Seven Dials - Anne Perry [116]
“Very little. But his sister, Matilda, has known him all her life, and she is the one who is afraid,” she answered.
“Or hurt?” he said with very slightly raised eyebrows. “Could it be that they are growing further apart, and she finds that difficult? She is lonely, and the ties are closer for her than for him; she will believe anything, even danger from which she must rescue him, easier to accommodate than the knowledge that in fact he does not need her?”
Again she was caught by a sadness in his voice, some shadow of the gaslight that caught an old pain not usually visible . . . and by the fact that apparently he also knew at least something about Tilda as well.
“Of course it is possible,” she said very gently. “But the possibility does not excuse the need to be certain that he is safe. It couldn’t.” She nearly added that he must know that, as she did, but she saw his understanding as the words touched her lips, and she left them unsaid.
They stood for seconds. Then he straightened. “Nevertheless, Mrs. Pitt, for your safety’s sake, please do not press any further with enquiries regarding Mr. Garrick. There can be no conceivable reason for his having harmed a servant, other than possibly in reputation, and that is something you cannot undo.”
“I would like to oblige you, Mr. Narraway,” she replied very levelly. “But if I find myself in a position to help Tilda Garvie, then I cannot hold back from doing so. I can think of no way in which it would inconvenience Mr. Garrick, unless he has done something unjust . . . If he has, then, like anyone else, he is answerable for it.”
Exasperation filled Narraway’s face. “But not to you, Mrs. Pitt! Haven’t you—” He stopped.
She smiled at him with great charm. “No,” she said. “I haven’t. May I offer you a cup of tea? It will be in the kitchen, but you are very welcome.”
He stood motionless, as if the decision were a major one on which something of great importance depended, as if even from the parlor he could sense the warmth and the comfortable familiarity of scrubbed wood, clean linen, gleaming china on the dresser, and the lingering, sweet odor of food.
“No, thank you,” he said at last. “I must go home.” His voice held the regret he could not put into words. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Narraway.” She accompanied him to the front door, and watched his slender, straight-backed figure walk with almost military elegance along the rain-wet footpath towards the thoroughfare.
CHAPTER
TEN
PITT THANKED TRENCHARD for his help and left Alexandria with a stab of regret that surprised him. He would miss the balmy nights pale with stars, the wind blowing in off the sea, smelling clean above the spice odors and filth of the hot streets. And he would also miss the sound of music and voices he did not understand, the colors in the bazaars, the fruit. But in London there would be fewer mosquitoes, and no scorpions. Certainly in the coming winter no cloying, sticky heat to make the sweat run down his skin or light that blinded his eyes and made him permanently squint in the sun.
And there would be no more sense of being a stranger intruding in a land where his people were different and unwelcome, and the weight on the conscience of having contributed to the searing poverty. Of course there was poverty in England too. People died of hunger, cold and disease, but they were his own people; he was one of them and not to blame.
There was a sense of incompleteness in his mission as he stood on the deck of the ship, the bright water churning around him and the city already fading into the distance. What could he tell Narraway? He knew far more about Ayesha Zakhari, and she was not at all as he had assumed, which forced him to reassess the whole question of why Lovat had been killed. It seemed a pointless thing to have done, and Ayesha was not stupid.
Above all, he wanted to be home with Charlotte, his children, the comfort of his house and the familiarity of streets where he knew every corner, and understood the language.