Rutland Place - Anne Perry [62]
“Do you not think people might expect me to remain in?” Alston frowned anxiously. “At least until after the funeral? That is not for several days yet, you know. Friday. Yes.” He blinked. “Of course you know. How foolish of me.”
“Would you care for me to ride with you?” Alaric asked quietly. “I shall not be in the least offended if you would like to be alone, but I rather think if I were in such a situation, I should prefer not to be.”
The crease ironed out across Alston’s brow. “Would you? That really is most generous of you.”
Charlotte was thinking the same thing, and it annoyed her. She would much rather have disapproved of Paul Alaric, and have had grounds in her mind for doing so. She glanced sideways at Caroline and saw the radiance in her eyes, the softness of approval.
Then she looked at Emily and knew that she had seen it also.
“How kind of you,” Emily said with an edge to her voice that had far more to do with her own fears than any concern for Alston. “I am sure it is a most excellent act. Companionship is invaluable at such a time. I recall when I was bereaved, it was the company of my mother and my sister that gave me the most comfort.”
Charlotte had no idea what she was talking about—surely not Sarah’s death? That had affected them all equally—but she knew of no other bereavement.
Emily continued, regardless: “And I see no reason why you should not take a small drive if Monsieur Alaric is good enough to offer his company for that also. No one of any sensibility at all—no one who could possibly matter—would misunderstand that.” She lifted her chin. “People do misconstrue some associations, of course, but that is more often so when it is a friendship between a lady and a gentleman. Then people are bound to talk, no matter how innocent it may be in truth. Do you not agree, Monsieur Alaric?”
Charlotte watched him closely to see if she could detect in his face even the faintest degree of comprehension of what they really meant, the purpose under their superficial words.
He remained completely at ease; seemingly his attention was still upon Alston.
“There are always those who will think evil, Lady Ashworth,” he answered her. “Whatever the circumstances. One cannot possibly afford to cater to all of them. One must satisfy one’s own conscience and observe the most obvious conventions so as not to offend unnecessarily. I believe that is all. Beyond that, I think one should please oneself.” He turned to Charlotte, his eyes penetrating, as if he understood in some sense that she would have said exactly the same, were she to be truthful. “Do you not agree, Mrs. Pitt?”
She was caught in a dilemma. She hated equivocation, and her own tongue had caused enough social disasters to make anything but concurrence with him laughable. Also she would like to have been agreeable because there was a quality in him far beyond elegance, or even intellect, which drew her—a reserve of emotion as yet unreached that fascinated, like a thunderstorm, or the splendor of a rising wind far out at sea: dangerous and overwhelmingly beautiful.
She shut her eyes, then opened them wide.
“I think that can be a very selfish indulgence, Monsieur Alaric,” she said with primness that made her sick even as she was speaking. “Much as one would like to on occasion, one cannot ignore Society. If it were ever to be only oneself who paid the price for outraging people’s sensibilities, no matter how misplaced, it would be quite a different matter. But it is not. Gossip also hurts the innocent, more often than not. We are none of us alone. There are families upon whom every stain rubs off. The notion that you can please yourself without harming others is an illusion, and a most immature one. Too many people use it as an excuse for all manner of self-indulgences, and then plead ignorance and total amazement when others are dragged down with them, as if it could not have been foreseen