He ached, almost physically, to be able to offer her the strength and the comfort, the protection she needed, and he could not. He was going to do the very opposite, make it almost immeasurably worse. Perhaps he was even going to take from her the one person she had left to believe in who cared for her, her brother. Even Piers offered her largely duty and no real understanding. He was too much in love with Justine to see anyone else, and too young to comprehend her distress. He had not yet truly discovered himself, not had time to invest so much of himself in anything that disillusion could tear apart his identity.
He began with the easiest question, the first thing to eliminate.
“When your husband was in the bath, you were here in your room, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” She looked puzzled. “I already told you that when you asked before.”
“And your maid, Doll Evans, was with you?”
“Yes, most of the time. Why?” There was a shadow in her eyes. “Even if I had known how Ainsley was behaving, I would not have harmed him.” She smiled. “I had imagined you understood me better than that, Mr. Pitt.”
“I did not imagine you hurt him, Mrs. Greville,” he said honestly. “I wanted to know where Doll was.”
“Doll?” Her delicate eyebrows rose in disbelief. It was almost laughter. “Why on earth would Doll wish him any harm? She is as English as you are, and completely loyal to me. She has no cause to hurt us, Mr. Pitt. We looked after her when she was ill, and kept the position for her return. She would be the last person to harm either of us.”
“Was she with you all that quarter hour when your husband was in the bath?” he repeated.
“No. She went to fetch something, I don’t recall what. It may have been a cup of tea, I think it was.”
“How long was she away?”
“I don’t know. Not long. But the idea that she would attack my husband in the bath is absurd.” It was plain in her face that she had no fear it could be true. She sincerely thought it was preposterous.
“Did Mr. Doyle visit you often, either in London or at Oakfield House?”
“Why? What is it you are seeking after, Mr. Pitt?” She was frowning now. “Your questions do not make any sense. First you ask about Doll, now Padraig. Why?”
“What illness did Doll suffer? Did Mr. Doyle know of it?”
“I don’t remember.” She tightened her hands in her lap. “Why? I don’t know what illness it was. What can it matter?”
“She was with child, Mrs. Greville—”
“Not by Padraig!” She was horrified, denial was fierce and instant.
“No, not by Mr. Doyle,” he agreed. “By Mr. Greville, and not willingly … by coercion.”
“She … she had a child!” She was really finding it difficult to catch her breath. Unconsciously, she put her hand up to her throat as though her silk fichu choked her.
He wanted to lean forward and take her hand, steady her, but it would have appeared like an overfamiliarity, even an intrusion. He had to remember where he was, formal, removed, going on hurting her, watching her face to judge whether she had known this before or not.
“No,” he answered. “He insisted that she abort it, and she could not afford to defy him. She would be out on the street with no money and no character. She could not have cared for a child. He had it done away with.” He chose the words deliberately and saw her face lose every shred of its color and her eyes darken with horror. She stared at him, trying to probe into his mind and find something that would tell her it was not true.
“She was … different … when she came back,” she said slowly, more to herself than to him. “She was … sadder, very quiet, almost slow, as if she had no will anymore, no laughter. I thought it was just because she was not yet fully recovered.”
Once she saw he was sincere, she did not fight against it. She was looking backward, trying to remember anything which would disprove it, and there was nothing. It was almost like examining a wound. Part of her was clinical, logical, exact. And yet she was looking at the death of part of herself.
“Poor Doll,” she said in a whisper. “Poor, poor Doll. It is so awful I can hardly bear to think of it. What worse thing could happen to a woman?”
“I wish I had not had to tell you.” It sounded lame, an excuse where there was none. He was certain she had not known. But then neither did she disbelieve it now. Had Doyle known, and would he have cared? Not on Doll’s behalf. She was a servant. Servants frequently get with child.
“Who else might have known?” he asked. Wheeler had. He was the only one of the Greville servants at Ashworth Hall, apart from Doll herself. Unless they had brought a coachman. They were close enough not to have taken the train. He had not asked. “Did you drive over?”
She understood immediately. “Yes … but … but no one else knew. We thought she was ill … a fever … I feared it might have been tuberculosis. People with tuberculosis can have those flushed cheeks, the bright eyes. She looked so …”
“Wheeler knew.”
“Wheeler?” Again she was not afraid. She did not even consider it possible. “He would … never …”
“What?”
“He would never have hurt Ainsley.”
“What were you going to say, Mrs. Greville?”
“That once or twice I thought perhaps he did not like him, but he was far too well trained to show it, of course.” She shook her head to dismiss it. “It was just an impression I had. And he did not have to stay with us. He could easily have found a position elsewhere. He was excellent at his job.”
Pitt thought it was his feeling for Doll which had kept him in the house of a man he despised, perhaps even hated, but he did not say so. He would have Tellman make sure Wheeler’s time was as closely accounted for as they had supposed.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Eudora said reluctantly.
Justine appeared, followed immediately by Charlotte. They both looked flushed and tired, as if they had been too close to the withdrawing room fire and had found the evening’s forced conversation trying. But even weary and with a few tendrils of her hair escaping Gracie’s coiffure, Charlotte looked marvelous in the blue silk gown. It was one of Vespasia’s. Pitt wished he could afford to buy his wife clothes like that. Again he was reminded how naturally she fitted in here. It was the life she could so easily have had if she had married a man of her own social station, or rather better, as Emily had.
Justine was quick to notice Eudora’s pallor and the tension in her hands as they twisted together on her lap. She came over immediately, filled with concern.
Charlotte remained in the doorway. She had the feeling that she and Justine had intruded. It was not specific, just a look on Pitt’s face and something of regret in Eudora, a way in which she turned back to him before speaking to Justine.
She asked Pitt about it later, when they were preparing to go to bed. She tried to sound casual. As usual he was ready before she was. Gracie had gone, and Charlotte was combing her hair. There were considerable knots to get out after the way it had been dressed, and they would be worse by morning. Also there was rose milk to smooth into her skin, and she loved the luxurious feel of that, whether it did any good or not.
“Eudora seemed distressed,” she said, avoiding meeting Pitt’s eyes in the glass. He had already told her what little had transpired in his meeting in London, but she knew there was something else since then, something which had moved him far more deeply. “What have you discovered since you returned home?” she asked.
He looked so weary there were shadows around his eyes, and he sat up against the pillows awkwardly. He was still very stiff.
“Greville forced himself on Doll and got her with child,” he said quietly. “Then he insisted she do away with it or he would have her put out on the street with nothing.”