“Of course,” she said. “I myself seldom speak of those I have lost, for the same reason.”
To her satisfaction, he looked a little taken aback. Obviously he had not considered the possibility that she might have feelings on the subject.
“Quite,” he said hastily. “Quite!”
Charlotte deliberately took another cream cake, and was forced to spend the next few moments concentrating on eating it without dropping the cream down her bosom.
Conversation became polite and stilted. They discussed the weather, what the newspapers were reporting in the Society columns, and the possibility—or, in Lovell’s opinion, the impossibility—of there being any lost treasures in Africa, such as those that were portrayed in Mr. Rider Haggard’s novel King Solomon’s Mines, published the previous year.
“Nonsense,” he said firmly. “Dangerous imagination. Fellow ought to employ his time to better purpose. Ridiculous way for a grown man to earn his living, spinning fantasies to beguile foolish women and girls who are susceptible enough to take him seriously. Overstimulating the minds of such persons is bad for their health . . . and their morals!”
“I think it is an excellent way to employ oneself,” said a young man of perhaps twenty-nine or thirty, coming into the room with a wave of his arm. He helped himself to the last cake, ate it almost in one gulp, and flashed a dazzling smile at Charlotte, then at Caroline. He picked up the teapot to test if there was anything still in it. “Harms no one and entertains thousands. Brings a little color into lives that might ordinarily never have a dream worth indulging. Without dreams their lives might be unbearable.”
“Never heard such nonsense!” Lovell replied. “Panders to overheated imaginations, and to greed. If you wish for tea, Inigo, please ring for the maid and request it instead of swinging the pot around like that. That is what servants are for. I don’t think you have been introduced to Mrs. Pitt?”
Inigo looked at Charlotte. “Of course not. If I had, I would most certainly have remembered. How do you do, Mrs. Pitt. I will not ask how you are. You are obviously in excellent health— and spirits.”
“Indeed I am.” Charlotte tried to keep up the front of dignity she knew Caroline would wish, if not expect. “And if you said less for yourself, I should find it hard to believe,” she added.
“Oh!” His eyebrows went up with evident pleasure. “A woman of opinions. You would have liked my sister Tillie. She always had opinions. A few rather odd ones, mind, but she always knew what she thought, and usually said so.”
“Inigo!” Lovell’s face was deeply flushed. “Your sister has passed away. Kindly remember that, and do not speak of her in that flippant and overfamiliar manner!” He swung round. “I apologize, Mrs. Pitt. Such indelicacy must be embarrassing to you.” His tone lacked conviction. In his mind, Charlotte was already hardly better than his son.
“On the contrary.” Charlotte settled more comfortably into her seat. “I find it very easy to understand how one still thinks with great vividness and affection of those whom one has loved. We all bear our losses in different ways—however is easiest for us—and afford others the same comfort.”
Lovell’s face paled, but before he could reply Caroline stood up, setting her cup and saucer on the table.
“It has been most charming,” she said to no one in particular. “But we have other calls it would be only civil to make. I trust you will excuse us? My dear Ambrosine, I do hope I shall see you again soon. Good afternoon, Mr. Charrington, Inigo.”
Lovell rose from his chair and bowed. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ellison, Mrs. Pitt. So delightful to have made your acquaintance.”
Inigo opened the door for them and followed them out into the hall.
“I’m so sorry if I caused you distress, Mrs. Pitt,” he said with a little frown. “It was not my intention in the least.”
“Of course not,” Charlotte answered him. “And I think from what I have heard of her that I should have liked your sister very much indeed. I certainly find your mother the most comfortable person I have met for a long time.”
“Comfortable!” he said in amazement. “Most people find her quite the opposite.”
“I suppose it must be a matter of taste, but I assure you, I like her a great deal.”
Inigo smiled broadly, all the anxiety slipping out of his face. He shook her hand warmly.
The footman was helping Caroline with her coat. She fastened it and Charlotte accepted hers. A moment later they were outside in the sharp March wind.
An open carriage rattled by, and the man inside raised his hat to them. Caroline had a brief impression of a dark, elegant head, with thick hair curving close to the nape of his neck, sleek and beautiful, and of dark, level eyes. She caught only a glimpse, and then the carriage had passed, but it woke a memory in her so sharp it left her tingling. The man in the carriage was Paul Alaric, the Frenchman who had lived in Paragon Walk, only a hundred yards from Emily, and who had stirred so many passions that summer of the murders. Poor Selena had been so obsessed with him it had almost deranged her.
Against all her common sense, Charlotte herself had felt attracted by his cool wit, the charm that seemed almost unconscious, and the very fact that they all knew so little about him—no family, no past, no social category in which to fit him. Even Emily, with all her grace and élan, had not been entirely impervious.
Could it really have been he just now?
She turned and found Caroline standing very straight, her head high, the wind whipping color into her cheeks.
“Do you know him?” Charlotte asked incredulously.
Caroline began to walk again, her steps sharp on the pavement.
“Slightly,” she replied. “He is Monsieur Paul Alaric.”
Charlotte felt the heat flood through her—so it was he. . . .
“He is acquainted with quite a few residents in the Place,” Caroline continued.
Charlotte was about to add that it seemed beyond question that Caroline was one of them; then, without being sure why, she changed her mind.
“He seems to be a person of leisure,” she said instead. It was a pointless remark, but suddenly sensible words had left her.
“He has business in the city.” Caroline walked more rapidly, and further conversation was whipped away from them by the wind. Twenty or thirty yards on, they were at the Lagardes’ front entrance.
“Are they French?” Charlotte whispered under her breath as the door opened and they were conducted into the hall.
“No,” Caroline whispered as the parlormaid went to announce them. “Great-grandfather, or something. Came over at the time of the Revolution.”
“The Revolution? That was nearly a hundred years ago!” Charlotte whispered back, then fixed her face in an appropriately expectant expression as they were ushered into the withdrawing room.
“All right, then it was further back. I have heard so much history from your grandmother I am tired of it,” Caroline snapped. “Good afternoon, Eloise. May I present my daughter Mrs. Pitt,” she continued with a total change of voice and expression, without drawing breath.
The girl who faced Charlotte was indeed, as Caroline had said, darkly lovely, with the translucence of moonlight on water. Her hair was soft and full, without sheen, quite unlike Charlotte’s, which gleamed like polished wood and was hard to keep pinned because of its weight.
“How delightful of you to call.” Eloise stepped back, smiling and by implication inviting them to sit down. “Will you take tea?”
It was a little late, and perhaps it was merely a courtesy that she asked.
“Thank you, but we would not wish to be of inconvenience,” Caroline said, declining in an accepted formula. It would be less than flattering to say that they had already taken tea elsewhere. She turned to the mantelshelf. “What a delightful picture! I don’t believe I have noticed it before.”