Southampton Row - Anne Perry [112]
“Good afternoon,” she said calmly. “Is Mr. Wray at home?”
“Yes, but he is a little unwell,” he answered, moving towards her. “I daresay he will be pleased to see you, but in courtesy I think we should allow him a few minutes to recover himself, Mrs. . . .”
“Cavendish,” she replied. Her look was very direct. “I know his doctor, and you are not he. Who are you, sir?”
“My name is Pitt. I am merely a friend.”
“Should we call his doctor? I can send my carriage immediately.” She half turned. “Joseph! Dr. Trent . . .”
“It is not necessary,” Pitt said quickly. “A few minutes and he will be much better.”
She looked doubtful.
“Please, Mrs. Cavendish. If you are a friend then your company may be the thing most helpful.” He glanced down at her basket.
“I brought him some books,” she said with a faint smile. “And some jam tarts. Oh! Not greengage . . . this is merely ordinary raspberry.”
“That is kind of you,” he said sincerely.
“I am very fond of him,” she answered. “As I was of his wife.”
They stood together in the sun for a few minutes longer, then the French doors opened and Wray himself came out, walking carefully as if a trifle uncertain of his balance. His skin was very pink and his eyes red-rimmed, but he had obviously dashed a little water over his face and was almost composed. He looked startled to see Mrs. Cavendish, but not in the least displeased, only perhaps embarrassed that she should find him in such a barely concealed emotional state. He did not meet Pitt’s eyes.
“My dear Octavia,” he said with warmth. “How kind of you to call on me again, and so soon. You really are very generous.”
She smiled at him with affection. “I think of you very often,” she replied. “It seemed the natural thing to do. We are all extremely fond of you.” She turned her shoulders away from Pitt, as if to exclude him from the remark. She took the cloth off the basket. “I have brought a few books you may care to read, and some tarts. I hope you will enjoy them.”
“How thoughtful,” he said with an immense effort to sound pleased. “Perhaps you will come in and have some tea?”
She accepted, and with a sharp look at Pitt, started to walk towards the French doors.
Wray turned to Pitt. “Mr. Pitt, do you care to come back also? You are most welcome. I do not feel as if I have helped you very much, although I confess I have no idea how I can.”
“I am not at all sure that there is any way,” Pitt said before he considered the defeat implicit in the remark. “And you have given me most excellent hospitality. I shall not forget it.” He did not mention the jam, but he knew by the sudden brightness of Wray’s eyes, and the way he blushed, that he understood perfectly.
“Thank you,” Wray said with overwhelming emotion, and before he was overcome again, he turned and followed Mrs. Cavendish back towards the French doors and went inside after her.
Pitt walked through the flowers to the gate, and out into Udney Road.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
The air blowing down off the moor was sweet, barely stirring the leaves of the apple tree in the cottage garden, and the silence and darkness were unbroken. It ought to have been a perfect night for deep, untroubled sleep. But Charlotte lay awake, aware of her loneliness, ears straining as if expecting to hear a sound, a footfall somewhere, a loose stone disturbed on the track beyond the gate, perhaps wheels, or more likely simply a horse’s hoof striking a sudden hard surface.
When at last she did hear it, the reality shot through her blood like fire. She threw back the bedcovers and stumbled