Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [82]
It was several minutes before she became aware of voices, fragmented by the distance, the vines and leaves, and the heavy swags of curtain between the doors. But there was no mistaking the anger in them, the sharp cutting edge of old hatred.
“If you’d damn ... where you should, then you’d have known!” It was Eustace’s voice. William’s reply was indistinguishable.
“... thought you’d have been used to it!” Eustace shouted back.
“Your thoughts, we all know!” This time William’s answer was quite clear, ringing with unutterable disgust.
“... imagination ... never needed to ... your mother!” Eustace’s retaliation was disjointed, blurred by the tangle of plants.
“... mother ... for God’s sake!” William shouted in an explosion of violence.
Emily stood up, unable to bear the intrusion she was unwittingly making into what was obviously a highly intimate matter. She hesitated between leaving by way of the dining room and fleeing to some other part of the house, or having the courage and the effrontery to interrupt the quarrel and end it, at least temporarily. She turned to the conservatory, then back to the dining room, and was startled to see Sybilla in the doorway. For the first time since she had come to Cardington Crescent the look of anguish in Sybilla’s face overrode all Emily’s old hatred of her and prompted a sympathy she could not have imagined even a day before.
“... dare you! I won’t ...” William’s voice rose again, thick with emotion.
Sybilla almost ran across the floor, catching her skirts on the back of a chair and tearing at them impatiently, and disappeared into the conservatory, knocking against flowers and stepping off the path into the damp loam in her haste. A moment later the voices from beyond the leaves froze and there was utter silence.
Emily took a deep breath, her stomach tight, unclenching her hands deliberately, and walked towards the dining room door. She did not wish to be here when any of them returned. She would pretend complete ignorance; it was the only possible thing.
In the main hallway she met Jack Radley. His lip was swollen and there was a line of dried blood on it, and he carried his right hand awkwardly. He smiled at her, and drew in his breath in pain as the lip cracked.
“I suppose you tripped in the dark as well?” she said icily before she could stop herself, then wished she had simply ignored him.
He licked the lip and put his hand to it tenderly, but there was still that same gentleness in his eyes.
“Is that what he said?” he mumbled. “Not at all. I had a row with Eustace and hit him—and he hit me.”
“Obviously,” Emily replied without quite the contempt she had intended. “I am surprised you are still here.” She moved past him to go up the stairs, but he sidestepped and remained in front of her.
“If you expect me to explain myself, you’ll wait in vain. It is none of your business,” he said with an edge to his voice. “I don’t break confidences, even for you. But I admit I expected you of all people not to jump to conclusions.”
She felt a stab of shame. “I’m sorry,” she said very quietly. “I’ve surely wished I could hit Eustace a few times myself. It looks as if you got rather the better of it.”
He grinned, regardless of the blood now staining his teeth. “For what it’s worth,” he agreed. “Emily—”
“Yes?” Then, as he said nothing, she added, “Your face is bleeding. You had better go and wash it. And find some ointment, or it will dry and crack again.”
“I know.” He put his hand on her arm gently and she could feel the warmth of him through the muslin of her sleeve. “Emily, keep your courage. We will find out who killed George—I promise you.”
Suddenly her throat ached abominably and she realized how deeply frightened she was, how close to weeping. Not even Thomas seemed able to help.
“Of course,” she said huskily, pulling away. This was ridiculous. She did not wish him to see her weakness—above all, she did not wish him to know how very agreeable she found him, in spite of her distrust. “Thank you. I’m sure you mean well.” She went hastily