Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [93]
Callantha made the usual polite replies, and conducted them to be introduced to the other guests, all talking busily and saying very little of consequence. Just over half an hour later, when the pianist had begun to play a composition of incredible monotony, Charlotte observed a very self-possessed child of about fourteen whom she recognized from the portrait to be Fanny. She excused herself from her present company—easily done, since they were all bored with each other and had been pretending to listen to the music—and made her way between other groups until she was next to Fanny.
“Do you like it?” she whispered quite casually, as if they were long acquaintances.
Fanny looked slightly uncertain. She had an intelligent, candid little face, with the same mouth as her mother, and gray eyes, but otherwise the resemblance was less than the portrait affected. And she did not look as if lying came to her by nature.
“I think perhaps I don’t understand it.” She found the tactful answer with some triumph.
“Neither do I,” Charlotte said agreeably. “I don’t care to have to understand music unless I like the sound of it.”
Fanny relaxed. “You don’t like it either,” she observed with relief. “Actually, I think it’s awful. I can’t imagine why Mama invited him. I suppose he’s ‘the thing’ this month or something. And he looks so dreadfully serious about it I can’t help thinking he doesn’t like it much himself. Maybe this isn’t the way he means it to sound, do you suppose?”
“Perhaps he’s worried he won’t be paid,” Charlotte answered. “I wouldn’t pay him.”
Seeing her smile, Fanny burst into laughter, then realized it was completely improper, and hid her mouth with her hands. She regarded Charlotte with new interest.
“You are so pretty you don’t look as if you’d say dreadful things,” she observed frankly, then realized that she had added to her social mistake even further, and blushed.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said sincerely. “I’m so glad you think I look nice.” She lowered her voice in conspiracy. “Actually, I borrowed my dress from my sister, and I think now she wishes she’d worn it herself. But please don’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, I shan’t!” Fanny promised instantly. “It’s beautiful.”
“Have you got any sisters?”
Fanny shook her head. “No, only a brother, so I can’t really borrow anything much. It must be nice to have a sister.”
“Yes, it is—most of the time. Although I think I might have liked a brother, too. I have some cousins, only I hardly ever see them.”
“So have I—but they’re mostly boys as well. At least the ones I see are. They’re second cousins really, but it’s much the same.” Her face became sober. “One of them just died. It was all rather horrible. He got killed. I don’t really understand what happened, and nobody will tell me. I think it must be something disgusting, or they’d say—don’t you think?”
Her words were quite casual, but Charlotte saw behind the puzzled, rather offhand look the need to be reassured. And reality would be better than the monsters created by silence.
Apart from her own need to press for information, Charlotte did not want to insult the child with comfortable lies.
“Yes,” she said honestly. “I should think there’s probably something that hurts, so people would rather not talk about it.”
Fanny looked at her for several moments before speaking again, measuring her up.
“He was murdered,” she said at last.
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” Charlotte answered with perfect composure. “That’s very sad. How did it happen?”
“Our tutor, Mr. Jerome—everyone says he killed him.”
“Your tutor? How appalling. Did they have a fight? Do you suppose it was an accident? Perhaps he did not mean to be so violent?”
“Oh, no!” Fanny shook her head. “It wasn’t like that at all. It wasn’t a fight—Arthur was drowned in the bath.” She screwed up her face in bewilderment. “I simply don’t understand it. Titus—that’s my brother—had to give evidence in court. They wouldn’t let me go, of course. They don’t let me do anything really interesting! Sometimes it’s awful being a girl.” She sighed. “But