Paragon Walk - Anne Perry [37]
It was an ugly thought, but then the intimate violence in the dark, the humiliation, the symbolic, stabbing knife, the blood, the pain, life gushing away—they were all ugly. She shut her eyes. Please, dear God, it had nothing to do with Emily! Don’t let George be anything worse than easygoing, a little foolish, a little vain!
They were talking across her, and she had not heard them. She was conscious only of the prickling hostility and of Alaric’s elegant black head as he half listened to one, then the other. Somehow it seemed to Charlotte as if his eyes were on her, and there was an understanding in them which was uncomfortable and at the same time stirring.
Emily found her again. She was looking very tired, and Charlotte thought she had already been standing too long. She was about to make some suggestion of returning home when she saw, behind Emily, Hallam Cayley, the only man she had observed to be moved by Fanny’s death beyond the usual trappings of observance. He was facing toward Jessamyn, but his expression was vacant, as if he were unaware of her. Indeed, the whole room, with its shafts of sunlight under the half drawn blinds, its glittering table spread with the debris of food, its clusters of murmuring figures in black, seemed to make no impression on his senses at all.
Jessamyn caught sight of him. Her face changed, the full lower lip came forward and the skin tightened fractionally across her cheeks. For a moment it was frozen. Then Selena spoke to Alaric, smiling, and Jessamyn turned back.
Charlotte looked at Emily.
“Haven’t we paid all respects necessary now? I mean, surely we could decently go home? The heat in here is oppressive, and you must be tired.”
“Do I look it?” Emily asked.
Charlotte lied immediately and without thought.
“Not at all, but surely better to leave before we do. I know I feel it!”
“I expected you would be enjoying yourself, trying to solve the mystery.” There was a faint cutting edge in Emily’s voice. Indeed, she was tired. The skin under her eyes looked papery.
Charlotte pretended not to notice.
“I don’t think I have learned a thing, except what you had already told me—that Jessamyn and Selena hate each other over Monsieur Alaric, that Lord Dilbridge has very liberal tastes, and Lady Dilbridge enjoys being put upon because of them. And that none of the Nashes are very pleasant. Oh, and that Algernon is behaving himself with great dignity.”
“Did I tell you all that?” Emily smiled faintly. “I thought it was Aunt Vespasia. But I suppose we may as well go home. I admit, I have had enough. I find myself much more affected by it than I had thought to be. I didn’t care much for Fanny when she was alive, but now I can’t help thinking of her. This is her funeral, and do you know, hardly anybody has really spoken of her!”
It was a sad and pathetic observation; yet it was true. They had spoken of the effect of her death, its manner and their own feelings, but no one had spoken of Fanny herself. Lost, and a little sick, Charlotte followed Emily to where George was half waiting for them. He, too, seemed eager to leave. Aunt Vespasia was deep in conversation with a man about her own age, and since it was only a few hundred yards, they left her to come when she chose.
They found Afton and Phoebe in desultory expression of mutual sympathies with Algernon. They all three stopped as George approached.
“Leaving?” Afton enquired. His eyes flickered over Emily and then Charlotte.
Charlotte felt her stomach curl up and instantly longed to be outside. She must control herself and leave with courtesy. After all, the man must be under great strain.
George was muttering something to Phoebe, a ritual politeness about the hospitality.
“How kind of you,” she replied automatically, her voice high and tight. Charlotte saw that her hands were clenched across the billows of her skirt.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Afton snapped. “A