Anne Perry - Cardington Crescent

“Yes!” she said boldly. “I would not have told you so soon, but I am tired of Grandmother-in-law making such remarks.”

“You cannot blame me!” Mrs. March defended herself sharply. “You’ve been twelve years about it. It is not surprising I despaired of the March name continuing. Heaven knows, poor William has had his patience strained to breaking point waiting for you to give him an heir.”

William’s head came round to glare at his grandmother, his cheeks burning, his eyes hot blue.

“That is absolutely none of your affair!” he said abruptly. “And I find your remarks inexpressibly vulgar.” He pushed his chair back, rose, and walked from the room.

“Well, well.” Eustace folded his newspaper and poured himself another cup of coffee. “Congratulations, my dear.”

“Better late than never,” Mrs. March conceded. “Although I doubt you will have many more, now.”

Sybilla still looked flushed, and now thoroughly uncomfortable. For the only time since her arrival, Emily felt sorry for her.

But the emotion was short-lived. The next few days passed in the customary fashion of Society during the Season. In the mornings they rode in the park, at which Emily had taught herself to be both graceful and skilled. But she had not the outrageous flair of Sybilla, and since George was a natural horseman it seemed almost inevitable that they should more often than not end up side by side, at some distance from the others.

William never came, preferring to work at his painting, which was his profession as well as his vocation. He was gifted to the degree that his works were admired by academicians and collected by connoisseurs. Only Eustace affected to find it displeasing that his only son preferred to retire alone to the studio arranged for him in the conservatory and make use of the morning light, rather than parade on horseback for the fashionable world to admire.

When they did not ride, they drove in the carriage, went shopping, paid calls upon their more intimate friends, or visited art galleries and exhibitions.

Luncheon was usually at about two o’clock, often at someone else’s house in a small party. In the afternoon they attended concerts or drove to Richmond or Hurlingham, or else made the necessary, more formal calls upon those ladies they knew only slightly, perching awkwardly around withdrawing rooms, backs stiff, and making idiotic chatter about people, gowns, and the weather. The men excused themselves from this last activity and retired to one or another of their clubs.

At four there was afternoon tea, sometimes at home, sometimes out at a garden party. Once there was a game of croquet, at which George partnered Sybilla and lost hopelessly amid peals of laughter and a sense of delight that infinitely outweighed Emily’s, who won. The taste of victory was ashes in her mouth. Not even Eustace, who partnered her, seemed to notice her. All eyes were on Sybilla, dressed in cherry pink, her cheeks flushed, her eyes radiant, and laughing so easily at her own ineptitude everyone wished to laugh with her.

Again Emily drove home in bitter silence before going leaden-footed up the stairs to change for dinner and the theater.

By Sunday she could bear it no longer. They had all been to church in the morning; Eustace insisted upon it. He was the patriarch of a godly family, and must be seen to be so. Dutifully, because they were guests in his house, they went-even Jack Radley, to whom it was far from a natural inclination. He would much rather have spent his summer Sundays in a good gallop in the park, with the sun sparkling through the trees and wind in his face, scattering birds, dogs, and onlookers alike-as indeed so would George, normally. But today George seemed positively happy to sit on the hard pew next to Emily, his eyes always wandering to Sybilla.

Luncheon was spent discussing the sermon, which had been earnest and tedious, dissecting it for “deeper meaning.” By the time they came to the fruit Eustace had pronounced that its real subject was the virtue of fortitude, and of bearing all affliction with a stiff upper lip. Only William was either sufficiently interested or sufficiently angry to bother to contradict him and assert that, on the contrary, it was about compassion.

“Nonsense!” Eustace said briskly. “You were always too soft, William. Always for taking the easy way out! Too many sisters, that’s your trouble. Should have been a girl yourself. Courage!” He banged the table with his fist. “That’s what it takes to be a man-and a Christian.”

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. The afternoon was spent reading and writing letters.

The evening was even worse. They sat around striving to make conversation suitable to the Sabbath, until Sybilla was invited to play the piano, which she did rather well and with obvious enjoyment. Everyone except Emily was drawn in, singing ballads, and occasionally, more serious solos. Sybilla had a very rich voice, a little husky with a slight catch in it.

Upstairs at last, her throat sore with the effort of not crying, Emily dismissed her maid and began to undress herself. George came in and closed the door with an unnecessarily loud noise.

“Couldn’t you have made more of an effort, Emily?” he said coldly. “Your sullenness was verging on bad manners.”

It was too much. The injustice of it was intolerable.

“Bad manners!” she gasped. “How dare you stand there and accuse me of bad manners! You have spent the entire fortnight seducing your host’s daughter-in-law in front of everyone, even the servants. And because I don’t care to join in with you, you accuse me of being ill-mannered!”

The color flamed up in his face, but he stood perfectly still. “You are hysterical,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you would be better alone until you can collect yourself. I shall sleep in the dressing room; the bed is still made up. I can perfectly easily tell everyone you are not feeling well and I don’t wish to disturb you.” His nostrils flared very slightly and a flicker of irritation crossed his face. “They won’t find that hard to believe. Good night.” And a moment later he was gone.

Emily stood numbed by the monstrosity of it. It was so utterly unfair, it took several moments to assimilate it. Then she threw herself onto the bed, punched the pillow with all her strength, and burst into tears. She wept till her eyes were burning and her lungs ached, and still she felt no better-only too tired to hurt so fiercely anymore-until tomorrow.

Emily woke very early in the morning, even before the housemaids were up, and reviewed the situation. Last night’s crisis had swept away the paralysis of indecision, the fending off of the knowledge which she knew must come with all its misery. She made a resolution. She would fight! Sybilla was not going to win simply because Emily had neither the wit nor the strength to give her a battle, however far it had gone. And she was obliged to admit, briefly and painfully, that it had probably gone all the way-witness George’s alacrity in provoking an excuse to sleep in the dressing room. Even so, Emily would use every skill she possessed to win him back. And she had a great deal of skill. After all, she had won him in the first place, against considerable odds.

If she were to continue to appear as wretched as she felt, she would embarrass the rest of the household and lay herself open to a pity that would not comfortably be forgotten, even when the affair was over and she had won. Most important, it would not be in the least attractive to George; like most men he loved a gay and charming woman who had enough sense to keep her troubles to herself. An excess of emotion, especially in public, would make him acutely uncomfortable. Far from winning him away from Sybilla, it would drive him further into her arms.