Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [165]
But it was not only Piers’s world which had crumbled around him; in a smaller way, Gracie’s had also. Charlotte wished there was something she could do to help, but she knew there wasn’t. There was no help for that kind of pain, except not to keep referring to it, or talking around it, trying to convince the person that it did not really hurt and was all for the best. Above all, never tell people you know how they feel. Even if you have had the same experience, you are not the same. Each person’s pain is unique.
She climbed out of bed slowly, feeling as if her head would drop off if she were not careful. She must get dressed. They still did not know who had murdered Ainsley Greville or Lorcan McGinley, at least not officially. She had a sickening feeling there was little doubt left that it was Padraig Doyle, with all the grief that that would bring.
She would have to summon all the strength she had to deal with that. Eudora would be shattered. Pitt would be torn with compassion for her, aching to be able to help, and guilty because he was the one who would have to uncover the truth and prove it.
Charlotte would dearly like to tell Eudora it was her own distress and she would have to live with it. It was not Pitt’s fault she had failed to grow close to her son, or that her husband was a callous user of people, or that her brother was an assassin.
But if she were honest, what she really meant was that Eudora had a grace about the way she suffered, and her need was consuming a part of Pitt that Charlotte thought should be hers. Not a very becoming sentiment.
The water in the jugs had gone almost cold. She could ring for more or use what was there. Cold water might wake her up anyway.
The door opened and Pitt came in. He stopped in surprise.
“You’re awake.” He frowned. “Are you all right?” He closed the door and came over towards her. “You look dreadful.”
“Thank you,” she replied waspishly, pushing her hair out of her eyes and reaching blindly for a towel.
He passed it to her. “Don’t be sarcastic,” he criticized. “You really do look poorly. I suppose I haven’t realized how hard you’ve had to work to stop this from being a disaster, especially for Emily.”
“She’s terrified for Jack …” she responded.
“I know.” He brushed her hair back off her face. “She has every cause to be.”
There was a knock at the door, and reluctantly Pitt went to answer it, expecting Gracie, but it was Jack.
“Cornwallis is on the telephone to speak to you,” he said.
Pitt let out his breath in a sigh.
“In the library,” Jack added. He looked concerned. He glanced at Charlotte, smiled bleakly, then followed Pitt out.
Pitt went down the stairs feeling weary and apprehensive. He had nothing to tell Cornwallis that he would want to hear. And yet there was also something even more important, deeper into the core of himself, which had eased out. A knot which had been hurting him was unraveled and smooth. He would not ever completely understand Charlotte. He did not want to. In time that would become boring. There would always be occasions when he wished she were more obviously vulnerable, more dependent upon his strength or his judgment, or more predictable. But then she would also be less generous, less brave, and less honest to him, and that was too high a price to pay for a little emotional comfort. She could not give him every answer he wanted, any more than he could for her. But what they could give was far, far more than enough; it was full, heaped, and running over. The few other things did not matter; they could be forgotten or done without.
He went into the library and picked up the telephone receiver.
“Good morning, sir.”
He heard Cornwallis’s distinctive voice on the other end. “Good morning, Pitt. How are you? What is happening there?”
Pitt made his decision about Justine without even being aware of it.
“We had a closer look at Greville’s body, sir. He didn’t drown. He was killed by a very skilled blow to the side of the neck.