Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [23]
Old Mrs. March was taking breakfast in bed, as usual. Other than that, everyone was present except George—and Sybilla.
Emily’s heart sank and all her happiness was cut off like a candle flame someone has pinched. Her hand felt numb on the back of the chair as she pulled it out, and when she went to lift the device for slicing the top off the boiled egg the parlormaid placed in front of her, she fumbled and had to steady herself. She had not dreamed it—George had quarreled with Sybilla. The nightmare was over. Of course, things would not be repaired between them instantly. It would take a little while, maybe even two or three weeks. But she could manage that—easily.
“Good morning, my dear,” Eustace said in exactly the same tone he used every day. “I trust you are well?” It was not a question, merely an acknowledgment of her arrival. He did not wish to hear about women’s indispositions; they were both uninteresting and indelicate—especially in the morning, when one wished to eat.
“Very,” Emily said aggressively. “I hope you are also?” The question was totally unnecessary in view of the abundance upon his plate.
“Most certainly I am.” His eyes widened under his short, rounded eyebrows. He let his breath out through his nose with a slight sound, and his glance flickered over the rest of the table: Vespasia eating a boiled egg delicately and silently; Tassie looking as pale as her freckles and flaming hair would allow, shadows under her eyes; Jack Radley staring at Emily, brow furrowed, two spots of color on his cheeks; and William, his whole body tight, his face pinched, and his hands gripping his fork as if it were a life belt someone might jerk away from him. “I am in excellent health,” Eustace reiterated with a note of accusation.
“I’m so glad.” Emily was determined to have the last word. She could not fight Sybilla and she did not want to fight George. Eustace would serve very well.
Eustace turned to Tassie. “And what do you intend to do with the day, my dear?” Before she could reply, he continued. “Compassion is most desirable in a young woman. Indeed, your dear mother, may the Lord rest her, was always about such things.” He reached for the toast and buttered a pile absently. “But you have other duties as well—to your guests, for a start. You must make them feel welcome. Of course, your home is primarily an island of peace and morality where the shadows of the world do not penetrate. But it should also be a place of comfortable entertainment, seemly laughter, and uplifting conversation.” He disregarded Tassie’s growing discomfort as if he were totally unaware of it, as indeed perhaps he was. Emily loathed him for his sheer blindness.
“I think you should take Mr. Radley for a carriage ride,” he went on, as if the idea had suddenly occurred to him. “It is excellent weather for such a thing. I am sure your grandmother Vespasia will be happy to accompany you.”
“You are nothing of the kind!” Vespasia snapped. “I have my own calls to make this afternoon. Tassie is welcome to come with me, if she likes, but I shall not go with her. No doubt she would find Mr. Carlisle of interest—as would Mr. Radley, if he cares to come as well.”
Eustace frowned. “Mr. Carlisle? Is he not that most unsuitable person who occupies himself in political agitations?”
Tassie’s head came up in immediate interest. “Oh?”
Eustace glared at her.
Vespasia did not quibble over the description, but her cool, dove gray eyes met Emily’s for an instant with a flash of memory, images of excitement, of appalling poverty and murder, and Emily found herself blushing hotly as the much closer thought of yesterday evening in the conservatory returned. She had begun by telling Jack Radley of precisely that same affair in which she had met Somerset Carlisle.1
“Most unsuitable,” Eustace said irritably. “There are better ways of serving the unfortunate