Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [83]
9
EMILY SLEPT BADLY. It was a night full of enormous and ugly dreams, blood-spattered clothes, the rattle of stones on George’s coffin lid, the vicar’s pink face with his mouth opening and closing like a fish. And every time she woke the picture of Jack Radley came back to her, sitting on the nursery stool staring at her, the sun in his hair, and in his eyes the understanding that she knew he was guilty and there could be no escape. She woke at once sweating and chill, staring into the black void of the ceiling.
When she fell asleep again the dreams were worse, billowing one into another, swelling and bursting, then shrinking away into nothingness. Always there were faces; Uncle Eustace smug and smiling, staring at her with those round eyes that saw everything and understood nothing, not caring if she had murdered George or if it was someone else, only determined she should be blamed for it, to keep the March name clear. And Tassie, too mad to know anything. Old Mrs. March’s eyes like glass marbles, blind with malice, shrieking all the time. William with a paintbrush in his hand, and Jack Radley with the sun round his head like a halo, smiling because Emily had murdered her husband for love of him, over one kiss in the conservatory.
She lurched into wakefulness and lay watching the slow light creep across the ceiling. How long had she before Thomas had no choice but to arrest her? Every second ticking away was eating her life; the remnant was slipping into eternity and she was lying here alone and useless.
What was it that had so horrified Sybilla? That had ripped the usual mask off her face to show such hatred—twice; once at dinner two days ago, and then again in the withdrawing room when she overheard the quarrel in the conservatory?
She could bear it no longer and climbed out of bed. It was already light and she could see quite easily where she was going. She put on a wrap over her nightgown and tiptoed across the room to the door. She would ask her! She would go to Sybilla’s room now when she was alone and could not make some polite evasion, or claim a pressing duty, nor would anyone interrupt them.
She opened the door slowly, holding the latch so it would not fall back with a noise. There was no sound outside. She looked up and down the passage. The dawn light came in cool and gray through the windows and fell on the bamboo-patterned wallpaper opposite. A bowl of flowers glowed yellow. There was no one.
She stepped out and walked quickly towards the room she knew was Sybilla’s. She had no doubt what she was going to say. She would tell Sybilla that she had seen that look in her face, and wherever her pity lay, whatever loyalties she thought she had, if she did not tell Emily what act in the past had given birth to such a depth of loathing, she would go to Thomas Pitt and let him discover it in her with pryings and questions which would be far harder. From the anger in which she left the room the night before, she was willing to threaten anything. It was too late to care about sensitivity or embarrassment now.
She found her hand was shaking as she lifted it to grasp Sybilla’s doorknob and turn it slowly. Perhaps it would be locked, and she would be forced to wait till day. She could put off the inevitable answers for a few hours more. But it turned easily in her hand. Of course. Why would anyone lock doors in a house like this? It would mean having to get out of bed to let the maid in. Who wanted to do that? Half the point of having a maid was to avoid getting up and pulling the curtains or drawing the water yourself. If you were going to get out of a warm bed on demand, fresh from sleep, the whole luxury was lost.
She was inside now. It was quite light. The curtains were yellow and the window faced the sun. Sybilla was already awake, sitting upright against the nearest high, carved bedpost, facing the window, her black hair in thick tresses wound at both front and back. The thought