Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [51]
“Family loyalty is a wonderful thing,” Sybilla remarked with an expression that could have meant anything at all, except what it said. “I expect a tragedy like this will show us where our true friends really are.”
“I am sure,” Charlotte agreed, looking at no one, “we shall discover depths in each other we had not dreamed of.”
Eustace choked, Jack Radley’s eyes opened so wide he seemed transfixed, and old Mrs. March threw the door open so violently it jarred against the wall and bruised the paper.
Dinner was grim, conducted mostly in silence, since Mrs. March chose to freeze any conversation at birth by staring fixedly at whoever spoke. Afterwards she declared that in view of the day’s events it would be suitable if everyone retired early. She glowered at Eustace and then at Jack Radley so they could not possibly escape her meaning; then she rose and commanded the ladies to follow her. They trooped obediently to sit for an insufferable hour in the pink boudoir before excusing themselves and going upstairs.
Emily had gone back to her own room, because naturally Vespasia required hers for herself. Lying hot and tangled in George’s bed in the dressing room, Charlotte was acutely aware of her, wondering if she should get up and go to her, or if it was one of those times when Emily needed to be alone, to work through the stages of her grief as she must.
She woke for the final time a little late to find the air heavy and humid and the room full of white, flat light. There was a maid standing in the doorway with a tray in her hands. A hideous flood of memory swamped Charlotte, not only of where she was and that George was dead, but that he had had poisoned coffee on his morning tray. For a moment the thought of sitting here in this same bed and drinking tea was intolerable. She opened her mouth to say something angry, then saw that it was the short, sensible figure of Digby, and the protest died.
“Good morning, ma’am.” Digby set the tray down and drew the curtains. “I’ll draw you a bath. It’ll be good for you.” She did not allow any question into her tone. It was clearly an order, possibly originating with Great-aunt Vespasia.
Charlotte sat up, blinking. Her eyes were gritty, her head ached, and she longed for the luxury of hot, clean-tasting tea. “Have you seen Lady Ashworth this morning?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. The mistress gave her some laudanum last night and said I was to leave her till ten at the soonest and then take her breakfast in. No doubt you’ll be wanting to take yours downstairs with the family.” Again it was not a question. In fact, it was the last thing Charlotte felt like, but it was clearly a matter of duty. And she could certainly be of no service to Emily lying here in bed.
Breakfast was another almost silent meal taken in a room sharply chilly, since Eustace had preceded them and thrown all the windows open, and no one dared to close them while he was still there, plowing his way with unabated appetite through porridge, bacon, kedgeree, muffins, and toast and marmalade.
Afterwards Charlotte excused herself and went to the morning room, where she wrote letters for Emily, informing various more distant members of the family of George’s death. That at least would save Emily some pain.
By eleven she had completed all she could think of, and Emily was still not down, so she decided to begin her pursuit in earnest.
She had intended to speak to William, to see if she could form a clearer impression of him and confirm in her own mind what that extraordinary expression she had glimpsed the evening before might have been. She learned from the parlormaid that he was likely to be in his painting studio at the far end of the conservatory, and that the police were in the house again—not the inspector who had been the day before, but the constable—and the whole kitchen was set on its ears by his probing and prying into all sorts that was none of his affair. Cook was beside herself, and the scullery maid was in tears; the bootboy’s eyes were bulging