Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [7]
“You won’t be,” Vespasia retorted. “Not as long as Sybilla insists upon wearing scarlet.”
“Very suitable for her,” Emily said, before she thought. She had intended it to be inaudible, but just at the precise moment everyone around them stopped speaking and her voice came clearly into the pause.
There was a touch of color in George’s face, and she looked away instantly, wishing she had bitten her tongue till it bled rather than betray herself so nakedly.
“I’m so glad you like it,” Sybilla answered quite calmly, rising also. There seemed no end to her aplomb. “We all have colors which flatter us, and those which don’t. I doubt I should look as well as you do in that shade of blue.”
That made it worse. Instead of spitting back she had been charming. Even now, George was smiling at her. Almost as if some invisible current had designed it, they were swept out of the box into the eddy of people pressing to reach the foyer, George next to Sybilla, offering his arm as if anything less would have been uncivil.
Emily found herself, hot-faced and stumbling, being pushed and jostled forward with Jack Radley’s arm about her and Great-aunt Vespasia’s beautiful silver head in front.
Once they reached the foyer it was inescapable that they should meet with people they knew, and be obliged to exchange opinions and inquiries as to health, and all the other chitchat of such an occasion. It swam over her head in a senseless bedlam. She nodded and smiled and agreed with everything that penetrated into her mind. Someone asked after her son, Edward, and she replied that he was at home and very well. Then George nudged her sharply, and she remembered to inquire after the family of the speaker. It all babbled on around her:
“Delightful performance!”
“Have you seen Pinafore?”
“How does that piece go again?”
“Shall you be at Henley? I do love regattas. Such a delightful thing for a hot day, don’t you agree?”
“I prefer Goodwood. There is something about the races—all the silks, don’t you know!”
“But my dear, what about Ascot?”
“I rather care for Wimbledon, myself.”
“I haven’t a thing to wear! I must see my dressmaker immediately—I really need an entire new wardrobe.”
“Wasn’t the Royal Academy too frightful this year!”
“My dear, I do agree! Perfectly tedious!”
Clumsily, she survived nearly half an hour of such greetings and comments before at last finding herself alone in her carriage with George beside her, stiff and more distant than a stranger.
“What on earth is the matter with you, Emily?” George said after they had sat in silence for ten minutes, while carriages ahead of them picked up their owners. Finally the way ahead was clear down the Strand.
Should she lie, evade the moment of commitment to the quarrel which she knew he would hate? George was tolerant, generous, of an easy nature, but he wanted emotion only at times of his own choosing, and most certainly not now, when he was full of the echoes of such civilized enjoyment.
Half of her wanted to face him, let all her scalding hurt burst out, demand he explain himself and his wounding and outrageous behavior. But just as she opened her mouth to reply, cowardice overcame her. Once she had spoken it would be too late to draw back; she would have cut off her only retreat. It was so unlike her—she was usually mistress of herself so coolly, with such measured reaction. It was part of what had first drawn him to her. Now she betrayed all that and took the easy lie, despising herself, and hating him for reducing her to it.
“I don’t feel very well,” she said stiffly. “I think perhaps the theater was a little hot.”
“I didn’t notice it.” He was still annoyed. “Nor did anyone else.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to point out how profoundly he had been otherwise