A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [107]
“Excuse me,” she said, interrupting Arthur without a thought.
“Eh?” He looked startled. “Yes?”
“I think the young lady is waiting for you.” She indicated the girl in pink.
He turned around to follow her gaze. A mixture of emotions filled his face—discomfort, defensiveness, irritation, and tenderness.
“Oh—yes, Victoria, do come and meet Lady Callandra Daviot.”
Victoria hesitated; now that attention was drawn to her, she was self-conscious.
Callandra knew what life lay ahead for a girl who could not ever hope to marry. She would be permanently dependent upon her father for financial support, and upon her mother for companionship and affection. She would never have a home of her own, unless she were an only child of wealthy parents, which Victoria was not. Arthur would naturally inherit the estate, apart from a suitable dowry for his marriageable sisters. His brothers would make their own way, having been given appropriate education and a handsome start.
For Victoria, by far the most consistently painful thing would be the pity, the well-meaning and desperately cruel remarks, the unthinking questions, the young men who paid her court—until they knew.
With an ache inside her that was almost intolerable, Callandra smiled at the girl.
“How do you do, Miss Stanhope,” she said with all the charm she could muster, which was far more than she realized.
“How do you do, Lady Callandra,” Victoria said with a hesitant smile in answer.
“What a delightful garden you have,” Callandra went on. Not only was she considerably the elder, and therefore it was incumbent upon her to lead the conversation, it was quite apparent that Victoria found it hard to accomplish what duty required, and did not enjoy it. Social awkwardness was a pinprick compared with the mortal wound that had already been dealt her, but at that moment Callandra would have spared her even the thought of pain, much less its reality. “I see you have several fine pinks as well. I love the perfume of them, don’t you?” She saw Victoria’s answering smile. “A gentleman with an eyeglass was just explaining to me how they are propagated to cross one strain with another.”
“Oh yes—Colonel Strother,” Victoria said quickly, taking a step closer. “I’m afraid he does tend to elaborate on the subject rather.”
“Just a little,” Callandra conceded. “Still, it is a pleasant enough thing to discuss, and I daresay he meant it kindly.”
“I had rather listen to Colonel Strother on pinks than Mrs. Warburton on immorality in garrison towns.” Victoria smiled a little. “Or Mrs. Peabody on her health, or Mrs. Kilbride on the state of the cotton industry in the plantations of America, or Major Drissell on the Indian mutiny.” Her enthusiasm grew with a sense of ease with Callandra. “We get the massacre at Amritsar every time he calls. I have even had it served up with fish at dinner, and again with the sorbet.”
“Some people have very little sense of proportion,” Callandra agreed with answering candor. “On their favorite subject, they tend to bolt like a horse with a bit between its teeth.”
Victoria laughed; it seemed the analogy amused her.
“Excuse me.” A nice-looking young man of perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two came up apologetically, a small lace handkerchief in his hand. He looked at Victoria, almost ignoring Callandra and apparently not having seen Arthur at all. He held up the scrap of lawn and lace. “I think you may have dropped this, ma’am. Excuse my familiarity in returning it.” He smiled. “But it gives me the opportunity of presenting myself. My name is Robert Oliver.”
Victoria’s cheeks paled, then flushed deep red. A dozen emotions chased themselves across her face: pleasure, a wild hope, and then the bitterness