Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [55]
“And when do we expect this crisis to pass?” Mrs. March inquired coldly.
“When our reputation is restored and we are not the seat of scandal anymore,” Tassie said instantly, and blushed as soon as the words were out.
The curate took a deep breath, bit his lip, and colored as well.
“Anastasia!” Mrs. March’s voice cracked like a whip. “You will excuse yourself to your room if you cannot guard your tongue from uncharitableness, let alone impertinence. No doubt Mr. Beamish has his reasons for not calling upon us to give us his comfort in person.”
“I expect Mr. Hare will do rather better anyway,” Vespasia murmured to no one in particular. “I find the vicar peculiarly tedious.”
“That is beside the point!” Mrs. March snapped. “It is not the vicar’s function to be amusing. I always felt you did not understand religion, Vespasia. You never knew how to behave in church. You have had a tendency to laugh in the wrong places as long as I have known you.”
“That is because I have a sense of the absurd, and you have not,” Vespasia replied. She turned to Mungo Hare, balanced on the edge of one of the hard-backed, withdrawing room chairs and trying to compose his face to display the appropriate mixture of piety and solicitude. “Mr. Hare,” she continued, “please convey to Mr. Beamish that we understand his reasons quite perfectly, and that we are very satisfied that you should take his place.”
Tassie sneezed, or that is what it sounded like. Mrs. March made a clicking noise with her tongue, excessively irritated that Vespasia should have contrived to insult the vicar more effectively than she herself had. How dare the wretched, cowardly little man send a curate in his place to call upon the Marches? And Charlotte remembered with renewed vividness why she had liked Aunt Vespasia from the day they had met.
Mungo Hare duly unburdened himself of the condolences and the spiritual encouragement he had been charged with; then Tassie accompanied him upstairs to repeat it all to Emily, who had chosen to spend the afternoon alone.
Charlotte meant to go up later and see if she could tap Emily’s memory for some observation, however minor, which would betray a weakness, a lie, anything which could be pursued. But as she was crossing the hall Eustace emerged from the morning room, straightening his jacket and coughing loudly, thus making it impossible for her to pretend she had not seen him.
“Ah, Mrs. Pitt,” he said with affected surprise, his round little eyes very wide. “I should like to talk with you. Perhaps the boudoir? Mrs. March has gone to change for dinner, and I know it is presently unoccupied.” He was behind her, hands wide, almost as if he would physically shepherd her in the direction he wished her to go. Short of being unexplainably rude, she could not refuse.
Charlotte found the room one of the ugliest she had ever seen. It exemplified the worst taste of the last fifty years, and she felt suffocated by everything it symbolized as much as by the sheer weight of the furniture, the hot color, and the wealth of ornaments and drapings. It seemed to be expressive of a prudery that was vulgar in its very consciousness of the things it sought to cover—an opulence that was lacking in any real richness. It was difficult to keep the distaste from showing in her face.
For once Eustace did not fling open the windows in his customary manner, and it was the only time when she would willingly have done it for him. He seemed too preoccupied with the burden of framing his thoughts.
“Mrs. Pitt. I hope you find yourself as comfortable as may be, in these tragic circumstances?”
“Quite, thank you, Mr. March.” She was confused. Surely he had not brought her to this room to ask her in private such a trivial question?
“Good, good.” He rubbed his hands together and remained looking at her. “Of course, you do not know us very well. Nor perhaps anyone like us. No, no you wouldn’t. We must seem alien to you. I should explain, so that we do not add confusion as well to your natural grief for your sister. If I can help you at all,