Southampton Row - Anne Perry [111]
Pitt was embarrassed. It was an area of thought he had never considered, perhaps because his faith was more of morality than the metaphysics of God or Satan, and certainly he had never considered belief in calling upon spirits. Yet Wray was in deadly earnest; no one looking at the passion in his face could mistake it.
Pitt compromised. “It seems likely that she was in the practice of a very human evil, Mr. Wray, namely that of blackmail.”
Wray shook his head. “A kind of moral murder, I think,” he said very quietly. “Poor woman. She has forfeited a great deal of herself, I fear.”
He was prevented from saying any more on the subject by a knock on the door, and a moment later Mary Ann appeared with their tea. The tray was so laden with plates that it looked precariously heavy, and Pitt shot to his feet to take it from her in case in her efforts to hold both it and the door, she should drop it.
“Thank you, sir,” she said uncomfortably, flushing a little. “But you shouldn’t!”
“It is no trouble,” Pitt assured her. “It looks excellent, and very generous. I had not realized I was hungry, but now I definitely am.”
She bobbed a little curtsy of satisfaction and almost ran out, leaving Wray to pour, smiling at Pitt as he did so. “A nice child,” he said with a nod. “She does everything she can to care for me.”
There was no answer to make that would not have been trite. The contents of the tray were stronger evidence of her care than any words could have been.
They ate in silent appreciation for several minutes. The tea was hot and fragrant, the sandwiches delicious, and the fresh scones crumbled at the touch, rich with butter and the sharp, sweet jam.
Pitt bit into it, and looked up. Wray was watching him intently, waiting to see if he truly liked the greengage jam, and he could not bear to ask.
Pitt did not know whether to praise it highly, if that would sound artificial, in the end a condescension worse than silence. Pity could be the ultimate offense. And yet if he were lukewarm that would be wrong, too, insensitive and of little use.
“I hate to eat the last of it,” he said with his mouth full. “You won’t get the like of it again. There is a richness and a delicacy to it. It must be exactly the right amount of sugar because there is no cloying sweetness to mar the taste of the fruit.” He took a deep breath and thought of Charlotte, and Voisey, and everything he could lose and how it would destroy all that was good and precious in his world. “My wife makes the best marmalade I’ve ever tasted,” he said, and was horrified to hear his voice husky.
“Does she?” Wray struggled to keep control, to speak with something like normality. They were two men who were barely acquaintances, sharing afternoon tea, and thoughts of preserves, and the women they loved more profoundly than any words about anything at all could say.
The tears brimmed in Wray’s eyes and slid down his cheeks.
Pitt swallowed the last mouthful of scone and jam.
Wray bent his head and his shoulders trembled, and then began to shake. He struggled for a moment or two.
Pitt stood up quietly and went around the table, and sat sideways on the arm of the old man’s chair. Tentatively at first, then with more assurance, he put his hand on Wray’s shoulder, feeling it startlingly frail, then around him, and as he relaxed his weight, allowed him to weep. Perhaps it was the first time Wray had permitted himself to do so since his wife’s death.
Pitt had no idea how long they sat like that, until at last Wray ceased to move, to shake, and finally straightened himself up.
He must be allowed dignity. Without looking at him, Pitt rose to his feet and walked out of the French doors into the garden and the sun. He would give him ten minutes at least to compose himself, wash his face, and then they could both pretend nothing had happened.
He was standing facing the road when he saw the