Anne Perry - Bedford Square

She nodded to two young ladies walking side by side, and they nodded back to her politely, then immediately fell into animated conversation. An open brougham clattered past, its occupants surveying the world with superior interest. A man walked by swiftly, looking to neither side of him.

Charlotte did not know which house was the Balantynes’. Pitt had simply said “in the center of the north side.” She gritted her teeth and rang the bell of the one that seemed most likely. It was answered by a handsome parlormaid who informed her that she was mistaken and that General Balantyne lived two doors farther along.

Charlotte thanked her with as much aplomb as possible and retreated. She would have liked to abandon the whole thing at this point. She had not even any coherent plan as to what she would say if he were in and would receive her. She had come entirely on impulse. He might have changed completely since they had last met. It had been four years. Tragedy did change people.

This was a ridiculous idea, quixotic and open to the ugliest misinterpretations. Why was she still walking forward instead of turning on her heel and going home?

Because she had told Gracie she was going to see a friend who had been visited by misfortune and assure him of her loyalty. She could hardly go back home and admit that her nerve had failed her and she was afraid of making a fool of herself. Gracie would despise her for that. She would despise herself.

She strode up the steps, seized the doorbell and pulled it firmly before she could have time to think better of it.

She stood with her heart pounding, as if when the door opened she could be facing mortal danger. She had visions of Max, the footman the Balantynes had had years before, and all the tragedy and violence that had followed, and Christina … how that would have hurt the General. She had been his only daughter.

This was absurd. She was grossly intrusive! Why on earth should she imagine he wished to see her now, after all that Pitt had been forced to do to their family, and Charlotte had helped. She was practically the last person on earth he would have any kindness for. He certainly would not care for her friendship. It was tasteless of her to have come … and hopelessly conceited.

She stepped back and had half turned away to leave when the door opened and a footman asked her very distinctly, “Good morning, ma’am, may I help you?”

“Oh … good morning.” She could ask for directions somewhere. Pretend to be looking for some fictitious person. She did not have to say she had called here. “I … I wonder if …”

“Miss Ellison! I mean … I beg your pardon, ma’am, Mrs. Pitt, isn’t it?”

She stared at him. She could not remember him. How could he possibly have remembered her?

“Yes …”

“If you’d like to come in, Mrs. Pitt, I shall see if Lady Augusta or General Balantyne is at home.” He stepped back to allow her to accept.

She had no choice.

“Thank you.” She found she was shaking. If Lady Augusta was in, what could Charlotte possibly say to her? They had disliked each other before Christina. Now it would be even worse. What on earth could she say? What excuse was there for her presence?

She was shown into the morning room and recognized the model of the brass gun carriage from Waterloo on the table. It was as if the years had telescoped into each other and vanished. She felt the horror of the Devil’s Acre murders as if they were still happening, all the pain and injustice raw.

She paced back and forth. Once she actually went as far as the door into the hall and opened it. But there was a housemaid on the stairs. If she left now she would be seen. She would look even more absurd than if she stayed.

She closed the door again and waited, facing it as if she expected an attack.

It opened and General Balantyne stood there. He was older. Tragedy had marked his face; there was a knowledge of pain in his eyes and his mouth which had not been there when they had first met. But his back was as straight, his shoulders as square, and he looked as directly as he always had.

“Mrs. Pitt?” There was surprise in his face, and a softness which was almost certainly pleasure.

She remembered how very much she had liked him.

“General Balantyne.” Without thinking, she stepped forward. “I really don’t know why I have come, except to say how sorry I am that you should have the misfortune of some miserable man choosing your doorstep on which to die. I hope they can clear it up rapidly and you-” She stopped. He did not deserve platitudes. Lyndon Remus had already done the harm by resurrecting the Devil’s Acre case. No solution to this new murder would undo that.

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I suppose that was all I wanted to say. I could have written a letter, couldn’t I?”

He smiled very slightly. “A beautifully phrased, most tactful one, which would not have meant much and not sounded like you at all,” he answered. “And I should think you had changed, which I should regret.” Then he colored faintly, as if he were aware of having been too outspoken.

“I hope I’ve learned a little,” she said. “Even if I sometimes fail to put it into practice.” She wanted to remain at least a few minutes longer. Perhaps there was something she could do to help, if only she could think of it. But it would be horribly intrusive to ask questions, and Pitt would already have done so anyway. Why did she imagine she could do anything more?

He broke the silence. “How are you? How is your family?”

“Very well. My children are growing up. Jemima is quite tall ….”

“Ah, yes … Jemima.” A smile touched his mouth again. No doubt, like her, he was thinking of Jemima Waggoner, who had married his only son, and after whom Charlotte had named her daughter. “They returned the compliment, you know?”

“The compliment?” she asked.

“Yes. They called their second son Thomas.”

“Oh!” She smiled back. “No. I didn’t know. I shall tell him. He’ll be very pleased. Are they well?”

“Very. Brandy is posted in Madrid now. We don’t see them very often.”

“You must miss them.”

“Yes.” There was a moment of deep loneliness in his eyes. He looked away, staring out of the window into the quiet summer garden, roses lush and heavy in the morning sun, the dew already evaporated from them.

The clock ticked on the mantelshelf.

“My mother remarried,” Charlotte said awkwardly.

He dragged himself to the present and turned back to face her.

“Oh? I … hope she is happy.” It was not a question; one did not ask about such things, it was far too personal and intrusive. One did not even speak about happiness or unhappiness; it would be indelicate.

She smiled at him, meeting his eyes. “Oh, yes. She married an actor.”

He looked mystified. “I beg your pardon?”

Had she gone too far? She had meant to lighten the tension, and perhaps he had taken it for levity. She could not go back, so she plunged on. “She married an actor, rather younger than she is.” Would he be scandalized? She felt the heat burn up her cheeks. “He has a great deal of courage … and charm. Moral courage, I mean … to remain loyal to friends in difficulty and to fight for what he believes to be right.”

His expression eased, the lines around his mouth softening. “I am glad.” For an instant, almost too short to be certain she saw it, there was passionate regret in his eyes. Then he took a breath. “I gather that you like him?”

“Yes, I do, and Mama is very happy, although she has changed a good deal. She has the acquaintance now of people she would never have imagined knowing a few years ago. And I am afraid some of her earlier friends no longer call, and even turn the other way if they encounter her in the street.”