Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [90]
Charlotte was looking at him. Had she seen that thought in his face? The light died out of her eyes and she turned away.
“Only on that subject,” she said quietly. “Because I know I am right. There are plenty of other things in which I might well be obliged to agree with you if you were to find me at fault. I find myself at fault!”
He did not know what she was referring to, and it would be an intrusion to ask. But he did not think she was saying it for effect, a false modesty. There was some sense of guilt that disturbed her.
“Everyone has faults, my dear,” he said gently. “In those we love, the virtues outweigh them, and are what matter. The qualities less than good we do not choose to observe. We know them, but they do not offend us. If people were without weakness or need, what could we offer them of ourselves that they could value?”
She stood up quickly, and for a moment he thought there were tears in her eyes. Did she know what he was thinking—what he was trying to say—and at the same time not to say? He loved her. It was there in words in his mind at last.
It would be unforgivable to embarrass her. At all costs, he must behave properly. He pulled his shoulders back and sat up straighter. “It sounds a most excellent work that you and Emily are engaged in.” He prayed that his voice sounded normal, not too suddenly remote, too pompous.
“Yes.” She kept her back to him and stared out the window at the garden. “Lady Cumming-Gould is also concerned, and Mr. Somerset Carlisle, the Member of Parliament. I think we have already accomplished something.” She turned at last and smiled at him. “I’m so glad you approve. Now that you have said so, I can confess I should have been hurt had you not.”
He felt the heat burn his cheeks again, with a mixture of pleasure and pain. He stood, then picked up the soldier’s letters from the desk. He could not bear for her to go, and yet it was equally intolerable now that she should stay. He must not betray himself. The emotion he felt was so profound and so very unreliable inside him that he must excuse her and be alone.
“Please take these, and read them again if you wish.”
She understood the convention well. She accepted them and thanked him. “I will take the greatest care of them,” she said quietly. “I feel he is a friend of both of us. I do thank you for a unique afternoon. Good day, General Balantyne.”
He took a deep breath. “Good day, Charlotte.” He reached for the bell. When the footman came, he watched her go, her back straight, head high. He stood exactly where he had been when she left, trying to keep her presence with him, to wrap himself in a golden cocoon before the warmth died and he was left alone again.
Balantyne did not sleep well that night. He chose to be out when Augusta returned, and when he came back to the house he was already late for dinner.
“I cannot imagine why you wish to walk at this hour,” she remarked with a little shake of her head. “It is totally dark, and the coldest night of the year.”
“It is quite fine,” he answered. “I imagine presently there will be a moon.” It was irrelevant. He had walked to put off the time of meeting her and having to step out of his dream and back into the pattern of life. To try to explain that would be cruel and incomprehensible to her. Instead he broached another unpleasant subject.
“Augusta, I think it would be advisable for you to take some counsel with Christina, give her a little advice.”
Augusta raised her eyebrows and sat motionless, her soupspoon halfway to her mouth. “Indeed? Upon what subject?”
“Her behavior toward Alan.”
“Do you consider that she is failing in her duty?”
“It is nothing so simple.” He shook his head. “But duty does not beget love. She is contrary, too unkind with her tongue. I have seen no softness in her. She is quite unlike Jemima, for example.”
“Naturally.” She carried the spoon to her mouth and ate elegantly. “Jemima was brought up as a governess. One would expect to find her manner a good deal more obedient and grateful. Christina is a lady.”
It was