Anne Perry - Death in the Devil's Acre

“General Balantyne?” She spoke very gravely, her hand touching his sleeve. “Are you being kind to me? Are you sure I have not offended you by raising such a subject?”

He cleared his throat. “Of course I’m sure!” He leaned back hard against the upright of his chair, where he could not feel the warmth of her, or smell the faint aroma of lavender and clean hair, a sweet musk of the skin. Wild sensations stirred inside him, and he strained after intelligent thought to drown them. He heard his voice as if it came from far away. “I have tried to discuss the matter. Brandy is most concerned, and Alan Ross as well. But it distresses the women.” Already he was becoming pompous!

But she did not seem to notice. “It is natural Christina should be upset,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands in her lap. “After all, she knew Sir Bertram Astley, and she knows Miss Woolmer, whom he was engaged to marry. It must be much more painful to her than to you or me. And it is only natural that the police will wonder if Mr. Beau Astley could have envied his brother enough to wish him harm, since he stood to inherit both the title and the estates. And of course Miss Woolmer is very fond of him also-I gather he is most charming. As his friend, Christina is bound to feel for him. His situation must be painful because of his bereavement, and most unpleasant in the suspicions that the uncharitable are bound to exercise.”

He considered it, but Christina had expressed no sympathy. In fact, she had given him the impression that she was impatient of the whole affair. But then Charlotte was crediting Christina with the emotions she would have felt herself.

“And, of course, that wretched creature Max Burton used to be footman here,” she continued. “Although you can hardly care about his fate, it is unpleasant to think that any human being you have known should meet such an end.”

“How did you know it was the same man?” he asked in surprise. He did not recall any mention of Callander Square in the newspapers, or of Max’s previous career. And Burton was not an uncommon name.

The color rose in her cheeks and she looked away.

He was sorry for embarrassing her, and yet honesty between them, the ability to say what was truly in the mind, was of overpowering importance to him. “Charlotte?”

“I am afraid I have been listening to gossip,” she said a little defensively. “Emily and I have been engaged in a great effort to bring the conditions of certain people, especially the young involved in prostitution, to the attention of those who have influence. Apparently one cannot legislate against it, but one can move public opinion until those who practice these abuses find their positions intolerable!” Now she looked up and met his eyes, challenging him to disapprove. Nothing he could say would alter her beliefs in the slightest. He felt a surge of joy well up inside him as he realized it.

“My dear,” he said candidly. “I should not wish to be able to.”

A flicker of confusion showed in her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you not defying me to try to change your mind, to disapprove of you?”

Her face relaxed into a smile, and he realized with horror how much he wanted to touch her. A unity of minds was not enough; there were things at once too strong and too delicate to be transmitted by such limited means as speech. Things long dormant inside him broke open their barrier with great currents of movement, destroying the balance. He wanted to stretch out this afternoon into an indefinite future with no nightfall, to prevent Augusta from returning and bringing back normality-and loneliness.

Charlotte was looking at him. Had she seen that thought in his face? The light died out of her eyes and she turned away.

“Only on that subject,” she said quietly. “Because I know I am right. There are plenty of other things in which I might well be obliged to agree with you if you were to find me at fault. I find myself at fault!”

He did not know what she was referring to, and it would be an intrusion to ask. But he did not think she was saying it for effect, a false modesty. There was some sense of guilt that disturbed her.

“Everyone has faults, my dear,” he said gently. “In those we love, the virtues outweigh them, and are what matter. The qualities less than good we do not choose to observe. We know them, but they do not offend us. If people were without weakness or need, what could we offer them of ourselves that they could value?”

She stood up quickly, and for a moment he thought there were tears in her eyes. Did she know what he was thinking-what he was trying to say-and at the same time not to say? He loved her. It was there in words in his mind at last.

It would be unforgivable to embarrass her. At all costs, he must behave properly. He pulled his shoulders back and sat up straighter. “It sounds a most excellent work that you and Emily are engaged in.” He prayed that his voice sounded normal, not too suddenly remote, too pompous.

“Yes.” She kept her back to him and stared out the window at the garden. “Lady Cumming-Gould is also concerned, and Mr. Somerset Carlisle, the Member of Parliament. I think we have already accomplished something.” She turned at last and smiled at him. “I’m so glad you approve. Now that you have said so, I can confess I should have been hurt had you not.”

He felt the heat burn his cheeks again, with a mixture of pleasure and pain. He stood, then picked up the soldier’s letters from the desk. He could not bear for her to go, and yet it was equally intolerable now that she should stay. He must not betray himself. The emotion he felt was so profound and so very unreliable inside him that he must excuse her and be alone.

“Please take these, and read them again if you wish.”

She understood the convention well. She accepted them and thanked him. “I will take the greatest care of them,” she said quietly. “I feel he is a friend of both of us. I do thank you for a unique afternoon. Good day, General Balantyne.”

He took a deep breath. “Good day, Charlotte.” He reached for the bell. When the footman came, he watched her go, her back straight, head high. He stood exactly where he had been when she left, trying to keep her presence with him, to wrap himself in a golden cocoon before the warmth died and he was left alone again.

Balantyne did not sleep well that night. He chose to be out when Augusta returned, and when he came back to the house he was already late for dinner.

“I cannot imagine why you wish to walk at this hour,” she remarked with a little shake of her head. “It is totally dark, and the coldest night of the year.”

“It is quite fine,” he answered. “I imagine presently there will be a moon.” It was irrelevant. He had walked to put off the time of meeting her and having to step out of his dream and back into the pattern of life. To try to explain that would be cruel and incomprehensible to her. Instead he broached another unpleasant subject.

“Augusta, I think it would be advisable for you to take some counsel with Christina, give her a little advice.”

Augusta raised her eyebrows and sat motionless, her soupspoon halfway to her mouth. “Indeed? Upon what subject?”

“Her behavior toward Alan.”

“Do you consider that she is failing in her duty?”

“It is nothing so simple.” He shook his head. “But duty does not beget love. She is contrary, too unkind with her tongue. I have seen no softness in her. She is quite unlike Jemima, for example.”

“Naturally.” She carried the spoon to her mouth and ate elegantly. “Jemima was brought up as a governess. One would expect to find her manner a good deal more obedient and grateful. Christina is a lady.”