Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [55]
The first course was served, and the general conversation turned to the kind of polite trivia appropriate to the importance of taking the first edge from appetite, and at the same time maintaining a degree of elegance. Charlotte took no part in it; she was not acquainted with the people referred to, and could not comment upon the likelihood of one person marrying another, or what a disaster it would or would not be.
She found her gaze straying toward General Balantyne, the only other person uninvolved, either from ignorance or lack of interest. She was a little discomforted to find him watching her, in spite of the fact that Christina was speaking with great animation.
There was a ripple of laughter around the table, and suddenly Christina became aware that her wit had left two of the company untouched. She looked directly at Charlotte, pulling a little face.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Ellison. Of course I forgot you cannot know Miss Fairgood, or the Duke’s grandson. How very unkind of me. You must feel so left out. Do please forgive me!”
Nothing she might have said would be better calculated to make Charlotte’s exclusion more obvious. The conversation was tedious and Charlotte had not cared before, but now she felt her face burning with self-consciousness. She remained silent, because if she spoke she would be rude and thus give Christina yet another victory.
“I do not know Miss Fairgood either.” Balantyne picked up his glass. “I cannot say that I have been aware of the loss. And I am as indifferent as Miss Ellison as to whom the Duke’s grandson should marry. However,” he turned to Charlotte, “I have recently come upon some letters of a soldier who served in the Peninsular War. I think you might find them interesting, and most encouraging when one realizes how far we have progressed since then. I remember your admiration for Miss Nightingale’s work in organizing care for the wounded in the Crimea.”
Charlotte did not have to feign interest. “Letters?” she said eagerly. “Oh, that is so much more exciting than a history book.” Without a thought for Emily’s strategy, she leaned forward a little. “I should be so pleased if I might see them. It would be like—like holding a piece of the real past in my hands, not merely somebody else’s judgment of it! What do you know of him—the soldier who wrote the letters, I mean?”
The stern lines of Balantyne’s face softened and some reserve within him released itself. He put the glass down. He ignored the formality of saying that of course she might see the letters, as if that should be assumed and need not be put into words between them.
“He was a person of considerable intelligence,” he said intently. “It seemed he served as an enlisted man instead of as an officer by his own choice, and he was obviously well able to read and to write. His observations are most sensitive, and betray a compassion I admit I find very moving.”
“It is hardly an uplifting conversation for the dinner table.” Augusta looked at them with disfavor. “I cannot imagine that we wish to know of the sufferings of some pathetic common soldier in—wherever it was!”
“The Spanish peninsular,” Balantyne explained, but she ignored him.
“I should think they are quite as uplifting as the matrimonial aspirations of Miss Fairgood,” Alan Ross said dryly.
“To whom, for goodness’ sake?” Christina asked caustically.
“To me,” Ross replied. “To your father, and—unless she is being more courteous than others have been so far this evening—to Miss Ellison.”
Charlotte caught his eye, and looked down quickly at her plate. “I am afraid I cannot claim credit for such delicacy, Mr. Ross,” she said, forcing her face to remain modestly composed. “I am most genuinely interested.”
“How quaint,” Christina murmured. “Lady Ashworth, you were saying that you have lately made the closer acquaintance of Lavinia Hawkesley. Don’t you find her quite the most entertaining creature? Although I am not at all sure how much she has any