Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [94]
No. Far better, far wiser for Sybilla to seek her defense in George, who could be so startlingly considerate at times, when he understood the wound. He was loyal, without judgment; he would have helped her and kept silent.
Only he had done the unforeseen and become enchanted with her himself, and there had begun the unraveling of all the plan.
And then Jack—Jack had understood and helped her as well. But understood how much?
She would tell Emily nothing. Not yet.
But, dear heaven, she did not want to go through the charade of dinner! How could she excuse herself? To the company it would be easy: she had a headache, she was unwell. There would be no need to explain that; women were always getting headaches, and she had certainly had enough to justify one.
Aunt Vespasia would be concerned for her and send Digby with medicines and advice. Emily would miss her at table, and what excuse would satisfy her, or Thomas? He would not accept a headache. He would expect her to go down, and watch, and listen. That was the reason she had given him for remaining here at all. Ladies with servants might take to their beds with the vapors; working women were expected to keep on, even with fevers or consumption. He would see it for an attack of cowardice—exactly as it was. On the whole, facing Eustace was the lesser evil.
At least, she thought so until she sat down at the table, determined not to look at him, and in her very consciousness of him ended by meeting his eyes precisely when he was staring at her. She averted her gaze instantly, but it was too late. The chicken in her mouth turned to wet sawdust, her hands were clammy, and she all but dropped her fork. Surely everyone else must be looking at her, too, and wondering what on earth was the matter with her. It could only be politeness that kept them from asking. She was staring at the white ice sheet of the tablecloth, away from the dazzling facets of the chandeliers and the light on the cut glass of the cruet sets, but all her mind saw was Eustace’s face.
“I think the weather is going to break,” old Mrs. March said joylessly. “I hate wet summers; at least in winter one can sit by a decent fire without feeling ridiculous.”
“You have a fire all through the year anyway,” Vespasia replied. “That boudoir of yours would suffocate a cat!”
“I don’t keep cats,” Mrs. March replied instantly. “I don’t like them. Insolent creatures, don’t care for anyone but themselves, and there is more than enough selfishness in the world already without adding cats to it. But I did have a dog”—she shot a look of intense hatred at Emily—“until somebody killed it.”
“If it hadn’t preferred George to you it wouldn’t have happened.” Vespasia pushed her plate away in disgust. “Poor little creature.”
“And if George hadn’t preferred Sybilla to Emily, none of it would.” Mrs. March was not to be beaten, especially not at her own table in front of strangers whom she despised, and not by Vespasia, whom she had resented for forty years.
“You said before that it was because Emily preferred Mr. Radley,” Charlotte interrupted, looking at the old lady with raised eyebrows. “Have you discovered something that changed your mind?”
“I think the less you have to say the better, young woman!” Mrs. March flicked a scornful eye over her and continued eating.
“I thought perhaps you had learned something new,” Charlotte murmured. Then, impelled by an inner compulsion, she looked sideways at Eustace.
It was an extraordinary expression she surprised on his face—not exactly fear—something that had superceded it, half curiosity. He was the supreme hypocrite, self-important and insensitive, plowing on in his obsession with dynasty, regardless of the trampling of subtle and private emotions. But she realized with uncomfortable surprise that he did not lack courage.