“It is not necessary,” Pitt said quickly. “A few minutes and he will be much better.”
She looked doubtful.
“Please, Mrs. Cavendish. If you are a friend then your company may be the thing most helpful.” He glanced down at her basket.
“I brought him some books,” she said with a faint smile. “And some jam tarts. Oh! Not greengage . . . this is merely ordinary raspberry.”
“That is kind of you,” he said sincerely.
“I am very fond of him,” she answered. “As I was of his wife.”
They stood together in the sun for a few minutes longer, then the French doors opened and Wray himself came out, walking carefully as if a trifle uncertain of his balance. His skin was very pink and his eyes red-rimmed, but he had obviously dashed a little water over his face and was almost composed. He looked startled to see Mrs. Cavendish, but not in the least displeased, only perhaps embarrassed that she should find him in such a barely concealed emotional state. He did not meet Pitt’s eyes.
“My dear Octavia,” he said with warmth. “How kind of you to call on me again, and so soon. You really are very generous.”
She smiled at him with affection. “I think of you very often,” she replied. “It seemed the natural thing to do. We are all extremely fond of you.” She turned her shoulders away from Pitt, as if to exclude him from the remark. She took the cloth off the basket. “I have brought a few books you may care to read, and some tarts. I hope you will enjoy them.”
“How thoughtful,” he said with an immense effort to sound pleased. “Perhaps you will come in and have some tea?”
She accepted, and with a sharp look at Pitt, started to walk towards the French doors.
Wray turned to Pitt. “Mr. Pitt, do you care to come back also? You are most welcome. I do not feel as if I have helped you very much, although I confess I have no idea how I can.”
“I am not at all sure that there is any way,” Pitt said before he considered the defeat implicit in the remark. “And you have given me most excellent hospitality. I shall not forget it.” He did not mention the jam, but he knew by the sudden brightness of Wray’s eyes, and the way he blushed, that he understood perfectly.
“Thank you,” Wray said with overwhelming emotion, and before he was overcome again, he turned and followed Mrs. Cavendish back towards the French doors and went inside after her.
Pitt walked through the flowers to the gate, and out into Udney Road.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
The air blowing down off the moor was sweet, barely stirring the leaves of the apple tree in the cottage garden, and the silence and darkness were unbroken. It ought to have been a perfect night for deep, untroubled sleep. But Charlotte lay awake, aware of her loneliness, ears straining as if expecting to hear a sound, a footfall somewhere, a loose stone disturbed on the track beyond the gate, perhaps wheels, or more likely simply a horse’s hoof striking a sudden hard surface.
When at last she did hear it, the reality shot through her blood like fire. She threw back the bedcovers and stumbled the mere three steps to the window, and peered out. In the starlight there was nothing but a variance of depth in the shadows. Anyone could have been there, and she would not have seen.
She stayed until her eyes ached, but there was no movement, just another slight sound, no more than a rustle. A fox? A stray cat, or a night hunting bird? She had seen an owl at dusk yesterday evening.
She crept back to bed, but still lay awake, waiting.
Emily also found it hard to sleep, but it was guilt that disturbed her, and a decision she did not want to make but knew now was inevitable. Of all the possibilities she had considered for the fear that haunted Rose, insanity had never been among them. She had thought of an unfortunate romance before Aubrey, or even after, possibly a lost child, someone in her family with whom she had quarreled and who had died before she had had the chance to repair the rift. Not once had she imagined something as terrible as madness.
She could not commit herself to telling Pitt, and yet in her heart she knew she had to, she was just not prepared yet to admit it to herself. She still wanted to believe that somehow she would be able to protect Rose from . . . what? Injustice? Judgment that knew only some of the facts? The truth?
She toyed with the idea of going to Pitt in the morning, an hour or so after breakfast, when she had had time to compose herself, think exactly what she was going to say and how to word it.
But honesty compelled her to acknowledge that if she waited, then Pitt would almost certainly have left the house, and she was only thinking of doing it so she could pretend to herself that she had tried, when in actuality she had quite deliberately gone when she knew it was too late.
So she rose at six, when her maid brought her the requested cup of hot tea, which made her feel rather more like facing the day. She dressed and was out of the house by half past seven. Once you have made up your mind to do something that you know will be difficult and unpleasant, it is better to do it immediately, before too much thinking of it can fill your mind with the fears of all that can hurt and go wrong.
Pitt was startled to see her. He stood in the doorway in Keppel Street in shirtsleeves and stocking feet, his hair untidy as ever. “Emily!” His concern was instant. “Has something happened? Are you all right?”
“Yes, something has happened,” she replied. “And I am not sure whether I will be all right or not.”
He stood aside, inviting her in, allowing her to lead the way to the kitchen. She sat down on one of the hard-backed chairs, sparing only a glance at the familiar surroundings, so subtly different without either Charlotte or Gracie there. The room had a vaguely unused feel, as if only the necessities were being done, no baking of cakes, no smell of richness or warmth, too little linen on the airing rail strung up to the ceiling. Only Archie and Angus, stretching themselves awake on the hearth of the cooking range, looking totally comfortable.
“Tea?” Pitt asked, indicating the pot on the table and the kettle whistling gently on the back of the hob. “Toast?”
“No, thank you,” she declined.
He sat down, ignoring his own half-finished drink. “What is it?”
She had passed the point of changing her mind . . . well, almost. There was still time to say something else. He was looking at her, waiting. Perhaps he would draw it out of her whether she wanted him to or not. If she hesitated long enough he might do that, and relieve her of the guilt.
Except that was a lie to herself. She was here. At least do what needed doing with some integrity! She raised her eyes and stared at him. “I saw Rose Serracold yesterday evening and talked with her as if we were alone. It can be like that sometimes at a big party, find yourself sort of . . . islanded in noise, so no one overhears you. I bullied her into telling me why she went to Maude Lamont.” She stopped, remembering how she had forced Rose into an emotional corner. Bullied was the right word.
Pitt waited without prompting her.
“She is afraid her father died insane—“ She stopped abruptly, seeing Pitt’s amazement, and then instant horror. “She is terrified that she might have inherited the same taint in the blood,” she went on quietly, as if whispering could lessen the pain of it. “She wanted to ask her mother’s spirit if it was true, if he really was mad. But she didn’t have the chance. Maude Lamont was killed too soon.”
“I see.” He sat staring at her without moving. “We can ask General Kingsley to confirm that at least she had not contacted her mother by the time she left.”
She was startled. “You think she might have gone back afterwards and had a private séance?”