Callander Square - Anne Perry [87]
“I’m interested in Helena’s life,” Pitt continued. “The cause of her death lies in that, not what happened to her body afterward. She was with child, did you know?”
Balantyne felt an added twist of hurt for the double loss.
“Yes, I heard. Unfortunately little remains unpassed from door to door in a square like this.”
“Do you know who her lover was?” Pitt asked baldly.
Balantyne was repelled, he winced at the vulgarity of the question. Helena had been a woman of quality, a—he caught Pitt’s eyes and realized he was trying to cling to a dream of unreality that was no longer viable. But to think so—of a woman! Damn Pitt for his squalid truths.
“Do you?” Pitt repeated, although it was an unnecessary question. Balantyne’s sensitive revulsion had already answered it for him.
“No, of course I don’t!” Balantyne turned away.
“It is natural that you should be distressed,” Pitt said softly. “You had a high regard for her?”
Balantyne was not sure how to answer, he hesitated awkwardly. He had always found her fair beauty especially clean and gentle; perhaps he had idealized it a little.
Pitt was speaking again at his shoulder.
“I believe she had a considerable admiration for you also.”
Balantyne jerked upward with surprise.
Pitt smiled very slightly.
“Women confide in each other, you know. And I have been asking questions about women in this square for quite a long time now.”
“Oh,” Balantyne looked away again.
“How well did you know her, General Balantyne?” Pitt’s voice was quiet, but it put a sudden new and dreadful thought into Balantyne’s head. He swung round, feeling the blood hot in his face. He stared at Pitt, trying to see if the suspicion was in his eyes. He found only intelligent interest, waiting, probing.
“Not very,” he said clumsily. “I told you—I—I knew her socially, as a neighbor. Not more than that.”
Pitt said nothing.
“Not more than that,” Balantyne repeated. He started to say something else, to clarify it, so that Pitt would understand, then faltered and fell silent.
“I see.” Pitt meant no more than that he had heard him. He asked a few more questions, then sought permission to speak to the women.
He left, and Balantyne stood in the room feeling foolish and considerably shaken. Three, even two months ago, he had been unthinkingly sure of so many things that now lay in ugly and unfamiliar shreds around him. So much of it had to do with women. All the certainties that had provided so much of the security of his life, not materially, but emotionally, lay in his beliefs about women. Now Christina had become involved with that fearful footman, and was going to marry Alan Ross. Thank God that at least had come to a tolerable conclusion. Although Augusta’s part in it was something he had not yet come to terms with. Euphemia Carlton was bearing another man’s child, which he felt was inexplicable. She had inexcusably betrayed a good man, who loved her. And now poor Helena Doran had been beguiled and used, and murdered. Or had she? Perhaps they would never know the truth of that. The thought of all of it hurt him.
But in some ways the most disturbing of all, the thing in himself he least wished to look at was the warmth with which he regarded Charlotte Ellison, the pleasure he felt in her company, the acuteness with which he could recall to his mind’s eye the exact curve of her throat, the rich color of her hair, the way she looked at him, and how deeply she felt all that she did and said, whether it were better said, or not.
It was ridiculous. He did not get disturbed, feel hope or embarrassment, least of all loneliness over a young woman: one who regarded him as nothing more than an employer! Or perhaps a little more? He believed she might have some respect for him, dare he imagine affection? No, of course not. Dismiss the thought. He was making an idiot of himself.
He picked up some paper and began furiously to