Anne Perry - Callander Square

“Perhaps if I were to check?” she stood up and surveyed the desk. At sight of it the very idea of order became ridiculous. She turned back to him helplessly.

“I’ve made rather a mess,” he announced the obvious. “I really would appreciate your assistance again.”

Something in the expression in his face disturbed her, a gentleness in the eyes, a very direct way he had of looking at her. Good heavens! Surely he had not misunderstood her reason for calling again? Her excuse was thin enough, in truth-but not for that reason! She wanted to catch Jemima, and if she called directly at the Southerons’ for no other reason, she would arouse suspicion, perhaps let Reggie Southeron know, or suspect, her real intentions. Guilty people, and she was sure he was guilty, were inclined to be highly suspicious. Conscience leaped the bounds of logic and saw accusation even where there was none, let alone where it was the precise purpose, inadequately disguised.

Balantyne was waiting, still watching her.

“Oh,” she recalled herself to the urgency of disabusing him. “Well-” she glanced at the heap on the desk, “I should be happy to put that in some order, but I cannot offer more than that, I’m afraid.” She smiled, trying to rob her statement of its harshness. “Since I have no maids, I have a rather pressing need to do a little housework. It is really becoming imperative.”

“Oh,” his face fell. “I’m sorry for having been so inconsiderate. I-of course. I don’t wish to take you away from-” he stammered a little, hastily collecting himself. “Yes, I see. But if you would today, I should be most grateful-” he hesitated, and she was almost sure he was wondering whether to offer her payment, and how to do it tactfully. She knew he was embarrassed, and she felt for him. She smiled easily.

“Actually I hate housework, and for one day I can excuse myself to my conscience. I dare say it is most unfeminine of me, but I find the Crimean War infinitely more interesting than the pantry.” She moved to the desk, taking her gloves off as she went, keeping her back to him, to give him no opportunity to meet her eyes again, but she was acutely conscious of him standing behind her.

She was not able to excuse herself at lunchtime, and therefore found herself taking her only opportunity to slip next door a little later than she had planned. However, no one saw her but the scullery maid and the cook’s assistant, and she was at the schoolroom before they commenced their afternoon lessons.

Jemima was standing at the window, looking down to the square at the front. She turned when Charlotte came in.

“Oh, Charlotte, how good to see you.” Her face was alight with pleasure, even excitement; and there was a starry glaze to her eyes. “Are you working for General Balantyne again?”

“Only today,” Charlotte said soberly. “I really came because I wished to see you, without drawing attention to myself.” There was no point in being evasive. She must tell her the truth about Reggie, and before the children returned.

Jemima seemed to sense no danger, and no urgency.

“I’m sure Mr. Southeron wouldn’t mind.” She was not looking at Charlotte, but a little beyond her. “I wish you had come for luncheon. You must come tomorrow.”

Had she not been listening? Charlotte had said she was only here for one day.

But Jemima had turned back to the window again.

Charlotte crossed the room and stood beside her. She looked down. There was nothing there but the silent, leafless square, rain-sodden, everything in shades of gray and black, even the grass seemed robbed of its green. Wind keened sharply through the areaways and ruffled a few last deadened leaves on the shrubs. There was nothing there to so attract a young woman’s attention. Someone must have just passed that way. Charlotte had heard no carriage, and horses’ hooves sounded sharply enough, with the rattle of wheels, on the stones. Someone on foot. In this weather? Oh no, not Brandy Balantyne.

“Jemima!”

Jemima turned, her eyes still warm and happy. She looked down suddenly, a faint color climbing her cheek.

“Brandy Balantyne?” Charlotte asked.

“Do you not like him, Charlotte? From something you said last time, I was not sure.”

Charlotte had liked him very much, but she dare not say so, yet not lie, and hurt pointlessly.

“I have only met him a few times, and then briefly. If you remember, I was not a social visitor there, only someone employed to help.” That was cruel, and she knew it, but Jemima must not be allowed to let dreams grow out of proportion. The more vivid the dream, the more painful the awakening.

The hurt showed immediately in Jemima’s face.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I know that. And I know what you are trying to say. You are quite right, of course.”

Charlotte wanted to warn her about Reggie Southeron, but that would have meant bringing up the subject of a master who slept with maids, and at this very moment it would seem a crude thing to say, and perhaps totally unjust. It was no parallel, and she did not wish Jemima to think for one moment that she imagined it was. She would have to leave it for another time, a time less open to pain and misunderstanding. All the explanations in the world would not get rid of the impression of a likeness in Jemima’s mind, if she were to mention Reggie and parlormaids and blackmail in the same breath with Brandy Balantyne.

“I must return,” she said instead. “I merely wanted to see you, and to-to ask you to take great care of yourself. Sometimes people who are frightened will blame others, in investigations like this. I heard about poor Miss Doran. Be most guarded in what you say!”

Jemima looked a little puzzled, but she agreed easily enough, and five minutes later Charlotte was out in the icy street again, hurrying back to the library and the general’s papers, feeling unsatisfied with herself, and doubly afraid for Jemima.

Christina was not away after her wedding for more than a week, possibly because of the tragedies that had happened in the square. It had been considered an unsuitable time for a holiday in celebration; possibly, also, no one had the heart for it: least of all Alan Ross. Even Christina, marrying days after the discovery of Helena’s body, could hardly demand of him a honeymoon spirit. Emily, calling upon her barely as soon as was decent, thought privately that she might well consider herself fortunate not to have had the wedding itself postponed. That might truly have been disastrous. Under the circumstances she might be in, even a couple of weeks could make her a liar. Premature birth could be stretched only so far, with a hope of being believed!

She called on Christina with no particular purpose in mind, except that she hoped to learn something further about Helena Doran. They had been much of an age, they were bound to have had a deal in common, attended the same parties, known the same people. She doubted they would have been friends then, and Christina might feel a little bitter about having just married a man whom everyone knew to have loved Helena, at least in the past. But she must know something; and frequently as much truth was spoken in dislike as there ever was in friendship, especially of the dead. Funny how death seemed to obscure all the relevant truths in a sugar coating of decency. Must make detection very difficult.

Alan Ross’s house was in an elegant street less than half a mile from Callander Square. It could not claim the same opulence, nor the same fashionable grace, but it was a substantial establishment, and when Emily knocked she was admitted by a smart parlormaid.

Christina seemed quite pleased to see her, although Emily thought she looked a little pale. Honeymoons were very often something of a shock to a woman, but someone who had lain quite happily with a footman should not have encountered many surprises!