His shoulders eased and he sat back in his chair again, but his expression was still full of confusion. Two things troubled him: the extremely unsavory facts concerning Bertie Astley, and quite how much of them it was proper to tell Emily.
She understood him very well, and rescued the situation before she lost the initiative and was obliged to begin all over again. “Perhaps I should call upon May and reassure her?” she suggested. “If it is only a malicious invention-”
“Oh, no!” He was unhappy, but quite decided. “I am afraid you cannot do that-it is perfectly true.”
Emily looked suitably downcast, as though she had actually entertained a hope that it was not. “George? Was Sir Bertram-I mean, did he have … a peculiar nature?”
“Good God, no! That is what is so damned odd! I simply don’t understand it.” He pulled a face, in rare outspokenness. “Although I suppose we seldom know people as well as we imagine. Perhaps he was … and no one knew it.”
Emily put her hand out across the table and clasped his. “Don’t think it, George,” she said gently. “Is it not far more likely that some other suitor of May Woolmer’s was so crazed he simply took the opportunity to rid himself of a rival and slander him horribly at the same time? That way he could be rid of him both literally and in memory. After all, how could May cherish the thought of a man who practiced such indecencies!”
He considered it for a moment, closing his hand over hers. There were times when he was really extremely fond of her. One thing about Emily: even after five years of marriage, she was never a bore.
“I doubt it,” he said at last. “She is a handsome creature, certainly, but I cannot imagine anyone getting so infatuated with her as to do that. She hasn’t the-the fire. And she has very little money, you know.”
“I thought Beau Astley was exceedingly attracted to her,” she suggested.
“Beau?” He looked incredulous.
“Is he not?” Now she was confused also.
“I think he likes her very well, yes, but he has other interests, and he’s hardly the sort to kill his own brother!”
“There is the title, and the money,” she pointed out.
“Do you know Beau Astley?”
“No,” she said hopefully. At last they had come to the point. “What sort of a man is he?”
“Agreeable-rather more than poor Bertie, actually. And generous,” he said with conviction. “I really think I should go and see him.” He let the newspaper slide to the floor and stood up. “I always liked Beau. Poor fellow’s probably feeling terrible. Mourning is such a tedious business-it makes you feel infinitely worse. No matter how grieved you are, you don’t want to sit around in a house full of gaslights and black crepe, with servants speaking in whispers and maids who sniffle every time they see you. I’ll go and offer him a little companionship.”
“What a good idea,” she agreed earnestly. “I am sure he will be very grateful for it. It is most sensitive of you.” How could she persuade him, without arousing suspicion, to question Beau Astley a little? “He may very well be longing to unburden himself to someone, a good friend he can trust,” she said, watching George’s face. “After all, a great many disturbing and unhappy thoughts must have troubled him as to what can possibly have happened. And he cannot be unaware of other people’s speculations. I am sure if I were in his situation I should long for someone to confide in!”
If it occurred to him that she had any ulterior motive, he did not show it in his face. At least, she did not think his flicker of a smile was for that reason…. Was it?
“Indeed,” he answered soberly. “Sometimes it is a great relief to talk-in confidence!”
Was George perhaps more astute than she had supposed? And enamored of the idea of a little detective work of his own? Surely not! Watching his elegant back as he went out the door, she felt a sharp tingle of pleasant surprise.
Three days later, Emily had contrived to take Charlotte with herself and George to a small private ball, where she had ascertained in advance that the Balantynes were to be present, as well as Alan Ross and Christina. What excuse Charlotte offered to Pitt was her own affair.
Emily was not sure quite what knowledge she hoped to acquire, but she was not innocent of the general habits of the gentlemen of Society. She had learned to accept the extraordinary feat of mental and ethical agility that enabled a man to indulge his physical appetites in the expensive brothels near the Haymarket all night, and then to come home and preside over his family at a silent and obedient breakfast table, where his wish was enough to produce a flurry of eagerness and his word held the force of law. She had chosen to live in Society and enjoy its privileges. Therefore, though she did not admire its hypocrisy, she did not rebel against it.
Emily had no liking at all for Christina Ross, but she could very well believe that Christina had sympathy for the few women who dared to break from social confines and play men at their own game, even to the point of risking everything for a wild masquerade at a house such as Max’s in the Devil’s Acre. Emily thought it was excessively foolish! Only a woman with no brains at all would wager so much for such a tawdry return-and she despised such idiocy.
But she was aware that boredom occasionally drove out all intelligence, even the sense of self-preservation. She had seen overwrought women imagine themselves in love and rush headlong, like lemmings, to their own destruction. Usually they were young, a first passion. But perhaps it was only the outside that changed with age: habits learned, a little camouflage for vulnerability. The desperation inside might be the same at any time. So by chance among Christina Ross’s acquaintances tonight might there not be at least one of Max’s women?
She wished Charlotte to come also for her added ability to observe. Charlotte was very naive on certain points, but on others she was surprisingly acute. Added to which, Christina disliked her, seemed in some way to be almost jealous. And in the heat of strong emotion people were inclined to betray themselves. Charlotte could be extremely handsome when she was enjoying herself, giving someone all her attention-as she did, for some quite unaccountable reason, to General Balantyne. If anything might cause Christina to lose her self-mastery, her judgment, it would be Charlotte flirting with the general-and even perhaps with Alan Ross.
Accordingly, Emily, George, and Charlotte arrived at Lord and Lady Easterby’s ball for their eldest daughter. They were just late enough still to be civil and yet also to cause a pleasing stir of appreciation among the guests already thronging the hall.
Emily was dressed in her favorite delicate water green, which flattered her fair skin; the gentle curls of her hair caught the light like an aureole. She looked like the spirit of an elusive early English summer, when the blossom is still clean and the air dappled with cool and shifting light.
She had taken great care over Charlotte. She had considered deeply what would attract the general most, and would therefore irritate Christina. Thus Charlotte swept into the ballroom in a swirl of vibrant and luminous gentian blue that was delicate on her throat and made her hair gleam with the shadowed luster of old copper. She was like a tropical night when the gold of the sun has gone but the warmth of the earth still lingers. If she had even the faintest idea what Emily’s intentions were, she showed no sign of it whatever. Which was as well, because Emily doubted Charlotte’s conscience would have allowed her to go along with such a plan-however much she liked the idea-had she perceived it. And she was useless at flirting if she tried! But it was a long time since Charlotte had had the chance to dress exquisitely, to be extravagant, to dance all night. She was not even aware of her own hunger for the excitement of it.