Bedford Square - Anne Perry [61]
“Of course, my dear,” he said gently, and his regard for Charlotte changed in that moment. It was clear in his expression, the way his shoulders relaxed as he moved to open the French doors for them both, that she had in that one gesture become a friend.
When they were gone—two graceful figures across the small strip of green lawn, outlined by the background of trees, urns of pale flowers reflecting the sunlight, white petunias dramatic against the dark flames of cypress—he closed the doors and came back across the room to Vespasia.
“You look tired, Dunraithe,” she said gently.
He remained standing, half turned away from her.
“I was awake a little last night. It is nothing. It happens to all of us now and again.”
She must not waste precious time while Marguerite was occupied outside. He would certainly not tell her anything once his wife returned. He had always done everything in his power to protect her from distress of any kind. And yet if Vespasia were precipitate he would regard it as intrusive and be offended. Not only would she not have helped but she would also have damaged a friendship which she valued.
“It does,” she agreed with a self-deprecatory little shrug. Then an idea came to her. There was no time to weigh its merits. The garden was small, and Charlotte could keep Marguerite outside only a given length of time. “I have lost some sleep myself recently.”
He wished to be courteous, but his attention was only half upon her, and in spite of his efforts, she was aware of it. Theloneus was right, Dunraithe White was deeply worried about something.
“Oh … I’m sorry,” he said with an absentminded smile. It did not occur to him to enquire as to what the cause might be. She was going to have to be far more blunt than she had wished.
“It is the curse of an imagination,” she responded.
That was something to which he could not easily think of a casual reply.
“Of an imagination?” His attention was real at last. “Are you afraid of something, Vespasia?”
“Not for myself,” she answered, meeting his eyes. “For my friends, which I suppose in the end is the same thing. We are given pain or happiness through those we care for.”
“Of course.” He said it with sudden intensity. “It is the core of what we are. Without the ability to love we would be half alive … less. And what we have would be of no value … no joy.”
“And no pain,” she added.
His eyes clouded, and there was a fierce tenderness in his face. Suddenly his emotions were raw. She had always known he loved Marguerite, but in that moment she saw something of the depth of it, and the vulnerability. She could not help wondering if Marguerite White was really as fragile as he believed. But it was a judgment only he had the right to make.
“Yes, of course,” he said in little more than a whisper. “The two are inseparable.”
She waited, but he did not go on. Either he was too absorbed in his own feelings or he believed that asking her about herself would be intrusive.
She took a deep breath and let it out silently.
“One cannot see a true friend suffer, perhaps even be ruined, without attempting to help.” She watched him as she spoke.
His head jerked up, his body became rigid. It was as if she had struck him. The quiet room, sunlit from the garden beyond, was permeated with fear. Still he said nothing.
She would not let it go, she could not. “Dunraithe, I need your advice. That is really why I have come at this very inappropriate hour. I do know better than to call unannounced at three in the afternoon.”
A flash of painful humor crossed his face and vanished.
“You, of all people, do not need to apologize. How can I help you?”
At last!
“Someone I know and care for,” she answered, “and for reasons which will be obvious to you, I should prefer not to name him, is being blackmailed.” She stopped. The expression on his face did not change in the slightest; indeed, it was unnaturally