Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [93]
He must think of Christina. Christina as a young bride would have been confused, hurt, not knowing in what way she had failed to please Ross. A man should teach a woman gently, be prepared to wait while she learned such an utterly new life ... the physical... His thoughts stopped. Or was it new to Christina? Memories floated back from the time of the murders on Callander Square, things Augusta had refused to discuss. She had dealt with so much, been so competent—and never told him.
Was Christina seeking from other men the reassurance that she was desired because the husband she loved had rejected her, shut her out? Or was she simply a vain and immoral woman for whom one man was not enough?
But whatever the desire, surely faithfulness ...
What sort of faith did he keep with Augusta? It was the knowledge of hurting Charlotte that had kept him from excess yesterday, from touching her, from holding her—and ... And what? Anything—everything! And it was selfishness, fear of the rejection he would see in Charlotte’s eyes, her horror when she understood what he really felt. It was not any thought of Augusta.
And, more than that, Charlotte would have been irreparably hurt to know what storms she had created in him. He would lose her; she would certainly never come to Callander Square again, never be alone with him to share even the sweetness of friendship. Would she think him ridiculous? Or, worse, pitiful? He thrust the thought away; there was nothing absurd in loving.
But what about Christina? Had she inherited from him this betraying hunger? He had never talked to her of fidelity or modesty; he had left all that sort of thing to Augusta. It was a mother’s duty to instruct her daughter in the conduct of marriage. For him to have done so would have been indelicate, and would have caused only embarrassment.
But he could have spoken of chastity—simple morality. And he had never done so. Perhaps he owed Christina a great deal? And heaven knew what he owed Alan Ross! ... He looked up and saw Ross’s eyes, waiting for him. Could he have any idea what had been passing through his thoughts?
“She knew Adela Pomeroy,” Ross said with a slight frown, as if it puzzled him.
The name meant nothing to Balantyne. “Adela Pomeroy?” he repeated.
“The wife of the last man who was murdered in the Acre—the schoolteacher,” Ross explained.
“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “How on earth did Christina come to know a schoolteacher’s wife?”
“She’s a pretty woman,” Ross answered painfully. “And bored. I think she sought diversion in”—he moved his hand slightly—“in wider company.”
Whatever did he mean by that? Thousands of women were probably bored now and then. You could not simply extend your social circle upward unless you were remarkably pretty, and willing to ... Then was Adela Pomeroy another loose woman? But if so, why was it Ernest Pomeroy who was killed? It should have been Adela. And Bertie Astley—had he been Adela’s lover? And what connection had the doctor with any of them?
Were they all victims of the same lunatic? Or perhaps was one a crime fitted in and made to look like the others, an opportunity taken brilliant advantage of: to inherit a title and an estate; or to be rid of a tedious husband; or—and the sweat broke out on his body at the thought—to avenge a cuckolder of one’s bed, one’s home.
“What was the doctor’s wife like?” he asked huskily, swallowing.
Ross looked away. “I’ve no idea. Why?”
Balantyne’s face was stiff. “No reason. My mind was wandering,” he said lamely. He forced the thought away; it was unworthy of such a man.
Ross offered him the sherry, but he declined it. Its warmth did not reach deep enough inside him. He noticed that Ross himself took none either. How long had he known Christina’s nature? He cannot have understood it when he married her. Had the knowledge come slowly, a gathering pain? Or in a single act of discovery, like a sharp wound?
He looked at Ross’s face. It would be unpardonable to discuss the subject with him.