Anne Perry - Callander Square

“Lady Ashworth, how delightful,” he came forward to welcome her, ushering her in. “Do you know Alan Ross? No. Alan’s misfortune.”

“Mr. Ross,” she acknowledged him with grace. He bowed a little formally. He was in his thirties, slight of build but with a strong, delicate face of unusual intensity.

“Lady Ashworth, I am honored,” he offered no further compliment, and she was rather pleased. Flattery could become a bore. It was, after all, no more than a formula in the mouth of most men, as automatic as “good morning” or “good-bye.”

They fell to discussing some innocuous subject, none of them paying more than cursory attention. Emily let her eyes stray to Euphemia Carlton. She was piqued to see that today the woman looked uncommonly well, indeed it would hardly be an exaggeration to say she glowed. Could the tension and the guilt Emily had seen before have been no more than an indisposition? Emily dismissed the thought. It was too early to tell.

She accepted a delicate refreshment from a crisp-aproned maid. There was a footman over by the door-a handsome man, in a heavy-lidded, sensuous sort of way. Emily had seen the same features on dandies and spendthrifts leaving George’s clubs, the big winners and losers. That man would have been one of them, had his birth been kinder to him. Now he stood against the wall of a general’s house, dressed in livery and waiting on ladies and the few gentlemen who had nothing better to do with this particular afternoon. She saw Christina Balantyne walk past him, laughing, as oblivious of his humanity as if he had been a piece of furniture, a carving to hold flowers.

The entertainment began, first a rendition of a waltz by Chopin, more precise than lyrical; then a rather wavering contralto sang three ballades. Emily forced a look of rapt attention on her face, and let her mind wander.

She had not been introduced to Sophie Bolsover, but she had overheard her name in a neighboring conversation, and knew that she also lived in Callander Square. Now Emily looked sideways at her, partly from interest, partly because it was easier to keep her face straight when not looking directly into the contralto’s earnest eyes. Sophie Bolsover was a type she had become familiar with over the last couple of years; still very young, pretty enough by nature for art successfully to concentrate on her good features and mask the poor ones. She was born of a good family with enough money to insure a satisfactory marriage. She had never had to fear being left an old maid, dependent; she had not had to fight the way ahead of numerous sisters in a female-ridden house. All this Emily knew from the calm, rather shallow assurance in her face.

As soon as the songs were finished and suitably applauded, Emily made a point of seeking her acquaintance. Emily was charming, skilled, and quite ruthless in such social arts. Within five minutes she was conversing with Sophie about fashion, mutual acquaintances, and speculation as to who might marry whom. Emily guided the considerations toward those resident in the square, beginning with a compliment toward Christina.

“So beautiful,” Sophie agreed with a smile.

Emily would have quarreled with the choice of words; Christina was fashionable, appealing, to men certainly, but not beautiful.

“Indeed,” she said confidentially. “No doubt she will be able to take her pick of offers.”

“I thought at one time she might have married Mr. Ross,” Sophie inclined her head very slightly toward Alan Ross, who was talking earnestly to Euphemia Carlton. “But of course he has never got over poor Helena,” Sophie went on.

Emily’s ear sharpened.

“Helena?” she inquired with a masterly attempt at indifference. “Did some tragedy befall her?”

“She is never spoken of,” Sophie said somewhat inconsequentially.

Emily’s interest grew even keener.

“My dear, how fascinating! By whom is she never spoken of?”

“Why Laetitia Doran, of course.” Sophie opened her eyes wide. “Helena was Laetitia’s only child. Georgiana did not live with her then, naturally.”

“She came-afterward?” Emily pieced it together.

“Yes, to console her.”

“For what?”

“What? Why, when Helena ran away. Eloped-so they say. What an irresponsible and foolish thing to do! And such a shame to her mother.”

“With whom did she elope? Why did she not marry him? Good gracious, was he a servant, or something?”

“Who knows? Nobody ever saw him!”

“What? You cannot mean it?” Emily was incredulous. “Was he so appalling she dared not-oh my gracious! He wasn’t already married, was he?”

Sophie paled.

“Oh dear, I do hope not. How perfectly dreadful! No, I shouldn’t think so. She was very beautiful, Helena, you know. She could have had her choice among-oh, I don’t know how many men. Poor Mr. Ross was quite stricken when she went away.”

“Did he know about it?”

“Of course. She left a letter saying she had run off. And of course those of us with any sense knew perfectly well she had an admirer. Women know that sort of thing. I remember I thought it rather romantic, at the time. I never dreamed it would end so awfully.”

“I don’t see that it is so very dreadful,” Emily replied with a little frown, “if she ran off and married him somewhere else. Perhaps he was someone her mother did not approve of, but who loved her. A trifle silly, I agree; especially if he did not have any money; but not entirely fatal. Romantic loves are a little impractical, when it comes to day to day living, paying the cook and the dressmaker and so on. But if one has good sense, it can be quite bearable. One of my sisters married a considerable degree beneath her, and seems to be disgustingly happy on it. But she is an unusual creature, I will be the first to grant.”

“Is she really happy?” Sophie raised her eyebrows in interested surprise.

“Oh yes,” Emily assured her. “But you and I would find it quite dreadful. Perhaps Helena is like her, but feared her mother’s objections, so simply took the easiest way out.”

Sophie’s face brightened.

“What a delicious thought! Perhaps she is in Italy, married to a fisherman, or a gondolier, or something.”

“Do you have many gondoliers calling in Callander Square?” Emily asked politely.

Sophie stifled a rich giggle, and then looked about her in dismay at her own social gaffe-the spontaneous laughter, not the idiotic question.

“How deliriously refreshing you are, Lady Ashworth,” Sophie said through the fingers over her mouth. “I’m sure I’ve never met anyone so witty.”

Emily felt a withering reply to that rise to her lips, but she merely smiled.

“Poor Mr. Ross,” she said noncommittally. “He must have been very devoted to her. Was it long ago?”

“Oh, it must be well over a year, perhaps closer to two years.”

Emily’s heart sank. Helena Doran had sounded like an excellent possibility as a suspect. With Sophie’s answer she receded into profound unlikelihood. She looked instinctively across the room at Euphemia. There was a man with her whom Emily had not seen before, a man of considerable distinction, perhaps fifty-five or sixty years old.

“Who is that most elegant gentleman with Lady Carlton?” she asked.

Sophie’s eyes followed hers.

“Oh, that’s Sir Robert! Did you not know?”

“No,” Emily shook her head slightly. He must be at least twenty years older than his wife-a most interesting fact. “I think I should be a little in awe of so grand a husband,” she said carefully. “He looks so very-important. He is in the government, is he not?”

“Yes, indeed. You know, I believe I should also. How perceptive you are. You put so excellently into words exactly what was in my mind, had I but known it.”