Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [92]
He ached, almost physically, to be able to offer her the strength and the comfort, the protection she needed, and he could not. He was going to do the very opposite, make it almost immeasurably worse. Perhaps he was even going to take from her the one person she had left to believe in who cared for her, her brother. Even Piers offered her largely duty and no real understanding. He was too much in love with Justine to see anyone else, and too young to comprehend her distress. He had not yet truly discovered himself, not had time to invest so much of himself in anything that disillusion could tear apart his identity.
He began with the easiest question, the first thing to eliminate.
“When your husband was in the bath, you were here in your room, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” She looked puzzled. “I already told you that when you asked before.”
“And your maid, Doll Evans, was with you?”
“Yes, most of the time. Why?” There was a shadow in her eyes. “Even if I had known how Ainsley was behaving, I would not have harmed him.” She smiled. “I had imagined you understood me better than that, Mr. Pitt.”
“I did not imagine you hurt him, Mrs. Greville,” he said honestly. “I wanted to know where Doll was.”
“Doll?” Her delicate eyebrows rose in disbelief. It was almost laughter. “Why on earth would Doll wish him any harm? She is as English as you are, and completely loyal to me. She has no cause to hurt us, Mr. Pitt. We looked after her when she was ill, and kept the position for her return. She would be the last person to harm either of us.”
“Was she with you all that quarter hour when your husband was in the bath?” he repeated.
“No. She went to fetch something, I don’t recall what. It may have been a cup of tea, I think it was.”
“How long was she away?”
“I don’t know. Not long. But the idea that she would attack my husband in the bath is absurd.” It was plain in her face that she had no fear it could be true. She sincerely thought it was preposterous.
“Did Mr. Doyle visit you often, either in London or at Oakfield House?”
“Why? What is it you are seeking after, Mr. Pitt?” She was frowning now. “Your questions do not make any sense. First you ask about Doll, now Padraig. Why?”
“What illness did Doll suffer? Did Mr. Doyle know of it?”
“I don’t remember.” She tightened her hands in her lap. “Why? I don’t know what illness it was. What can it matter?”
“She was with child, Mrs. Greville—”
“Not by Padraig!” She was horrified, denial was fierce and instant.
“No, not by Mr. Doyle,” he agreed. “By Mr. Greville, and not willingly … by coercion.”
“She … she had a child!” She was really finding it difficult to catch her breath. Unconsciously, she put her hand up to her throat as though her silk fichu choked her.
He wanted to lean forward and take her hand, steady her, but it would have appeared like an overfamiliarity, even an intrusion. He had to remember where he was, formal, removed, going on hurting her, watching her face to judge whether she had known this before or not.
“No,” he answered. “He insisted that she abort it, and she could not afford to defy him. She would be out on the street with no money and no character. She could not have cared for a child. He had it done away with.” He chose the words deliberately and saw her face lose every shred of its color and her eyes darken with horror. She stared at him, trying to probe into his mind and find something that would tell her it was not true.
“She was … different … when she came back,” she said slowly, more to herself than to him. “She was … sadder, very quiet, almost slow, as if she had no will anymore, no laughter. I thought it was just because she was not yet fully recovered.”
Once she saw he was sincere, she did not fight against it. She was looking backward, trying to remember anything which would disprove it, and there was nothing. It was almost like examining a wound. Part of her was clinical, logical, exact. And yet she was looking at the death of part of herself.
“Poor Doll,