Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [58]
“Do you believe that?” Charlotte was afraid. Even in front of the fire she became conscious of coldness again, of her feet being wet. Outside, the sleet clattered against the glass of the windows.
“No,” Vespasia said quietly. “But I do not deny its possibility.”
Charlotte stood still.
“Go and change out of those wet boots,” Vespasia ordered. “We will take luncheon in here, and you may tell me about your child. What is it you have called her?”
“Jemima,” Charlotte answered obediently, standing up.
“I thought your mother’s name was Caroline?” Vespasia raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“It is,” Charlotte agreed. She turned at the door and gave her a dazzling smile. “And Grandmama’s name is Amelia. I don’t care for that either!”
The soirée was informal, and there was a great deal more conversation than listening to the music, which Charlotte rather regretted, since it was good and she was fond of the piano. She had never played it well herself, but both Sarah and Emily had, and this young man’s gentle touch brought back memories of childhood and Mama singing.
Dominic was surprised to see her, but either he did not notice the excellence of Vespasia’s gown on her, or he was too sensitive to comment on it, knowing that in her circumstances it would have to be borrowed.
Charlotte had not seen Alicia before, and her curiosity had been mounting from the time the first guest, who was Virgil Smith, arrived. As Vespasia had said, he was remarkably plain. His nose was anything but aristocratic; it appeared less like marble than warm wax, put on with a careless hand. His haircut might have been executed with a pair of shears round the edge of a basin, but his tailor was exemplary. He smiled at Charlotte with a warmth that lit up his eyes and spoke to her in an accent she would have loved to mimic, as Emily could have, to retail it to Pitt. But she had no skill in the art.
Sir Desmond and Lady Cantlay did not remember her or, if they did, chose not to acknowledge it. She could hardly blame them; when a corpse lands in the street in front of one, one does not recall the faces of the passersby, even those who offer assistance. They greeted her with the well-bred, mild interest of acquaintances who have nothing in common, so far as they know, except the place in which they meet. Charlotte watched them go and wondered nothing about them, except if they suspected Dominic or Alicia of having entertained murder.
Major Rodney and his sisters held no involvement for her either, and she murmured polite nonsenses to them that reminded her of standing beside her mother and Emily at endless parties when she was single, trying to sound as if she were totally absorbed by Mrs. So-and-so’s most recent illness or the prospects of Miss Somebody’s engagement.
She had already built in her mind very clearly how she expected Alicia to look: fair skin and hair that curled quite naturally—unlike her own—medium height and with soft shoulders, a little inclined to plumpness. Afterward she realized she was creating a vague picture of Sarah again.
When Alicia came she was utterly different. It was not so much a matter of description; she did have fair skin, and her hair waved so softly and asymmetrically it must surely be natural. But she was as tall as Charlotte, and her body was quite slim, her shoulders almost delicate. Far more than that, there was a completely different look in her eyes. She was nothing like Sarah at all.
“How do you do?” Charlotte said after only a second’s hesitation. She did not know whether she had expected to like her or not, but she was startled by the reality. In her own mind, because