Now she was confused. She stared back at him impatiently; he did not seem to be making any sense.
“What is the matter with you-do you feel faint?” he said at last. Then a flash of suspicion crossed his face. “Emily! What are you doing?”
It was very seldom that George questioned her affairs, but she had always contrived to provide herself with satisfactory answers beforehand. And if they were less than the truth, she was usually positive beyond any doubt that he would never discover it. This was too short notice to invent a successful lie. Evasion was all that was left.
“I’m sorry,” she said demurely. “I was watching Charlotte and General Balantyne. I fear she is not aware of quite what she is doing. I thought you were speaking of that. Now, of course, I realize you were not.”
“I thought that was what you intended,” he said sincerely. “You gave her the dress. You might have foreseen she would look well in it.”
It was too close to the truth for comfort, and Emily felt guilt sweep over her again. She had planned it, even if it had now gone beyond her control.
“I did not intend her to flirt like a fool!” she snapped at him.
“I think she does it rather well.” He sounded surprised himself. He had known Charlotte since the days before she married Pitt. She had been her mother’s despair then, because she simply would not conduct herself with the required charm and the mixture of frankness and deceit, excitement and humor that make for a successful flirtation. But time and confidence had effected a considerable change in her. And she was not flirting in the usual sense; the invitation she extended tacitly to Balantyne was not for a little game of dalliance, but for a very real friendship, where pain and pleasure last, and something of the inner self is given away.
Emily had a sudden feeling that she was going to need George. “What were you saying about social reform?” she inquired.
Maybe he sensed her unhappiness, or possibly he was only exercising good manners. “Brandy Balantyne was talking about social reform,” he answered agreeably. “These disgusting events in the Devil’s Acre seem to have affected him quite surprisingly. I think he really intends to do something about it!”
She spoke spontaneously. “George, what kind of men go to the Devil’s Acre, to houses like Max’s?”
“Really, Emily … I hardly think …” To her astonishment, he looked awkward, as though in spite of his more rational self, he still found the subject embarrassing in front of her.
She gave him a wide stare. “Do you go, George?”
“No, I do not!” He was genuinely shocked. “If I were going to do anything of that sort, I should at least go to the Haymarket, or the-Well, I certainly would not go to the Devil’s Acre.”
“And what would you think of me, if I did?” she asked.
“Don’t be absurd.” He did not even consider it seriously.
“There must be women there,” she pointed out, “or there would be no brothels.” She momentarily forgot to use the euphemism for such establishments.
“Of course there are women there, Emily,” he said with exaggerated patience. “But they are of a different sort. They are not-well-they are not women that one would-would do anything but …”
“Fornicate with,” she finished incisively. Another euphemism was abandoned.
“Quite.” He was a little pink in the face, but she preferred to think it was due to a general discomfort for his own sex at large, rather than any personal guilt. She was perfectly aware that his conduct had not always been exemplary, but she was wise enough not to inquire into it. Such curiosity would bring nothing but unhappiness. To the best of her belief, he had been loyal since their marriage, and that was all she could reasonably ask.
She smiled at him with quite honest warmth. “But Bertram Astley did.”
The shadow returned to his eyes and he looked confused. “Odd,” he muttered. “I don’t think you should inquire into that, Emily. It’s really very sordid. I don’t mind your taking an interest in Charlotte’s investigations when they are moderately respectable-if you absolutely must.” He was aware of the limitations of the authority he could exercise without unpleasantness, and he hated unpleasantness. “But I think you should not seek to know about certain aberrations. It will only distress you.”
Suddenly she was overwhelmingly fond of him. His concern was quite genuine; he knew the world she was beginning to examine, knew the frailties and the twisted hungers. He did not want her to be touched by it, and hurt.
She put her hand on his arm and moved a little closer. She had no intention whatsoever of doing as he suggested. She was far tougher than he supposed, but it was very pleasant indeed that he imagined her so tender, so untouched. It was an idiotic notion, but just for a little while, perhaps till the end of the evening when the laughter and the lights died down, she would pretend to be the innocent creature he thought she was.
Perhaps in the hard light of truth of Astley’s and Max’s deaths, and because of his fears for Alan Ross whom he liked, he, too, needed to pretend for a while.
Alan Ross did not enjoy the ball; the lights and the music gave him no pleasure. All he could see was Christina’s laughing face staring up at one man after another as she danced closely and easily in their arms. He turned and saw Augusta staring in the same direction. She was quite still. Her hand was resting on the balustrade of the staircase, and it was gripping so hard the fingers were crooked and clenched inside her lace gloves.
Ross’s eyes traveled past the bracelets on her wrists, over her white shoulders to her face. He had never realized she was capable of such emotion. He did not understand what it was-desperation, fear, a tenderness that made her angry?
Beyond the dancers in their flower colors was the conservatory door where General Balantyne stood leaning forward a little, his face soft as he spoke to Charlotte Ellison. Ross’s eyes were drawn to her because she was beautiful. She had not the flawless loveliness of the young girls, or the chiseled bones of classic beauty, but a sheer intensity of life. Even across the swirl of the room he could feel her emotions. And next to her, so close that his hand brushed her arm, Balantyne was oblivious of all the world.
Was that what Augusta saw that wounded her and caused the confusion he had seen?
“He looked again. No-her head was turned the other way now, and she could not possibly see the general. She was still looking at Christina, at the foot of the curved stairway leading to the gallery, her mulberry-colored taffeta skirt billowing, gleaming where the light caught it, her cheeks flushed. The man beside her put his arm around her waist and whispered something so close to her ear she must have felt his breath on her skin.
Alan Ross decided that moment that the next evening Christina went out alone in the carriage, whomever she was going to visit, he would follow her and know for himself the truth. However painful, the truth must be better than the hideous thoughts that were crowding his imagination now.
His opportunity came almost before he was ready for it. It was the following day, shortly after dinner. Christina excused herself, saying she had developed a headache and would take a short drive to get a breath of fresh air. She had been in the house all day and felt the atmosphere too close. She might call upon Lavinia Hawkesley, who had been indisposed lately, and Ross was not to wait up for her.
He opened his mouth to protest; then, with cold fear inside him, he realized she had offered the perfect opportunity. “Very well, if you think she is well enough to receive,” he agreed, with only the smallest shake in his voice.
“Oh, I’m sure,” she said cheerfully. “She is probably bored stiff, poor soul, if she has been alone all day and confined to the house. I expect she will be delighted with an hour or two’s company. Do not wait up for me.
“No,” he said, turning away from her. “No. Good night, Christina.”