“Morning, Balantyne.” He appeared not to have seen Charlotte, and she remained motionless, trusting that the general would have forgotten her also.
“Morning, Campbell.”
“Still resurrecting past victories? Well, I suppose they’re better than present apathy: so long as we don’t think they’ll do as a substitute.”
“We can hardly learn from history if we choose not to remember it,” Balantyne replied a little defensively.
“My dear Balantyne,” Campbell sat down, “the day mankind learns to profit from the lessons of history I shall look for the Second Coming. Still, it’s a harmless exercise, and I dare say they make good reading. A lot less dangerous than politics. I wish a few of your military colleagues would occupy themselves as innocuously. Why do men presume that because they purchased a commission in the army, and were fortunate enough not to get killed, that they can also purchase a seat at Westminster and survive the infinitely subtler wars of politics?”
“I have no idea,” Balantyne said tersely. “I am hardly the person to whom you should address such a question.”
“For heaven’s sake, it was an observation in passing. I don’t expect you to have an answer! I don’t expect answers from anyone. The most I ever hope for is that here and there one may find someone who at least acknowledges the question! Have you had the damned police here again?”
Balantyne stiffened.
“Yes. Why?”
“It’s about time they gave up. The whole thing’s only an academic exercise anyway, matter of public image. They should have satisfied that by now. They’ll not find out who did it, and if they’ve any sense they can never have supposed they might.”
“They have to try. It’s a very serious crime.”
“Some wretched girl had a stillborn child, or killed it straight after. For God’s sake, Balantyne, people are dying all over the place. Have you any idea how many paupers’ children die in London every year? These probably never knew anything about it. And what sort of a life would they have had? Don’t talk a lot of sentimental nonsense. What on earth were you like on the battlefield? Terrified to order the charge, in case someone got hurt?”
“You can hardly compare fighting a war to defend your ideals or your country with murdering babies!” Balantyne’s temper was very close to the surface. Charlotte could see the light shine across the tight skin on his cheekbones. It was a stronger face than Campbell’s, leaner, cleaner of bone, but there was a softer line to the closing of the lips, a vulnerability. She would like to have faced Campbell herself, driven back his clever cynicism with her own inner steel. She was not afraid of him, because she knew in her heart that to be without optimism, that core of reasonless hope in the spirit rather than the brain, was a fatal flaw, the seed of death.
Campbell sighed with obvious patience.
“It can’t be undone, Balantyne. For heaven’s sake, let us salvage what is left. I’ve already put in a few words here and there to get the police to withdraw, call it a good effort, and finish. You have friends, and so has Carlton. See what you can do. I’m sure Carlton will. Poor devil has already uncovered a basket of snakes in his own house. Although if he’s surprised, he’s the only one. Full-blooded young woman like Euphemia marries a stuffy old bird like that, don’t know what else he expected! Still, pity it has to become public. Wasn’t necessary, if the police had minded their damned business.”
Balantyne’s face was white. “It does not have to become public, unless you choose to make it so. Which, I imagine, as a gentleman, you will not!” He was half standing in his chair, as if he would offer some physical threat.
Campbell was more amused then frightened.
“Of course not. We’ve all got our skeletons. I never met a man yet who had not something he ought to be ashamed of, and certainly a hell of a lot he wanted kept secret. Do sit down, Balantyne. You look ridiculous. Just thought I’d mention it.” For the first time he glanced at Charlotte and she dropped her eyes immediately, but not before she had seen the humor in him, and the appreciation. What did he imagine she was here for? She found the blood coming to her face as the obvious thought occurred to her. She hoped the general was too innocent, and too stiff, to have thought of it also.
However, when Campbell was gone he turned to her, his own face flushed.
“Charlotte-I–I-apologize for Campbell. I can only presume he did not at first realize you were here. I–I assure you-”
She forgot her own embarrassment in his.
“Of course not,” she smiled. “In truth, I had not thought of it, and knew it to be nothing more than a few unpleasant words. Pray, do not think of it again.”
He looked at her closely for a moment, then relaxed gratefully.
“Thank you, er, thank you.”
It was an additional week before Augusta finally reached a satisfactory solution to the problem of how to get rid of Max. She had required help, and had had to invent a satisfactory explanation for it before approaching her distant relations and offering to exchange favor for favor. Now it was arranged, and it only remained to inform Max.
It was one week before Christmas. She felt vastly better than she had in the appalling morning Pitt had come. Christina had employed herself excellently, and Alan Ross seemed almost resigned to his fate. Indeed she had seen him only this afternoon escorting Christina out for a drive in his carriage. She had been out in the street herself when they had left. Brandy had been on the pavement, talking to that pretty little governess of the Southerons’. Attractive creature, a little thin, but with a peculiar grace, and such a charming smile: just the person to have charge of children.
She was alone in the house. Brandy had left for his club, the general also; and that young Ellison woman had gone home early. She rang for Max.
He came after a few minutes.
“Yes, my lady?” he was smug as always.
“I have made arrangements for you to take another post, Max-”
“My lady-” He stared woodenly at her.
“In London,” she continued, “with Lord Veitch. I have given you an excellent reference, you will be footman and valet when he travels abroad, which he does frequently. He is in London for the season, and goes to the country for the summer, and for the shooting, of course. He very often journeys to Paris, and Vienna. You will travel with him, and he will increase your salary above that which we pay you. An advance, you will agree?”
“Indeed, my lady,” he bowed with a slow smile. “I am most grateful. When do I leave?”
“Immediately. Tomorrow morning. Lord Veitch goes to the country for Christmas, and to Paris for the New Year.”
“Thank you, my lady,” he bowed again, still smiling, and withdrew.
She told Balantyne of it that evening, sitting at her dressing table, her hair loose over her shoulders; her maid had brushed it and been excused.
Balantyne, in dressing gown, stared at her.
“You let the bounder go, to a better position? And what about Bertie Veitch? What has he done to deserve that?”
“He owes me a favor,” she replied.
“Augusta!”
“I warned him,” she said impatiently. “And I will pay the difference in his salary.”
“For how long? And I object to rewarding that-swine-for his vile-”
“He will not profit for long, Brandon. Bertie will take him out of the country, to Paris, and then Vienna. In Vienna he will find some occasion against him, and dismiss him for dishonesty. I dare say Max will not find a Viennese prison to his liking.”
Balantyne stared at her, his face white.
“How could you, Augusta? That is dishonest!”
“It is no more than he deserves,” she said, a chill inside her as she met his eyes, then looked away. “What would you have had me do, permit him to remain here, blackmailing us? In this house with Christina, and Alan Ross?”