Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [55]
The carriage was passing through quiet, residential streets. Elegant Georgian-fronted houses faced onto trees new with leaf. There were few pedestrians, mostly women, their skirts ruffled by the breeze, parasols up against the sun.
Vespasia thought of Charlotte and the fear she had heard in her voice when she spoke of having a weapon to use should Voisey threaten Pitt. It was not being hurt that frightened her, it was her own power to injure, and the knowledge that she would use it.
And then the idea was there in Vespasia’s mind. By the time she reached the Landsborough house and alighted, she knew exactly what she was going to say, should Cordelia receive her. Indeed, she was prepared to make it difficult to be refused.
In the event, she was ushered through the somber hall and into the withdrawing room immediately. She found Cordelia standing by the window, looking out onto the lawn and the early summer flowers.
“How kind of you to come again so soon,” Cordelia said, without any waspishness in her voice, or in her pale, exhausted face.
For an instant Vespasia was sorry for her. Her harsh good looks showed grief more dramatically than softer, more feminine features would have. There were shadows under and around her eyes, deep lines cut from nose to mouth, and her lips looked bloodless. She had never resorted to paint; her brows were naturally black, and now they looked like gashes above her hollow eyes.
“It may appear intrusive,” Vespasia said gently. “I hope it is not. I have been turning over and over in my mind the issue of anarchist violence, and the terror it must inspire in all manner of people. It is something against which we have to fight, and I admire your courage and selflessness in doing so at such a time of personal loss.” Oddly, that was true. Much as she had always disliked Cordelia, and thought her at times both cruel and self-indulgent, at this moment it was her strength that was uppermost in Vespasia’s thoughts.
Perhaps Cordelia heard an honesty in her. “Thank you,” she acknowledged it. “I appreciate that you do not mistake my composure for indifference to my son’s death.”
“Of course not! The thought is absurd and offensive,” Vespasia said with heat. “One weeps alone, not before the world. I came because in my consideration of precisely what we should do to battle such things, some of the dangers occurred to me, and I know that we cannot afford to wait until circumstances are more comfortable. We have enemies, not personal but of the cause. They will strike while we are perceived to be at our most vulnerable.”
Cordelia turned to look at her, her expression curious, aware of intense irony. But she chose to concentrate on subjects Vespasia had raised. “Enemies in Parliament?” she asked.
“We are bound to have, for many reasons,” Vespasia enlarged on the subject. “Some will sincerely believe that to give police more power is unwise, others will have their own sympathies and ambitions. And I fear, of course, there will always be those who pursue personal enmities wherever they lead. We cannot afford to be ambushed by any of them.”
“Ambushed?” Cordelia repeated the word uncertainly. “I assume from the fact that you are here, sword in hand, so to speak, that you have a plan for our defense?”
“I think so. But not without your assistance,” Vespasia answered. They stood side by side before the window, their skirts touching. She had come for information. “I am certain you know far more than I do, but apart from that, we must work together.”
Cordelia hesitated. Such an idea was revolutionary, given their past relationship with each other. She was not going to be easily beguiled.
Vespasia waited. She must not defend herself too quickly or she would give away her own vulnerability. Pity should not blind her to the reality of Cordelia’s nature, however deep or genuinely she might feel it. She smiled very faintly. “At least in this,” she conceded.
Cordelia relaxed. “Would you care for tea?