Callander Square - Anne Perry [94]
When she arrived at the door and was faced by the footman, she still had not settled on anything satisfactory, but fortunately he did not inquire her business, and merely showed her in to the library. The general was behind his desk, apparently not working, since there was no pen to be seen; he was simply staring at a sea of papers. He looked up with some eagerness when she came in.
“Charlotte, my dear, how very nice to see you!”
She was a little unprepared for such warmth. What an unpredictable man he was. Perhaps he was still feeling the glow of Christina’s wedding?
“Good morning, General Balantyne,” she replied with the best-judged mixture of formality and feeling she could manage.
“Do come in.” He was already standing, coming round the desk toward her. “Sit down by the fire. The day is extremely unpleasant, but I suppose it is all we must expect in January.”
It came to her quite naturally to decline, then she remembered that she still had not thought of a reason for coming, and it would at least give her time.
“Thank you, yes, it is very cold. I think it is the wind that makes one feel it so much.”
He was still merely looking at her. It made her feel rather uncomfortable.
“One would think all the buildings would be some kind of shelter,” she went on, to fill the silence. “But they only seem to funnel it into fiercer blasts.”
“You must permit me to have my carriage take you home,” he said seriously. “And perhaps you would like something hot to drink now? A dish of tea?”
“Oh no, no, thank you,” she said hastily. “I don’t wish to put you to any inconvenience. I only came to—” quickly, what on earth could she have come for? “—because—I suddenly remembered that I had—had left out some rather important letters, left them out of the correct sequence. At least I think I have.” Did that sound feasible?
“That was most conscientious of you,” he said appreciatively. “I haven’t found anything out of order.”
“Perhaps if I were to check?” she stood up and surveyed the desk. At sight of it the very idea of order became ridiculous. She turned back to him helplessly.
“I’ve made rather a mess,” he announced the obvious. “I really would appreciate your assistance again.”
Something in the expression in his face disturbed her, a gentleness in the eyes, a very direct way he had of looking at her. Good heavens! Surely he had not misunderstood her reason for calling again? Her excuse was thin enough, in truth—but not for that reason! She wanted to catch Jemima, and if she called directly at the Southerons’ for no other reason, she would arouse suspicion, perhaps let Reggie Southeron know, or suspect, her real intentions. Guilty people, and she was sure he was guilty, were inclined to be highly suspicious. Conscience leaped the bounds of logic and saw accusation even where there was none, let alone where it was the precise purpose, inadequately disguised.
Balantyne was waiting, still watching her.
“Oh,” she recalled herself to the urgency of disabusing him. “Well—” she glanced at the heap on the desk, “I should be happy to put that in some order, but I cannot offer more than that, I’m afraid.” She smiled, trying to rob her statement of its harshness. “Since I have no maids, I have a rather pressing need to do a little housework. It is really becoming imperative.”
“Oh,” his face fell. “I’m sorry for having been so inconsiderate. I—of course. I don’t wish to take you away from—” he stammered a little, hastily collecting himself. “Yes, I see. But if you would today, I should be most grateful—” he hesitated, and she was almost sure he was wondering whether to offer her payment, and how to do it tactfully. She knew he was embarrassed, and she felt for him. She smiled easily.
“Actually I hate housework, and for one day I can excuse myself to my conscience. I dare say it is most unfeminine of me, but I find the Crimean War infinitely more interesting