Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [52]
However, she did not get as far as the studio, because just inside the entrance of the conservatory she met with Sybilla, standing silent and motionless staring at a camellia bush. Charlotte gathered her wits and availed herself of this opportunity instead.
“One could almost imagine oneself out of England altogether,” she observed pleasantly.
Sybilla was jerked out of her reverie and struggled to find a civil reply to such a banal remark. “Indeed one could.”
There were lilies blooming a few feet away; their succulent flesh reminded Charlotte of bloodless faces. She did not know how long they would be alone there. She must use the time, and she fancied Sybilla was too intelligent for any oblique approach to succeed. Surprise just might.
“Was George in love with you?” she asked candidly.
Sybilla stood frozen for so long Charlotte could hear the condensation dripping from the top leaves near the roof onto the ones below. The fact that she did not instantly deny it was important in itself. Was she debating the truth with herself, or merely the safety of answering? Surely they must all know by now that it was murder, and have expected the question.
“I don’t know,” she said at last. “I am tempted to say, Mrs. Pitt, that it is a private matter, and none of your concern. But I suppose that since Emily is your sister, you cannot help caring.” She swung round to face Charlotte, her eyes wide, her smile vulnerable and curiously bitter. “I cannot answer for him, and I am sure you don’t expect me to repeat everything he said to me. But Emily was jealous, that is undoubted. She also carried it superbly.”
Looking at her, Charlotte was aware of intense emotions inside her, of the capability for passion and for pain. She could not possibly dislike her as she had intended.
“I apologize for asking,” she said brittlely. “I know it sounds gauche.”
“Yes,” Sybilla agreed dryly, “but you don’t have to explain.” There was no anger visible in Sybilla’s face, only a tightness, a consciousness of both irony and tragedy.
Charlotte was furious with herself and entangled in confusion. This woman had taken Emily’s husband—whether intentionally or not, in front of the whole house—and perhaps directly caused his death. She wanted to hate her with an unfettered, clean violence. Yet she could so easily imagine herself with similar feelings, and she was unable to sustain rage against anyone the moment she comprehended the capacity for pain. It ruined her judgment and tied her tongue.
“Thank you.” The words came out clumsily; it was not at all what she had meant for this interview. But she must try to salvage something out of it. “Do you know Mr. Radley well?”
“Not very,” Sybilla replied with a faint smile. “Papa-in-law wishes him to marry poor Tassie, and he is here for everyone to come discreetly to some arrangement. Although there is not much discreet about Jack—nor, I gather, has there ever been.”
“Is Tassie in love with him?” She felt a stab of shame for Emily. If she were, and being engineered into a marriage while Jack Radley quite openly humiliated her by displaying his attraction to Emily, then how she must have suffered. Were there any possibility of mistake, Charlotte would have supposed the poison intended for Emily.
Sybilla was smiling slightly. She reached out and touched the camellia petals. “Now I suppose they will go brown,” she remarked. “They do if you touch them. No she wasn’t, in fact. I don’t think she wanted to marry him at all. She’s something of a romantic.”
In that one phrase she summed up a host of things: a world of both regret and contempt for girlish innocence, a wry affection for Tassie, and the knowledge that Charlotte must be of a lower social class than herself to ask such a question at all. People like the Marches married for family reasons—to accumulate more wealth, to consolidate trade empires or ally with competitors, above all to breed strong sons to continue the name—never for emotional