Anne Perry - Cardington Crescent

“But my dear, what about Ascot?”

“I rather care for Wimbledon, myself.”

“I haven’t a thing to wear! I must see my dressmaker immediately-I really need an entire new wardrobe.”

“Wasn’t the Royal Academy too frightful this year!”

“My dear, I do agree! Perfectly tedious!”

Clumsily, she survived nearly half an hour of such greetings and comments before at last finding herself alone in her carriage with George beside her, stiff and more distant than a stranger.

“What on earth is the matter with you, Emily?” George said after they had sat in silence for ten minutes, while carriages ahead of them picked up their owners. Finally the way ahead was clear down the Strand.

Should she lie, evade the moment of commitment to the quarrel which she knew he would hate? George was tolerant, generous, of an easy nature, but he wanted emotion only at times of his own choosing, and most certainly not now, when he was full of the echoes of such civilized enjoyment.

Half of her wanted to face him, let all her scalding hurt burst out, demand he explain himself and his wounding and outrageous behavior. But just as she opened her mouth to reply, cowardice overcame her. Once she had spoken it would be too late to draw back; she would have cut off her only retreat. It was so unlike her-she was usually mistress of herself so coolly, with such measured reaction. It was part of what had first drawn him to her. Now she betrayed all that and took the easy lie, despising herself, and hating him for reducing her to it.

“I don’t feel very well,” she said stiffly. “I think perhaps the theater was a little hot.”

“I didn’t notice it.” He was still annoyed. “Nor did anyone else.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out how profoundly he had been otherwise engaged, but again she avoided the crisis.

“Then maybe I am feverish.”

“Spend tomorrow in bed.” There was no sympathy in his voice.

He just wants me to stay out of the way, she thought, before I become even more of a nuisance and an embarrassment to him. Tears prickled in her eyes, and she swallowed hard, painfully grateful to be in the close, sharp darkness of the carriage. She said nothing, in case her voice betrayed her, and George did not pursue the subject. They rode through the summer night, their way lit by the hundred yellow moons of the gas lamps, hearing nothing but the steady clop-clop of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of the wheels.

When they reached Cardington Crescent the footman opened the doors, and Emily climbed down and went up the steps under the portico and in through the front door without even glancing to see if George was behind her. It was customary to attend a dinner party before the opera and a supper party afterwards, but old Mrs. March did not feel her health equal to both-although in fact there was nothing whatsoever wrong with her except age-so they had forgone the supper. Now a late meal was served in the withdrawing room, but Emily could not face the laughter, the bright lights of the chandeliers, and the probing eyes.

“If you will excuse me,” Emily said to no one in particular, “it has been a delightful evening, but I am rather tired and I would prefer to retire. I wish you all a good night.” Not waiting for a reply, she continued straight on to the foot of the stairs before anyone’s voice held her back. It was not George, as she ached for it to be, but Jack Radley, only a pace behind her.

“Are you all right, Lady Ashworth? You look a little pale. Shall we have something sent up to you?” Already he was at her elbow.

“No, thank you,” she said quickly. “I am sure I shall be quite well when I have rested.” She must not be seen to be rude-it was so childish. She forced herself to turn and look at him. He was smiling. He really did have the most remarkable eyes; he contrived to look intimate even when she barely knew him, and yet it was not quite enough to be intrusive. She could see quite well how he had gained his reputation with women. It would serve George right if she fell as much in love with Radley as George had with Sybilla!

“Are you sure?” he repeated.

“Quite,” she answered expressionlessly. “Thank you.” And she went up the stairs as rapidly as she could without appearing to run. She was only on the landing when she heard the conversation resume, the laughter peal again, the gay lilt of people who are still in the spell of totally carefree pleasure.

She woke to find herself alone and the sunlight streaming in through a crack in the imperfectly drawn curtains. George was not there, nor had he been. His side of the enormous bed was immaculate, the linen crisp. She had intended to have her breakfast sent up, but now her own company was worse than anyone else’s, and she rang sharply for her maid, refusing morning tea and sending her off to draw a bath and set out Emily’s clothes for the morning.

She put a wrap round her shoulders and knocked sharply on the dressing room door. After several moments it was opened by George, looking sleepy and rumpled, his thick hair falling loosely, his eyes wide and dark.

“Oh,” he said, blinking at her. “Since you weren’t well I thought I’d not disturb you, so I had them make up the bed in here.” He did not ask if she was better. He merely looked at her, at her milky skin with its faint blush and her coil of pale honey hair, came to his own conclusion, and retreated back to prepare himself for the day.

Breakfast was grim. Eustace, as always, had thrown all the dining room windows open. He was a great believer in “muscular Christianity” and all the aggressive good health that went with it. He ate pigeons in jelly with ostentatious relish, and piles of hot buttered toast and marmalade, and barricaded himself behind the Times, ironed and given him by the footman, which he did not offer to share with anyone. Not, of course, that any man offered his newspaper to women, but Eustace also ignored William, George, and Jack Radley.

Vespasia, to Eustace’s eternal disapproval, had her own newspaper.

“There has been a murder in Bloomsbury,” she observed over the raspberries.

“What has that to do with us?” Eustace did not look up; the remark was intended as a criticism. Women should not have newspapers, let alone discuss them at breakfast.

“About as much as anything else that is in here,” Vespasia replied. “It is to do with people, and tragedy.”

“Nonsense!” old Mrs. March snapped. “Probably some person of the criminal classes who thoroughly deserved it. Eustace, would you be good enough to pass me the Court Circular? I wish to know what is happening that is of some importance.” She shot a look of distaste at Vespasia. “I trust no one has forgotten we have a luncheon party at the Withingtons’, and that we are playing croquet at Lady Lucy Armstrong’s in the afternoon?” she went on, glancing at Sybilla with a frown and a faint curl of her lip. “Lady Lucy will be full of the Eton and Harrow cricket match, of course, and we shall be obliged to listen to her boasting endlessly about her sons. And we shall have nothing to say at all.”

Sybilla colored, a stiff, painful red. Her eyes were bright. She stared straight back at her grandmother-in-law with an expression which might have been any of a dozen things.

“We shall have to see whether it is a boy or a girl before we consider a school,” she said very clearly.

William stopped, his fork halfway to his mouth, incredulous. George drew in his breath in a little hiss of surprise. Eustace lowered his paper for the first time since he had sat down, and stared at her with amazement, then slow dawning jubilation.

“Sybilla! My dear girl! Do you mean that you are … er …?”