Seven Dials - Anne Perry [142]
EVEN NARRAWAY COULD CONTRIVE only a very brief visit for Vespasia. She had expected Ryerson to show signs of the strain he must be feeling, but in spite of her mental preparation for it, she was shocked when she saw him. She remembered him as a big man. The sense of his physical power had always been overwhelming, the most remarkable thing about him, more than the character in his face or the intelligence or the charm.
Now as he stood up at her entrance into the cell, he looked drained. His skin was pale and had a peculiar dry, papery look, and although he wore the same clothes she had seen him in last time, today they seemed too big for him.
“Vespasia . . . how good of you to come,” he responded huskily, holding out one hand to greet her, then withdrawing it the moment before he touched her, as if suddenly conscious that she might not wish it.
She was stabbed by the terrible thought that the change in him was because he no longer believed in Ayesha Zakhari’s innocence. He did not look like a martyr to a cause, more like a man whose dreams have been broken.
She forced herself to smile very slightly, just a warmth to her face.
“My dear Saville,” she responded, “I shall owe favors to no end of people for the privilege.” It was not true, but she knew that just for an instant it would make him feel better. “And I have only a few minutes before some miserable man, tied to his duty, will return to fetch me,” she continued. “It occurred to me that there might be some service I could perform for you that perhaps you had not been able to ask of anyone else. If there is, then please tell me now, in case we do not have another opportunity to speak alone.” It was a brutal truth, but there was no more time left for skirting around it. This was the time, here, this evening.
He controlled himself with a magnificent effort, and replied to her with total calm. Certain bequests to staff who had served him well were already attended to, but there were personal thanks he would like to have given, and an apology here or there. It was the latter which weighed upon him most heavily, and he was grateful to have her promise to do those things, should it prove necessary. He knew that she would do it graciously, with both the candor and the humility he wished.
The guard returned. She told him icily to wait, but he did so standing at the door.
“Is there anything else you need?” she asked Ryerson. “Anything personal that I may bring for you?”
The ghost of a smile flashed on his face, and vanished. “No, thank you. My valet has done that for me every day. I am so . . .”
She held up her hand to silence him. “I know,” she said quickly. She looked at the guard and permitted him to hold the door open for her. “Good-bye, Saville, at least for the moment.” She went out without looking back. She heard the sound of steel on steel as the door closed and the heavy tumblers of the lock fell into place.
She was crossing the entrance on her way to the outside doors when she saw a discreetly clad dark-skinned man walk almost silently past her in the opposite direction, his eyes averted. He was holding a small, soft-sided bag in his hand. Presumably, this was Ayesha Zakhari’s house servant, taking her clean linen and whatever else she required. He was so self-effacing as to have mastered the art of being almost invisible, and she would not have recognized him were she to see him again in different clothes. She was forcibly reminded that he belonged to a very different culture. Then she realized with a sense of amazement that she had not actually seen Ayesha Zakhari, as far as she could recall. Surely if she had met her anywhere, she would have remembered?
And yet she was the center of this storm which was going to destroy Ryerson, and possibly Stephen Garrick as well.
Vespasia went out into the street where her carriage was waiting, and allowed her footman to assist her up the step and to be seated comfortably, her mind still absorbed in thought.
GRACIE WAS