Bedford Square - Anne Perry [17]
She stared at him. She could not remember him. How could he possibly have remembered her?
“Yes …”
“If you’d like to come in, Mrs. Pitt, I shall see if Lady Augusta or General Balantyne is at home.” He stepped back to allow her to accept.
She had no choice.
“Thank you.” She found she was shaking. If Lady Augusta was in, what could Charlotte possibly say to her? They had disliked each other before Christina. Now it would be even worse. What on earth could she say? What excuse was there for her presence?
She was shown into the morning room and recognized the model of the brass gun carriage from Waterloo on the table. It was as if the years had telescoped into each other and vanished. She felt the horror of the Devil’s Acre murders as if they were still happening, all the pain and injustice raw.
She paced back and forth. Once she actually went as far as the door into the hall and opened it. But there was a housemaid on the stairs. If she left now she would be seen. She would look even more absurd than if she stayed.
She closed the door again and waited, facing it as if she expected an attack.
It opened and General Balantyne stood there. He was older. Tragedy had marked his face; there was a knowledge of pain in his eyes and his mouth which had not been there when they had first met. But his back was as straight, his shoulders as square, and he looked as directly as he always had.
“Mrs. Pitt?” There was surprise in his face, and a softness which was almost certainly pleasure.
She remembered how very much she had liked him.
“General Balantyne.” Without thinking, she stepped forward. “I really don’t know why I have come, except to say how sorry I am that you should have the misfortune of some miserable man choosing your doorstep on which to die. I hope they can clear it up rapidly and you—” She stopped. He did not deserve platitudes. Lyndon Remus had already done the harm by resurrecting the Devil’s Acre case. No solution to this new murder would undo that.
“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I suppose that was all I wanted to say. I could have written a letter, couldn’t I?”
He smiled very slightly. “A beautifully phrased, most tactful one, which would not have meant much and not sounded like you at all,” he answered. “And I should think you had changed, which I should regret.” Then he colored faintly, as if he were aware of having been too outspoken.
“I hope I’ve learned a little,” she said. “Even if I sometimes fail to put it into practice.” She wanted to remain at least a few minutes longer. Perhaps there was something she could do to help, if only she could think of it. But it would be horribly intrusive to ask questions, and Pitt would already have done so anyway. Why did she imagine she could do anything more?
He broke the silence. “How are you? How is your family?”
“Very well. My children are growing up. Jemima is quite tall ….”
“Ah, yes … Jemima.” A smile touched his mouth again. No doubt, like her, he was thinking of Jemima Waggoner, who had married his only son, and after whom Charlotte had named her daughter. “They returned the compliment, you know?”
“The compliment?” she asked.
“Yes. They called their second son Thomas.”
“Oh!” She smiled back. “No. I didn’t know. I shall tell him. He’ll be very pleased. Are they well?”
“Very. Brandy is posted in Madrid now. We don’t see them very often.”
“You must miss them.”
“Yes.” There was a moment of deep loneliness in his eyes. He looked away, staring out of the window into the quiet summer garden, roses lush and heavy in the morning sun, the dew already evaporated from them.
The clock ticked on the mantelshelf.
“My mother remarried,” Charlotte said awkwardly.
He dragged himself to the present and turned back to face her.
“Oh? I … hope she is happy.” It was not a question; one did not ask about such things, it was far too personal and intrusive. One did not even speak about happiness or unhappiness; it would be indelicate.
She smiled at him, meeting his eyes. “Oh, yes. She married an actor.