Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [85]
“Oh, yes please,” Veronica said with a smile. “How nice of him to call. Is Miss Barnaby with him, too?”
“No ma’am. Shall I bring him in here?” Nora glanced quickly at Emily, implying that she should leave.
“Yes, do. And have Mrs. Melrose prepare some tea and sandwiches, and cakes.”
“Yes ma’am,” Nora turned on her heel and went out, her skirts swishing round the door before she closed it. In her opinion lady’s maids had no business being where they could meet gentlemen callers. That was a parlormaid’s privilege.
Jack came in a moment later, smiling easily, graceful and full of life. He did not even glance at Emily, but his face lit with pleasure when he saw Veronica, and she held out her hand to him. Emily felt a shock of rejection, almost as if she had been slapped. It was idiotic. Had he spoken to her it would have spoilt everything, and she would have been angry with him. And yet she felt crushed inside because he had carried out his part perfectly. He had treated her like a servant, not a woman at all.
“How kind of you to see me,” he said warmly, as if it was more than just a social ritual. “I should have sent my card, but it was a spur-of-the-moment call. How are you? I heard you had a misfortune in the house. I do hope you are beginning to recover?”
Veronica clung to his hand. “Oh Jack, it really was dreadful. Poor Dulcie fell out of the window, and she was crushed on the stone beneath. I can’t think how it happened. No one saw anything!”
Jack! She had called him by his Christian name so naturally that it must be how she thought of him, even after all this time. Why had she not married him when they knew each other before? Money? Her parents? They might well have refused someone like Jack, who had no prospects. They had picked Robert York instead, an only son who had both money and ambition. But would she have preferred Jack? And infinitely more important, would he have preferred her?
They were talking as if Emily were not there; she could have been another cushion on the chair. Veronica was looking up at Jack, her cheeks flushed, looking happier than Emily had ever seen her. The light shone on that hair like black silk, and her eyes were wide. She was more than beautiful— there was individuality and passion in her face. Emily was caught in a turmoil of feelings that tightened her throat so she thought she might choke. As Amelia she liked Veronica, and pitied her because she realized she was desperately unhappy over something. It came to Emily with clarity, as she sat there like a fool watching Jack, that Veronica was wound up like an old-fashioned thumbscrew inside, hurting a little more each day. Was it still grief over Robert? Or was it fear? Was it because she knew something—or because she did not know, and her sense of uncertainty warped everything?
And at the same time, Emily was burningly jealous. And jealousy brought back the agony of watching George become infatuated with Sybilla, of knowing the man she loved preferred, in fact adored someone else. It was a pain like no other, and the fact that George had woken up from his affair before he died did not wash away her knowledge of what it was like to be rejected. There had been no time for the wound to heal fully.
Emily could not help seeing Veronica as a rival. Jack had started as an amusement, a graceful and charming toy to be played with; then he had become a friend, far more comfortable to be with than almost anyone except Charlotte. But now he was a part of her life she could not lose without profound loneliness. Now he was laughing and talking with Veronica, and Emily was powerless even to speak, let alone to fight for his attention. It was