Paragon Walk - Anne Perry [38]
Phoebe colored uncomfortably, but she seemed incapable of finding an answer.
“I came out of affection for Fanny.” Emily looked up at him coldly. “And for Phoebe!”
Afton inclined his head a little.
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it. If you are able to call upon her some afternoon, she will no doubt regale you with her feelings in the matter. She is quite convinced there is some madman lurking around, just waiting for the chance to leap upon her and ravish her next.”
“Please!” Phoebe tugged at his sleeve, her face painfully red. “I do not think so at all.”
“Did I misunderstand you?” he inquired, not lowering his voice, but staring at George. “I thought from the way you disported yourself that you suspected his presence on the upstairs landing last night. You had your gown so wrapped around you I feared you might strangle yourself if you were to turn carelessly. What on earth did you call the footman for, my dear? Or should I not ask you such a thing in front of others?”
“I didn’t call the footman. I—I merely—well, the curtain blew in the wind. I was startled, and I suppose—,” her face was scarlet now, and Charlotte could imagine the foolishness she was feeling, almost as if the whole company could see her frightened and disheveled in her nightclothes. She burned to think of something crushing to say for her, to cut at Afton with equally lacerating words, but nothing came.
It was Fulbert who spoke, lazily, a slow smile on his face. He put his arm around Phoebe, but his eyes were on Afton.
“There’s no need for you to be afraid, my dear. What you were doing is quite your own affair.” His face softened into amusement, some secret laughter inside him. “I really doubt it is one of your footmen, but, if it were, he would hardly be reckless enough to attack you in your own house. And you are more fortunate than any other woman in the Walk—at least you know perfectly well it wasn’t Afton. We all do!” He smiled across at George. “Would God the rest of us could be as far beyond suspicion?”
George blinked, unsure of his meaning, but knowing it held cruelty somewhere.
Charlotte instinctively turned to Afton. She had no idea what occasioned it, but cold, irrevocable hatred flared up in his eyes, and the shock of it rippled through her, leaving her feeling sick. She wanted to grip hold of Emily’s arm, touch something warm, human, and then run out of the glittering black-crepe room into the air, into the green summer, and keep on running until she was home in her own narrow, dusty little street with its whited steps, shoulder-to-shoulder houses, and women who worked all day.
Five
CHARLOTTE COULD HARDLY wait until Pitt came home. She rehearsed a dozen times in her mind what she meant to tell him, and each time it came out differently. She completely missed the bookshelves in her dusting and forgot to salt the vegetables. She gave Jemima two lots of pudding, much to the child’s delight, but at least she did have her changed and sound asleep when Pitt finally came.
He looked tired, and the first thing he did was to take his boots off and empty his pockets of the enormous number of things he had shoved into them throughout the day. She brought him a cold drink, determined not to make the same mistake as last time.
“How was Emily?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Well enough,” she answered, almost holding her breath to avoid plunging into the story. “The whole affair was rather horrible. I suppose they felt the same as we would underneath, but nothing showed. It was all—empty.”
“Did they talk about her—Fanny?”
“No!” She shook her head. “No, they didn’t. You’d hardly have known whose funeral it was. I hope when I die whoever’s there talks about me all the time!”
He smiled suddenly, a broad grin like a child.
“Even if they do absolutely all the time, my darling,” he replied,