Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [74]
“Oh.” She was stunned. Thoughts whirled around in her mind, passion and tragedy, a beautiful woman lonely, rejected and in despair. She could hardly imagine Anstiss’s grief, his sense of betrayal by a man he had believed his friend. Byam’s guilt. All that was twenty years ago, Vespasia had said. But what did they feel now? What had the years healed? Was that the strange emotion she had seen in Byam’s face as he looked out of the shadows of his box across at Anstiss?
The bell rang for them to return to their seats, and Charlotte took Pitt’s arm and sailed, head high, back up the stairs, jostling with the crowd, the chatter and laughter, the rustle of taffeta and scrape of heels. Fortunately he was looking where they were going, so it was unnecessary for her to.
The last act was the dramatic and musical climax and Charlotte gave it her attention, at least outwardly. Inwardly her mind was still thinking of the sharper, more immediate drama in the faces of Byam and of Fitz, and in the bright eyes of Fanny Hilliard.
After the final curtain, when the applause had died away, they joined the queue to leave, going very slowly down the stairs, pretending indifference to the crush and the waiting. There was no point in pushing their way through; they might so easily become separated, and then their carriage would not be there yet anyway.
It was nearly an hour later that they were sitting at a small, elegant supper table swapping gossip. Anstiss and Jack were talking quietly, sipping champagne, and Emily was telling Pitt all she could remember about Eleanor Byam.
“Did you enjoy the opera?” Vespasia asked Charlotte, looking at her flushed face and smiling.
“Yes,” Charlotte replied more or less honestly. Then she was compelled to add, “But I am not sure that I understood the story, and I don’t think I shall remember any of the music. I shall remember the way it looked, though. It was splendid, wasn’t it!”
“The best I’ve seen, I think,” Vespasia agreed, the smile still hovering about her lips.
Charlotte frowned. “Doesn’t opera ever have songs you can remember, like the music halls?”
Vespasia’s silver eyebrows rose. “My dear girl, I have no idea.”
Charlotte was disappointed. “But you come to the opera often, don’t you?”
Vespasia’s lips quivered. “Certainly. It is the music halls I do not frequent.”
“Ah!” Charlotte was filled with confusion. “I’m sorry.”
Vespasia started to laugh. “I have heard that Vesta Tilley has a song or two that are memorable.” And very quietly, in a sweet contralto, she began a racy, lilting song. She stopped after about eight bars. “I’m sorry I don’t know any more. Isn’t it a shame?”
Charlotte began to laugh as well, and found the hilarity bubbling up inside her till she could not stop.
It was nearly two in the morning and they were all tired, beginning to yawn, the women to become aware of tight shoes and even tighter stays, when Lord and Lady Byam came towards them, passing close by the table in order to leave. Beside Jack, Lord Anstiss was facing towards them and it was unavoidable they should acknowledge each other.
“Good evening.” Byam spoke first, being the one who had entered the circle. His face had a curious expression, his wide eyes were restless. Had it not seemed ridiculous Charlotte would have said he was seeking something, some answering emotion which he did not find, and the lack of it did not surprise him, and yet it still hurt. Or perhaps it was not ridiculous, if what Pitt had said was true and the old tragedy of Laura Anstiss had involved Byam. Anstiss was still alone; he had never remarried. Perhaps under his wit and outward composure the wound was still new. He had loved Laura, and even now no other woman could take her place. It was guilt and hope for forgiveness she had seen in Byam’s eyes, and in Anstiss’s face a continued courtesy, the outward show of a decent man trying to do what he believed was Christian.
Byam had stopped by their table.
Aiistiss leaned back a trifle in his chair and looked up at him. “Good evening, Byam,” he