Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [90]
Dear God! I’m so miserable I don’t know what to do. But cowardice won’t help. I have always been able to charm men. I will find a way out.
Charlotte was shaking, and in spite of the heat in the closed room there were trickles of sweat chilling on her body. Was that what it was all about with George? Not a grand passion at all, not even the vanity of a beautiful woman, but a protection from Eustace? The thought made her feel sick.
She flicked through more pages of the little book till she came to the end. She read the last entry.
I can hardly believe it! Nothing seems to shatter his appetite or frighten him! I am almost driven into thinking it was a nightmare as he tried to make us all believe. I have to look at Jack to make myself sure.
Poor Jack. Grandmother Vespasia looks at him with such disappointment; I think she really liked him. He is just the sort of man I fancy she would have led a rare dance when she was young. And Charlotte! She is disgusted, and it shows so plainly in her face. I imagine that is on Emily’s account. I wish I had a sister who cared for me so much. I never before felt as if I needed one, someone to trust, who would defend me. But I do now.
Perhaps my screaming will be enough. Please God. Eustace did look truly horrified, just for a moment, before he thought what to say when everyone came running. I don’t think he really believed I would, until I opened my mouth.
And, so help me God—if he comes again I shall scream again, I don’t care what anyone thinks—and I told him I would.
Now he has a black eye and Jack a split lip.
Jack must have gone to his room and thrashed him. Dear Jack.
But what on earth can I do when he leaves?
Please, God, help me.
And there it ended. There had not been another morning for Sybilla to write.
But why had she not told William?
Because William already had no love for his father, and she was afraid of what he would do in rage and the depth of his hurt and revulsion. Or perhaps because in any battle between William and Eustace, she was afraid Eustace would always win. No wonder she hated him.
There was a noise outside the door—not the light trip of a housemaid, but a heavy tread. A man’s step.
There was no time to escape; the footsteps stopped and someone touched the doorknob. In a panic she threw the vanity case back under the bed and rolled in after it, banging against something hard, snatching her skirts after her and pulling down the counterpane just as the door opened and, after a moment, closed again. He was in the room, whoever he was.
She was huddled up against the trunk, the vanity case digging into her back, but she dared not move. She thought of Sybilla lying stiff and cold a few feet above her on the bed; there was only the thickness of the springs and the mattress between them.
Who was it? He was opening and closing drawers, searching through them. She heard the wardrobe door squeak just as it had for her, and then the rustle of taffeta, a swish of silk. Then it closed again.
Dear heaven! Was he looking for the little book she still had in her hand? His feet were moving back this way. She would have given a lot to know who it was, but she dared not lift the counterpane even an inch to look. Whoever it was might be facing this way, and he would surely see. And then what? Haul her out and, at best, accuse her of robbing the dead—
The vanity case was digging into her, its edges bruising her back. The feet had not moved. There was a faint sound—of shifting weight, and rustling cloth—what was it?
The answer was instant. The counterpane was whipped away and she