The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [136]
Pitt smiled. At least the Prime Minister was not going to be rattled.
The food was served. Footmen and maids moved among the guests with trays of wine and delicacies. All the time the supercilious butler, Scarborough, ordered the proceedings and saw that everything to the minutest detail was perfect.
Charlotte moved away from Pitt and began to observe for herself as much as she was able. She spoke for some minutes to Mina Winthrop, who was delighted to see her, and to Thora Garrick, who had apparently chosen to accompany Mina, perhaps to hear Victor play.
“How nice to see you, Mrs. Pitt,” Mina said with a rather uncertain smile. “You remember Mrs. Garrick, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said quickly. “How are you, Mrs. Garrick?”
“I am very well, thank you,” Thora answered with a smile.
“I have heard your son play,” Charlotte went on. “He is extremely gifted.”
“Thank you,” she accepted.
“How is your house progressing?” Mina asked.
“It is very nearly finished,” Charlotte answered. “I have a yellow room, thanks to your brilliant creative sense.”
Mina flushed with pleasure.
“How is your arm?” Charlotte looked at her as casually as she could and still express concern.
“Oh it is nothing,” Mina said quickly. “It really didn’t hurt at all. I think it is most foolish to make too much of accidents. I … I really bring it upon myself….”
Thora looked at Charlotte with wide eyes full of incredulity, then at Mina, whose discomfort was now apparent.
Charlotte perceived the layers of meaning and misunderstanding.
“I thought it was a nasty burn,” she said gently. “The tea was extremely hot I admire your fortitude, but …”
Mina relaxed so visibly the color rushed back into her face and her whole body seemed easier.
Thora sucked in her breath in sudden relief.
“But I should not think you self-indulgent to have admitted it was acutely painful,” Charlotte finished. “I don’t think I would have put on such a brave face.” Then she changed the subject, and they spoke of porcelain, and what manner of design was most pleasing for clocks and mirrors.
But when Charlotte excused herself she was still turning over in her mind the fact that Thora Garrick was aware of Mina’s bruises, and presumably of their cause, and yet it stirred in her neither overwhelming pity, nor anger, nor fear that Mina or Bart Mitchell might be involved in Winthrop’s death. She must impart this knowledge to Pitt at the first convenient opportunity.
Victor Garrick was asked to play again, and did so with exquisite melancholy, to a vociferous appreciation from an audience with a deeper love and understanding of music than he was accustomed to.
Nearly three quarters of an hour later Charlotte was joined by a furious Emily.
“That man is a complete swine!” Emily said with suppressed rage shaking her voice and her cheeks flaming.
“Who?” Charlotte was astonished, and amused. “Who on earth has behaved so appallingly as to cause you to use a word like that? I thought you were far too much the lady to—”
“It’s not amusing,” Emily said between her teeth. “I’d like to see him out in the street, begging with a bowl in his hand!”
“Begging with a bowl in his hand. What on earth are you talking about? Who?”
“That arrogant pig of a butler Scarsdale, or whatever he’s called,” Emily replied, screwing up her face. “I found one of the maids weeping her heart out just now. He caught her singing and dismissed her—because this is a Requiem reception. She didn’t know the wretched man. Why should she know the difference between Victor Garrick’s playing the cello and her singing a sad little song? I’ve half a mind to tell Mr. Carvell and ask him to do something about it. Reinstate the girl and put that abysmal man out in the street.”
“You can’t,” Charlotte protested. “He won’t dismiss his butler because of a maid being disciplined.” But even as she said it, her mind was crowded with other thoughts. Jerome Carvell’s face filled her inner vision, the pain and the grief in it, and the imagination. Surely he would not wittingly have permitted any