Anne Perry - Traitors Gate

Startled only for a moment, Vespasia good-naturedly handed him a handsome entry fee for herself and Charlotte.

“Good gracious, whatever next?” she murmured as they passed out of earshot and towards a stall where a young society matron was attired as Titania, Queen of the Fairies from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and looking very fetching indeed. A great deal more of her was visible than even the most daring evening gown would have displayed. Lengths of gauze were swathed around her, leaving arms, shoulders and waist bare, and much more could be guessed at beneath its diaphanous folds. There were two young gentlemen bickering over the price of a lavender pomander, and several more waited eagerly to take their turn.

“Effective!” Charlotte said with reluctant admiration.

“Oh very,” Vespasia agreed, smiling to herself. “The last time Penelope did one of these bazaars it was all characters from Mr. Dickens, and not nearly so much fun. They all looked rather alike to me. Look! There! Do you see Cleopatra selling pincushions?”

Charlotte followed Vespasia’s indication and saw a remarkably handsome young woman with dark hair and eyes, a rather Grecian nose, perhaps a trifle high at the bridge for beauty, and a willful, highly individual mouth. It was a countenance that could indeed have belonged to a woman used to power and an extraordinary mixture of self-discipline and self-indulgence. She was at that moment offering a small, embroidered, lace-edged pincushion to a gentleman in an immaculate frock coat and striped trousers. He looked like a city banker or a dealer in stocks and securities.

A bishop in traditional gaiters walked by slowly, smiling in the sun and nodding first to one side then the other. His eyes lingered for several moments upon Cleopatra, and he very nearly stopped and bought a pincushion, before judicious caution prevailed and he continued on his way towards Titania, still smiling.

Vespasia glanced at Charlotte; words were unnecessary.

They walked gently on between the stalls where imaginatively dressed young women were selling sweetmeats, flowers, ornaments, ribbons, cakes and pictures, and yet others were offering games to play for various prizes. She saw one booth decked out in curtains of shadowy material with silver stars pinned to them, and letters proclaiming that for a sixpence the witches of Macbeth would tell your fortune and recite to you all the great achievements which lay in your future. There was a queue of giggling girls waiting their turn to go in, and even a couple of young men, pretending they were there simply to accompany them, and yet with a spark of interest in their faces.

Just past them Charlotte saw the sturdy figure of Eustace March, standing very upright, talking intently to a broad man with flowing white hair and a booming voice. They both laughed heartily, and Eustace bade him farewell and turned towards Charlotte. He saw her with a look of alarm, but it was too late for him to pretend he had not. He straightened his shoulders and came forward.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt. How pleasant to see you. Supporting a worthy cause, I see!” He laughed jerkily. “Excellent.” Vespasia had stopped to speak to an acquaintance, and he had not seen her. He hesitated, searching for something to say, undecided whether he had satisfied good manners sufficiently to leave yet. “Lovely day. A joy to be out in it. Fine garden, don’t you think?”

“Delightful,” Charlotte agreed. “Most kind of Mrs. Kennard to lend it for the bazaar. I think there will be a great deal to clear up after all these people.”

He winced very slightly at her candor in mentioning such a thing.

“All in a good cause, my dear lady. These small sacrifices are necessary if we are to be of service. Nothing without effort, you know!” He smiled, showing his teeth.

“Of course,” she agreed. “I imagine you know a great many of the people here?”

“Oh no, hardly any. I have little time to mix in Society as I used to. There are too many important things to be done.” He looked poised to depart and set about them immediately.

“You interest me greatly, Mr. March,” she said, meeting his eyes.

He was horrified. It was the last thing he had intended. She always made him uncomfortable. The conversation so seldom went as he had wished.

“Well, my dear lady, I assure you … I …” He stopped.

“How modest of you, Mr. March.” She smiled winningly.

He blushed. It was not modesty but an urgent desire to escape.

“But I have thought a great deal about what you said only yesterday concerning organizing together to do good,” she said eagerly. “I am sure in many ways you are right. When we cooperate, we can achieve so much more. Knowledge is power, is it not? How can we be effective if we do not know where the greatest need lies? We might even end up doing more harm, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I imagine that is true,” he said reluctantly. “I am so glad you have realized that hasty judgment is very often mistaken. I assure you, the organization to which I belong is most worthy. Most worthy.”

“And modest,” she added with a perfectly straight face. “It must have been so distressing for you that Sir Arthur Desmond was saying such disagreeable things about it, before the poor man died.”

Eustace looked pale, and acutely uncomfortable.

“Er … most,” he agreed. “Poor man. Senile, of course. Very sad.” He shook his head. “Brandy,” he added, pushing out his lower lip. “Everything in moderation, I always say. A healthy mind in a healthy body. Makes for both virtue and happiness.” He took a deep breath. “Of course I don’t hold with laudanum and the like at all. Fresh air, cold baths, brisk exercise and an easy conscience. No reason why a man shouldn’t sleep every night of his life. Never think of powders and potions.” He lifted his chin a little and smiled again.

A menacing Richard III walked crabwise past them, and two young women laughed happily. He shook a fist and they entered into the spirit of it by pretending to be frightened.

“An easy conscience requires a life of extraordinary virtue, frequent and profound repentance, or absolute insensitivity,” Charlotte said with a slight edge to her voice, and only turning to look at Eustace at the last moment.

He blushed very pink, and said nothing.

“Unfortunately I did not know Sir Arthur,” she went on. “But I have heard he was one of the kindest and most honorable of men. Perhaps he had pain, and that was what caused him to be wakeful? Or anxieties? If one is responsible for others, it can cause a great deal of worry.”

“Yes-yes, of course,” Eustace said unhappily. She knew memory was awakening in him, with all its discomforts. If he slept well every night, she felt he had no right to.

“Did you know him?” she pressed.

“Uh-Desmond? Oh … well … yes, I met him a few times. Not to say I knew him, you understand?” He did not look at her.

She wondered if he and Sir Arthur could conceivably have been in the same ring of the Inner Circle, but she had no idea even how many people were in a ring. She thought she recalled from something Pitt had said that it was no more than half a dozen or so, but she was unclear. For it to be effective, the groups would surely have to be larger than that in some way? Perhaps each ring had a leader, and they knew the others, and so on.

“You mean socially?” she asked with as much naivete as she could manage. She found it was not very much. “At hunt balls and so on? Or to do with his work?”

Eustace looked somewhere over his left shoulder, his cheeks pink. “His work?” he said with alarm. “I … I am not sure what you mean. Certainly not.”

It was sufficient. He had taken her to be referring to the Inner Circle. Had it been a social acquaintance he would have admitted it without embarrassment, but she had been almost sure Eustace March did not move in the higher regions of old society, landed gentry, the true aristocracy where Arthur Desmond lived because he was born to it.