving so suddenly. It must have been a great shock for him, poor creature.”

“I think it was a shock to everyone,” Mariah answered. “At least a surprise. I certainly had no idea.”

“Did you not know at least that she had another admirer?” Emily raised her eyebrows at the mystery.

“To tell the truth, I am too busy with my family to have been more than slightly acquainted with Miss Doran; or indeed with most of the families in the square, except for Adelina Southeron, of course, because of her children.”

That seemed to close the subject; but Emily was not yet prepared to give up.

“I’m sure if she puts her mind to it, that Christina will make him very content.”

“Content?” Mariah’s voice showed her understanding, and pity, for such a lukewarm emotion.

But Emily meant what she had said.

“I think so. I think that is all that another person can do for one. I think happiness is something one must achieve for oneself. Do you not?”

Mariah looked at her carefully, but before she could frame a reply, the door opened and Garson Campbell came in. Emily had seen him only once before, and did not care for him greatly.

Apparently he had remembered her.

“Good afternoon, Lady Ashworth,” he said. He did not speak to Mariah.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Campbell.” Emily profoundly hoped Mariah would not repeat to him the fiction she had invented to explain her visit. “I trust you are well?”

“Well enough,” he answered. “How courteous of you to call.”

“We were about to have tea,” Mariah said quietly. “Do you care to join us?”

“I don’t think so,” his mouth turned down slightly at the corners. “I doubt I would contribute to your gossip. I prefer something a little more political.”

“Than what?” Emily said instantly, before thinking that it might not be in her interest to irritate him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You prefer something more political than what, Mr. Campbell?”

“I take your point, Lady Ashworth. I have no idea what you were discussing. I was presuming on past experience. I never yet met a woman of good character who had any political sense; only the whores seem to have that kind of acumen.”

“Indeed?” Emily raised her eyebrows as high as she could and invested her voice with a trace of humor. “I’ve never discussed politics with a whore. But I do know Mr. Balfour slightly.”

“I apologize, Lady Ashworth,” he said with a dry smile. “Were you discussing politics when I interrupted you?”

“Not at all. We were discussing Mr. Ross, and who might have been Helena Doran’s mysterious admirer.” She watched his face. Men sometimes confided in each other. It was conceivable he might know. His skin darkened, and tightened for a moment across his temples. She felt a thrill of victory. He knew something!

“It is most courteous of you to offer tea,” she stood up, “but I fear I called uninvited, and I would be most distressed to have put you to inconvenience. It has been a great pleasure to have further made your acquaintance, Mrs. Campbell. I hope we shall meet again.” Now she wished to be out of this room, away from Garson Campbell before he read too much of her intent. He was a man with whom she did not wish to match wits.

Mariah did not appear surprised.

“I shall look forward to it,” she said, reaching at the same time for the bell. “So generous of you to call. I’m sorry I was unable to advise you regarding Scotland.”

“Oh, pray don’t concern yourself,” Emily was already making for the door where she could hear the parlormaid in the hall. “I doubt we shall go anyway, especially if this dismal weather continues.”

“It will continue, Lady Ashworth,” Campbell said from the center of the room. “It always does, from January right through until March, invariably. I have never known it to do otherwise. And the only difference you will find in Scotland is that it will be worse.”

“Then I shall definitely not go,” Emily said, almost backing into the maid. “Thank you for your counsel.” She left him smiling a little contemptuously at her foolishness, and made her escape into the street. She climbed into the carriage with an air of relief, even though it was cold, and there was a loose spring somewhere, from the feel of it. At least she was spared the necessity of extricating herself from an increasingly impossible conversation. What an unpleasant man! If there was anything more oppressive than stupid people, it was those who felt they knew everything—and disliked everything.

The next time she called upon Sophie Bolsover she found Euphemia and Adelina Southeron there, and consequently could say nothing of Helena Doran and hope to learn answers of value. It was several tedious, desperately impatient days before she felt it suitable to call again.

This time she was more fortunate, although fortune was only partly responsible. She had done a little reconnoitering beforehand, and thus discovered Sophie satisfactorily alone.

“Oh, Sophie, what a pleasure to find you unengaged,” she breezed in immediately, making no pretense. “I have such wonderful gossip to tell you. I should have been so disappointed to have been constrained to speak of trivialities.”

Sophie brightened instantly. Nothing pleased her more than gossip, except gossip from a lady of title.

“Come in,” she urged. “Make yourself comfortable, Emily dear, and do tell me. Is it about Lady Tidmarsh? I have been simply dying to discover whether she really did stay with those fearful Joneses! I can hardly bear the suspense.”