Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [81]
“Oh dear,” she said foolishly. “I hope you are not seriously hurt. Have you sent for the doctor?”
“Not necessary! Perfectly all right.” He closed the inkwell and stood up, wincing as his weight came onto his left leg. He let out his breath sharply.
“Are you sure?” she said with more concern than she felt. Her overriding emotion was curiosity. When had this extraordinary accident occurred? To sustain such injuries he must have fallen downstairs, at the very least. “I’m so sorry,” she added hastily.
“Very kind of you,” he answered, his eyes resting on her with appreciation for a moment. Then, as though recollecting some more pressing thought, he limped over to the door and out into the hall.
And at luncheon a totally new dimension appeared, startling Charlotte and obliging her to think far better of Eustace than she wished. Jack Radley came to the table nursing a painful right hand, and with a split and swollen lip. However, he offered no explanation at all, and no one asked him for any.
Charlotte was forced to conclude that Eustace had seen him early in the morning and thrashed him over the disgraceful affair in Sybilla’s room. And, for once, she admired him for it.
Remarkably, Sybilla herself spoke to Jack Radley perfectly civilly, even agreeably, although she looked very tense. Her shoulders were tight, stiff under the thin fabric of her dress, and the very few remarks she made were distracted, her mind obviously elsewhere. Perhaps she had a share of guilt. Had she implied, however obliquely, that he might be welcome?
Charlotte tried to behave as normally as possible, mainly because she did not want Emily to know what had happened—at least, not yet. Time enough for that kind of disillusion when she was home and would not see Jack Radley again.
For now let her believe in accidents.
Emily knew nothing about the extraordinary episode in the night, and the first she observed was early in the afternoon when she came downstairs and sat in the withdrawing room staring at the sunlight on the leaves in the conservatory. She saw William briefly as he came through to his studio. He looked at her with a hollow pain she took for pity but did not speak.
Tassie had gone off on good works again with the curate, visiting the sick or some such thing. Her grandmother said it was unnecessary; in the circumstances she might be excused. But Tassie had insisted. There were certain tasks she would not forgo; apparently she had given an undertaking, and she ignored argument. Eustace had not been present to lend his weight, and for once the old lady lost the contest, retiring to her boudoir to sulk.
Charlotte was with Aunt Vespasia, leaving Emily alone to while away the afternoon. She could not be bothered to occupy herself with any of the usually acceptable feminine tasks—painting, embroidery, music. She had written all the letters that were required of her, and visiting so soon after a family death was out of the question.
Therefore she was doing nothing at all when Eustace came in, limping noticeably. But it was not until he turned to speak to her that she saw the richly purpling bruise round his eye, now almost closed and looking acutely painful.
“Oh!” She drew in her breath sharply. “Whatever happened to you? Are you all right?” Emily stood up without thinking, as if in some way he might actually need her physical assistance.
He smiled awkwardly. “Ah, I tripped,” he said without meeting her eyes. “In the dark. Nothing for you to worry about. I suppose William’s in there”—he waved towards the conservatory—“fiddling about with his damn paints again. He can’t seem to leave them alone for five minutes. God knows, you’d think with all this distress in the family he’d be some use, wouldn’t you? But William always did run away from everything.” He swiveled round, winced with pain as his injured leg took his weight, and then moved towards the conservatory doors, leaving Emily with her answer unspoken on her lips.
She sat down again, feeling even