He stared at her as if he had not seen her before.
She looked back in silence, without evasion, almost without blinking.
Charlotte was locked immobile. She would have felt intrusive if she had thought either of them had the slightest awareness of her.
“Why?” he said at last, his face almost bruised with shock and incomprehension at what he had heard. “Why did you live that … that kind of … life?”
This time Justine did not use the word whore. If she were tempted to make excuses, she resisted it. Charlotte would never know if it was her presence there which accomplished that.
“At first it was to survive,” Justine answered, her voice low, expressionless, as though the feeling in it were too great to be allowed through. “My father was killed at sea, and my mother and I had nothing. She was ostracized because she had married a foreigner. Her family would do nothing for us. Later I got used to the things it could buy me, the safety, the warmth, and in time the beauty, the freedom from worrying every day where the next week’s food and rent would come from.”
She took a deep breath and went on. “I knew it wouldn’t last. Women get old, then no one wants them. You can’t earn much past thirty, even less past thirty-five. I wanted to save so I could buy a business of some sort. I kept meaning to get out, but it was too easy to stay in. Until I met you at the theater. I came to love you, and I realized what I had paid for my safety. I stopped from that day on.” She did not make any protestations that it was the truth.
Again he sat silent, only shivering a little, as from physical shock.
Minutes passed by—five, ten, a quarter of an hour. Neither of them moved or made a sound.
Charlotte was getting stiff and, in spite of her gown, thoroughly chilled. But she must not interrupt. Justine had not looked at her. She would, if she wanted her to take any part.
At last Piers drew in a breath and let it out in a long sigh. “I …” He shook his head a little. “I can’t …” He looked wretched, shattered, confused, hurting too much to know how to express it. “I can’t think what to say …” he confessed. “I … I’m sorry. I need a little time … to think ….”
“Of course,” Justine said quickly in a curiously flat tone. It was an acknowledgment of defeat, of a kind of little death inside. She rose to her feet and at last looked at Charlotte. “Good night,” she said to Piers with a formality which was at once absurd and yet understandable. What else was there to say? She turned and went to the door, leaving him also standing helpless, watching her go.
Charlotte followed her and closed the door behind them both. They went back along the passage to Justine’s room. Charlotte was not sure if Justine might want to be alone, but she was afraid to leave her, knowing the despair she must now feel. Without asking, she went into the room after her.
Justine was walking in a nightmare, as if unaware even where she was anymore. She walked into the corner of the bed, bruising herself against the wood and barely registering the pain. She sat down suddenly, but she was too numb to weep.
Charlotte closed the door and went over to her. There was nothing to say which would mean anything. It would be ridiculous and painful to talk about hope or even to imagine plans. There was nothing which could have been done differently or better as far as Piers was concerned, and anyway it was all past. She did not know whether Justine would find touch comforting or intrusive, but it was her instinct to reach out. She sat beside her on the bed and very gently put her arms around her.
For minutes they sat unmoving, Justine rigid, locked inside her own pain. Then at last she relaxed and leaned against Charlotte’s shoulder. The wound was no less, but she consented to share it for a space.
Charlotte had no idea how long they sat. She grew stiff and even colder except where Justine’s body kept her warm. Her arm started prickling with pins and needles. When she could bear it no longer and her muscles were beginning to jump, she spoke.
“You might try to sleep a little. I’ll stay with you if you like—or go, if you’d prefer?”
Justine turned around slowly. “How selfish of me,” she answered. “I’ve sat here as if there were no one else in the world. You must be exhausted. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m not,” Charlotte lied. “Do you want me to stay? I can sleep here anyway.”
“Please …” Justine hesitated. “No, that’s stupid. I can’t expect you to stay with me forever. I brought this on myself.”
“We bring a lot of our griefs upon ourselves,” Charlotte said honestly. “It doesn’t make it hurt any less. Lie down and get warm. Perhaps then you’ll sleep a while.”
“Will you lie down too? Under the covers, or you’ll be frozen.”
“Yes, certainly I will.” Charlotte suited the act to the words, and Justine turned out the gas. They lay in silence. Charlotte had no idea how long it was before sleep overtook her at last.
She woke with a start to hear knocking on the door. It took her a moment to remember that the person beside her was not Pitt, but Justine, and then to remember why.
She slid out of bed. She was still wearing her robe. She had climbed into bed without bothering to remove it. She made her way over to the door gingerly, feeling where she went in the dark. She opened it and saw Piers standing in the passage, the gaslight yellow behind him. There was no hint of daylight yet from the windows of the landing beyond. He looked haggard, as though he had been pacing all night, but his gaze met hers directly, without flinching.
“Come in,” she whispered, standing aside for him.
Justine sat up slowly, reaching for the candle. She lit it, and Charlotte closed the door.
Piers walked over to the bed and sat on it facing Justine, Charlotte temporarily forgotten.
“You know at first I thought it might have been Mama,” he said with a crooked, painful smile. “She would have had as good a reason. Or Doll Evans; I think she had an even better one. Poor Doll.”
Justine stared at him, searching his eyes, last night’s despair suddenly, agonizingly quickened with hope again.
“Haven’t you noticed?” she asked softly. “Wheeler is in love with her, perhaps he has been for ages, but she thought after what happened with Greville that he wouldn’t have anything to do with her ….”
“Why not?” he said with a jerky laugh. “It wasn’t her fault. You can be fascinated by someone, and then revolted if they don’t live up to your ideal.” His eyes were very steady on her face. “But if you love them, you expect them to be real, as you are yourself, to have the power and the possibility to be stupid and angry and greedy, and make terrible mistakes … and to have the courage to keep on trying, and the understanding to forgive. Not that Wheeler has anything to forgive Doll for.”
She looked at him with a blaze of hope like a scald of light across the darkness.
“Those are brave words,” she whispered. “Do you think we can live up to them?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted frankly. “Have you the courage to try? Do you think it’s worth it? Or would you rather not take the risk, and leave now?”
For the first time she looked down.
“I don’t think I shall have the chance … although I would like it if I had. I’m all kinds of things, but I’m not a coward. There isn’t anything else I want, except to be with you. There’s nothing else to take as second best.”
“Then …” he started, leaning forward and holding her hands.