Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [17]
Tassie bent her head a little lower over her toast and preserves. The pinkness deepened in her face, a reflection of a mixture of frustration at being patronized and embarrassment because her father’s reference to her was obviously infinitely more indelicate than anything she had meant.
But Eustace was relentless; he pursued the subject obliquely throughout breakfast. To food and health were added delicacy of upbringing, discretion, obedience, an even temper, and the appropriate skills in conversation and household management. The only attribute not touched upon was wealth, and that of course would have been vulgar. And it was a matter of some sensitivity to him; his mother was of a fine family who had squandered its means, obliging her either to reduce her style of life or marry into a family which had made its fortunes in the Industrial Revolution in the mines and mills of the North. The “Trade.” She had chosen the latter, with some distaste. The former was unthinkable.
He nodded his head in satisfaction as he spoke. “When I think of my own happiness with my beloved wife, may heaven rest her, I realize how much all these things contributed to it. Such a wonderful woman! I treasure her memory—you have no notion. It was the saddest day of my life when she departed this vale of tears for a better place.”
Emily glanced across at William, whose head was bent to hide his face, and accidentally caught Jack Radley’s eyes, filled with amusement. He rolled them very slightly and smiled at her. It was a bright, disturbing look, and she knew without doubt that although the monumental effort she had made over the last three days might have failed with George, it had succeeded brilliantly with him. It was a bitter satisfaction, and worth nothing—unless unintentionally she should finally provoke George to jealousy.
She smiled back at him, not warmly, but with at least a shred of conspiracy.
George was drawn in, curiously enough, by Eustace. Eustace spoke to him with friendliness, seeking his opinion, expressing an admiration for him, which Emily found singularly inopportune. At the moment George was the last person in the house anyone should have consulted about married bliss. But Eustace was pursuing his own interests with Jack Radley and Tassie, and oblivious of anyone else’s feelings, least of all their possible embarrassment.
Emily spent the morning writing letters to her mother, a cousin to whom she owed a reply, and to Charlotte. She told Charlotte everything about George; her pain, the sense of loss which surprised her, and the loneliness that opened up in a gray, flat vastness ahead. Then she tore it up and disposed of it in the water closet.
Luncheon was worse. They were back in the heavy, rust red dining room and everyone was present except Great-aunt Vespasia, who had chosen to visit an acquaintance in Mayfair.
“Well!” Eustace rubbed his hands and looked round at all their faces in turn. “And what do we plan for the afternoon? Tassie? Mr. Radley?”
“Tassie has errands to do for me!” Mrs. March snapped. “We do have our duty, Eustace. We cannot be forever playing and amusing ourselves. My family has a position—it has always had a position.” Whether this remark was purely a piece of personal vanity or a reminder to Jack Radley that they were quite unarguably his social equals was not clear.
“And Tassie always seems to be the one keeping it up,” George said with a waspishness surprising in him.
Mrs. March’s eyes froze. “And why not, may I ask? She has nothing else to do. It is her function, her calling in life, George. A woman must have something to do. Would you deny her that?”
“Of course not!” George was getting cross, and Emily felt a lift of pride for him in spite of herself. “But I can think of a lot more amusing things for her to do than upholding the position of the Marches,” he finished.
“I daresay!