“That is very unpleasant,” Vespasia agreed. “But, my dear, do you suppose she really had no suspicion? Is she completely naive?” She shook her head a little. “I doubt it. What hurts is that the rest of the world will know it too, or at least that part of the world with which she is familiar. It will become impossible for her to deny it to herself any longer, which is something we all tend to do when the truth is too painful.”
“No, there is more than that.” Charlotte looked up and met Vespasia’s eyes. In hard, angry words full of pain she told her about Doll.
Vespasia’s face was bleak. She was an old woman and she had seen much that was hideous, but even so, this twisted deep in her, in her memory of holding her own children, in the miracle and the fragility and the infinite value of life.
“Then he was a man with much evil in him,” she said when Charlotte had finished. “That will be very difficult indeed for his wife to learn to live with.”
“And his son,” Charlotte added.
“Very difficult indeed,” Vespasia agreed. “I feel more deeply for the son. Why is it Eudora who bothers you more?”
“She doesn’t.” Charlotte smiled at her own vulnerability. “But she does Thomas. She’s the perfect maiden in distress for him to rescue.”
The seconds ticked past on the clock on the mantel, its black filigree hands jerking forward with each one. The maid brought the tea and poured it, hot and fragrant, then withdrew and left them alone.
“I see,” Vespasia said at last. “And you want to be a maiden in distress too?”
Charlotte was prompted to laugh and cry at the same time. She was closer to tears than she had realized.
“No!” She shook her head. “I don’t need rescuing. And I’m no good at pretending.”
“Would you like to be?” Vespasia passed Charlotte her tea.
“No, of course I wouldn’t!” Charlotte took the cup. “No … I’m sorry. I mean … I mean, I don’t want games, pretending. If it isn’t real, it’s no good.”
Vespasia smiled. “Then what are you asking?”
There was no purpose in putting it off any longer, refusing to put words to her fear did not make it any less real.
“Perhaps Thomas needs me to be more like Eudora? Maybe he needs someone to rescue?” She searched Vespasia’s face for denial, hoping to find it.
“I think he does,” Vespasia said gently. “You ask a great deal of him in your marriage, Charlotte. You ask him to strive very high. If he is to be all that you need of him, if he is to live up to what you could have had in your own social class, then he cannot ever be less than the very best he is able. There can be no easy choices for him, no allowing himself to relax, or commit to second best. Perhaps sometimes you forget that.” Her hand tightened over Charlotte’s. “You may at times remember only the sacrifices you have made, the gown you don’t have, the servants, the parties you don’t attend, the savings and economies you have to make. But you don’t have an impossible yardstick to measure yourself against.”
“Neither does Thomas,” Charlotte said, aghast at the thought. “I don’t ever ask for—”
“Of course you don’t,” Vespasia agreed. “But you are at Ashworth Hall, your sister’s house … or to be more correct, one of her houses. I imagine poor Jack does not always find that comfortable either.”
The coals settled in the fire and burned up more brightly.
“But I can’t help it,” Charlotte protested. “We are there because Thomas was called to go, not for me. It is his position that took us there.”
“Not because Emily is your sister?”
“Well … yes, of course that made him the obvious person … but even so …”
“I know you did not choose it.” Vespasia smiled very slightly and shook her head. “All I am saying is that if Thomas finds it agreeable that Eudora Doyle—I mean, Greville—should lean upon him and find comfort in his strength, it is not surprising, or discreditable, in either of them. And if it hurts you, or you are troubled by it, then you have the choice of pretending to be in distress yourself and masking your strength in weakness so that he will turn his attention to you instead.” She lowered her voice a little. “Is that what you wish?”
Charlotte was appalled. “No, it would be despicable! I should hate myself. I should never be able to meet his eyes.”
“Then that is one question answered,” Vespasia agreed.
“But what if … what if that is what he … wants?” Charlotte said desperately. “What if I lose part of him because I don’t … don’t need … that ….”
“Charlotte, my dear, nobody is everything to someone else, nor should they seek to be,” Vespasia said gently. “Moderate your demands at times, disguise some of your less-fortunate attributes, learn to keep your own counsel in certain matters, sometimes give more generous praise than is merited, but be true to the core of yourself. Silence does not hurt, at times, nor patience, but lies always do. Would you wish him to pretend for you?”
Charlotte closed her eyes. “I should hate it. It would be the end of everything real. How could I ever believe him again?”
“Then you have answered your own question, haven’t you?” Vespasia sat back a little. “Allow him to rescue others. That is part of his nature, perhaps the very best part. Don’t resent it. And don’t underestimate his strength to love you as you are.” The fire collapsed still further, and she ignored it. “Believe me, from time to time you will find in yourself enough weaknesses to satisfy him.” Her eyes flickered with amusement. “Do your best. Never be less than you are in the hope of earning someone else’s love. If he catches you in it he will hate you for what you have judged of him, and far worse than that, you will hate yourself. That is the most destructive of all things.”
Charlotte stared at her.
Vespasia reached for the bell to ask the maid to come to stoke the fire.
“Now we shall have luncheon,” she said, rising to her feet with the use of her silver-topped ebony cane, declining Charlotte’s arm. “I have poached salmon and a few vegetables, and then apple tart. I hope that will satisfy. And you can tell me about this wretched Irish business, and I shall tell you about the absurd divorce of Mrs. O’Shea. We can laugh about it together, and perhaps weep a little.”
“Is it sad?” Charlotte asked, walking beside her to the smaller, wood-floored breakfast room, where Vespasia more often ate when she was alone. It had a row of floral-curtained windows looking onto a paved comer of the garden. On two sides were glass-fronted cases of porcelain, crystal ornaments, vases and plates. A cherrywood gateleg table was set for two.
“Yes it is,” Vespasia answered when the butler had helped her to her seat and she had unfolded her linen napkin.
Charlotte was surprised. She had not thought Vespasia would grieve over such a thing. But then perhaps she did not know Vespasia as well as she had presumed. More than seventy years of her life had passed before Charlotte had even met her. It was an impertinence to imagine she could guess at most of it.
The butler served them a light consommé and withdrew.
Vespasia saw Charlotte’s face and laughed.
“Sad for Ireland, my dear,” she corrected. “The whole thing is so patently ridiculous!” She began her soup. “Parnell is a humorless devil at the best of times. He takes himself so terribly seriously. It is a Protestant failing. It is certainly not an Irish one. Love or hate them, you cannot accuse the Irish at large of a lack of wit. And yet Parnell has behaved like someone in a badly written farce. Even now he still does not believe that his audience will laugh at him and, of course, cease to take him seriously.”
Charlotte began her soup also. It was delicious.
“Will they?” she asked, thinking of Carson O’Day, his ambitions, and what his family would expect of him, his father, and the elder brother whose place he had to fill.