Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [133]
“Not as good!” Joseph said incredulously.
“Not in that field,” she replied. “Physics and mathematics of that order, inventive, original, are a young man’s skills. Corcoran was the best in his time, but that was twenty-five years ago.”
“But . . .” He struggled after explanations, something to rebut what she was saying. It was heading toward an abyss that appalled him.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
He sat stunned. He did not want to think of it, but the reasoning unrolled in front of him just like the ribbon of road ahead, and he was carried along just as inevitably as if he were in a vehicle of the mind that he could neither stop nor steer away.
Corcoran had lied about Morven, not in order to protect the work, but about their relative abilities, even the nature of their skills. Morven had not taken Blaine’s place; Corcoran had taken it himself, or tried to. Was that why the work had taken so much longer? Corcoran was not as good, he had not the keenness of grasp, the agility of intellect.
Lizzie drove on silently.
Other things came into Joseph’s mind, like the branches coming into sight as they turned a corner in the road. Corcoran sitting at the family table making them all laugh, years ago, when Joseph was a boy; Corcoran telling stories, complimenting Alys and making her blush but laugh at the same time; Corcoran talking about his work, eyes burning with pride and enthusiasm, saying how it would revolutionize the war at sea, how it would save Britain. He had not boasted that his name would go down in history as the man whose brilliance altered the course of life, but it was there between the lines.
Only had he lived, it would have been Theo Blaine’s name that was written, not Corcoran’s.
Was that it? Glory? Had he, not Morven, murdered Blaine, believing he could take his place, and then found he could not? The thought was unbearable! What treachery to the past, to friendship, to his father, that he could even allow such a thing into his head! Joseph despised himself that he could do it, but it was there, immovable.
How could he have been so wrong all his life? And his father be wrong as well? John Reavley had loved Corcoran as a friend since university days. Was he so deluded that he had missed such a fatal hunger for fame, for endless adoration?
At last Lizzie interrupted, her voice strained as if she could keep silent no longer. “What is it?” she asked. “I have to know one day. You don’t need to protect me.”
“I . . .” he started. Then he realized how rude that would sound, saying that it was himself he was protecting, his dreams and his beliefs, all the safety of the past that comforted and sustained now. He watched her face, strong and humorous and brave, trying to find a way through loss. She deserved the truth, and he realized with surprise that he would like to share it with her. It would be easier, not harder for him.
Finding the words with difficulty, he described to her what he had thought, the slow piecing together until the picture they made was inescapable.
It was several moments before she answered.
Had he made a hideous mistake, turned on the one man who was doing all he could for the best, selflessly? Would Lizzie despise him for it as much as Corcoran himself would, and Matthew, and Hannah?
But a voice inside him said that he was not wrong. War could strip a man down to essentials of strength or weakness that the comforts of peace had layered with deceit. It revealed flaws that lesser times left decently covered.
Lizzie pulled the car to a stop at the side of the lane and turned to face him. Her eyes were full of unhappiness and a deep and terrible pity.
“I wish I could think of anything to argue you out of that, but if I did I would be lying, and we can’t afford anything less than the truth, can we.” It was a statement, not a question. “I’m so sorry. It would be so much easier if it were anyone else.”
He was not