Anne Perry - Death in the Devil's Acre

It was not necessary to remind him that Augusta’s father had been an earl, and his own possessed of no distinction but a military one. “I was thinking of her happiness,” he said steadily. “One may be a princess and yet not necessarily inspire love. She would serve herself better if she were to charm Alan a little more, and take him for granted a good deal less. He is not a man to be dazzled by appearances, or to have his affections heightened by the awareness that other men find her pleasing.”

Augusta went suddenly quite white, her arm frozen, fingers rigid around the spoon.

“Are you ill?” he said in confusion. “Augusta!”

She blinked. “No … no, I am perfectly well. I swallowed my soup a little carelessly, that is all. What did you mean about Christina? She has always been something of a flirt. It is natural for a pretty woman. Alan can hardly take exception to that.”

“You are talking about social customs!” Why did she seem unable to understand? “I am talking about love, gentleness, sharing things.”

Her eyes widened and there was a shred of bitter humor in them he found confusing. “You are being romantic, Brandon,” she said. “I had not expected anything so-so very young of you!”

“You mean naive? On the contrary, it is you and Christina who are naive-in imagining that a relationship can survive without honest emotion and the occasional sacrifice to unreason in the name of kindness. You can argue people into a business arrangement, but not into affection.”

Augusta sat still for several minutes, considering what he had said and what she should reply to him. “I think we should be interfering where it is no longer our concern,” she said at last. “Christina is a married woman now. Her private life is Alan’s responsibility, and you would be trespassing upon his rights if you were to offer her advice, especially about such personal matters.”

He was surprised. That was the last answer he had expected from her. “You mean you would stand by and watch her destroy her marriage because you consider it interfering to offer her advice? She did not cease to be our daughter just because she became Alan’s wife, nor did our affection stop!”

“Of course our affection did not stop,” she said impatiently. “But if you regard the law, as well as the practices of daily life, you will find that Alan is responsible for her now. For a woman to marry is a far bigger change in all her circumstances than you seem to appreciate. What passes between them is private, and we would be deeply mistaken to interfere.” She smiled faintly. “Would you have appreciated it, Brandon, had my father offered you advice upon your conduct toward me?” “I was speaking of advising Christina-not Alan!” “Would you have accepted it from your own father?” The thought was an entirely new one to him. It had never occurred to him that anyone else might have concerned himself in the more private aspects of his life. It was appalling-offensive! … But this was a totally different matter. Christina was his daughter, and he was seeking for Augusta, as her mother, to counsel her so that she might amend her behavior and forestall a great deal of unhappiness for herself.

He opened his mouth to point out all this, then saw from his wife’s expression that to her it was precisely the same. He smiled in dry appreciation and looked back at her.

“I would not have minded had your mother counseled you toward affection rather than duty, if she had considered it necessary. Indeed, I have no idea whether she did or not!”

“She did not!” Augusta said a trifle sharply. “And nor shall I offer advice to Christina unless she asks it of me. To do so would be to assume that I know what passes between them, and would require an explanation from her as to things which are extremely personal. I shall not place her in that position, nor do I wish her to believe me inquisitive.”

He could think of nothing more to say. They were arguing in words; they were not really even speaking of the same emotions. He let the silence close the subject, and he did not raise it again. He could not speak to Christina himself; he did not know how to begin, how to avoid her either laughing at him or becoming offended. But he could speak to Alan Ross.

Feeling he could not afford to wait for an opportunity to present itself, Balantyne went the following day to visit Alan Ross, at a time when he believed it likely Christina would be out. Even if, by misfortune, she was at home, it would not be awkward to excuse himself from her presence and talk alone with Ross.

It was not an interview he looked forward to, for he had abandoned any idea of trying to be oblique. Since his own emotions had been stripped of their usual protections of ritual and words, he found it surprisingly easier now to contemplate speaking honestly.

Christina was not at home. Alan Ross welcomed him and showed him into his study where he had been writing letters. It was a pleasant room, entirely masculine, but obviously a place where someone spent a great deal of time and kept personal possessions that were both treasured and frequently used.

They exchanged trivialities for a few minutes. Normally it would have been a comfortable introduction into any of a dozen subjects of mutual interest, but today Balantyne was too conscious of the reasons for his visit to descend to mere companionship. As soon as the footman had left the tray with sherry and glasses, he turned to Ross.

“Did you know Bertie Astley well?” he asked.

Alan Ross seemed to pale. “Not very,” he said quietly.

Balantyne waited, unsure how to continue. Was there pain underneath that polite reply, the memory of Christina laughing, flirting, being entertained? Somehow he imagined both the Astleys as fashionable and witty, amusing in a way that Alan Ross had never been. He was a graver man, deeper and infinitely harder to win.

“I never met him,” Balantyne went on. “Do you think he was where they found him of his own accord?”

Ross smiled slightly and his blue eyes met Balantyne’s. “I should be surprised. He seemed eminently normal on the occasions I saw him.”

“You mean he flirted a great deal?”

Ross’s smile widened tolerantly. “No more than usual for a young man who feels the noose of matrimony closing round him, and wishes to taste of freedom to the full while he still may. Miss Woolmer’s mother has a fearsome grip.”

Balantyne remembered his own last few weeks of freedom, before he had asked Augusta’s father for her hand. He had known he was going to, of course, but it was still sweet to play with the idea that he might not, to savor in imagination all sorts of other possibilities he would never indulge.

He looked across and caught Ross’s eyes. They understood each other perfectly. “I suppose Christina is very distressed by his death.” It was more an observation than a question. It would account for the strain he saw in her. She hated mourning and would absorb the sorrow in her own way.

“Not especially, though she was rather fond of him,” Ross replied. Ross had turned away and his face was tight. “She was fond of a number of people,” he said quietly.

Balantyne felt the sweat prickle on his skin. Fond of? Was that a euphemism for something much coarser, more promiscuous? Or was it only his own rush of feeling for Charlotte, the strong physical desire that made his face burn at the memory, that put in his mind far uglier thoughts of Christina? Had she been drenched with that hunger, but without the love?

He looked at Ross’s face, still turned toward the fire. As he had observed before, it was a private face, strong-boned but with a very vulnerable mouth. To intrude into his emotions would be unforgivable.

In that moment Balantyne believed he understood what Ross would never say: Christina was a loose woman. How it had come about he would never know. Perhaps Ross had expected too much of her, a maturity, a delicacy of which she was not capable. Perhaps he had compared her with Helena Doran. A mistake-you should never compare one woman with another. And yet, dear God, how easy to do when you have loved! Was there not at the back of his own mind, painful and bright, a memory of Charlotte’s eyes looking at him that would forever be a comparison with every other relationship-and a damning of it?