Narraway stood up and went to the decanter. He poured whisky for each of them, then returned to his seat and continued to explain.
Jack Radley had spent all of the previous day in bed. His wound had been stitched and bandaged and he seemed to be recovering without more than a very slight fever and a lot of pain. He was still shaken enough by the whole event to be very willing to stay at home, most of the time in the sitting room by the fire, wrapped in a heavy dressing gown over his nightshirt. The effort of dressing properly caused considerable pain, wrenching his wound. He was stiff, and it still bled sufficiently for him to be aware that it must be kept bandaged.
He let Emily help him, and was glad of her attention. He was surprised that occasionally he felt a little dizzy.
Normally he had excellent health. He was not used to being so miserable, or so handicapped in all his usual pursuits. It was a sobering thought. It turned his mind to Alexander Duncannon, who was in pain all the time, and knew that it would always be so. How did he bear it?
Thinking of Alexander inevitably forced him to think also of Godfrey.
He looked across the warm, firelit room to where Emily was sitting in her chair while he lay sideways on the couch, his feet up. The light was soft on her face, kind to the few lines of anxiety that were just visible on her fair skin. Her hair looked almost gold in its warmth. He had always liked the way it curled.
He knew what she really wanted to know was if the shooting incident was going to affect his career, but she did not wish to commit herself to saying so. It was not the money that mattered. She had enough to keep them both in the fashion they wished. It was what the loss of his position would do to his self-esteem, his vanity.
Did that matter? Compared with the grief the Duncannons would face? Not much. Emily and the children were safe. So was Jack, in essence. The tear in his arm hurt, but it would heal. He would not be crippled by it. It was up to him whether he let the wound to his vanity cripple him.
What wound exactly? He had obeyed the instruction given him regarding the contract. He had been loyal to Godfrey Duncannon, which was a matter of principle rather than emotion. He had not particularly liked him, but that was irrelevant. He had found him a colder man than he affected to be. No laughter or pain seemed to take his attention for long, or even divert his energy from his task. He was unfailingly polite, but he never apologized. He expressed his thanks, but stiffly, with satisfaction rather than pleasure.
Jack had also learned slowly that Godfrey was more ambitious than he appeared at first. But then many in government were like that. It was part of the job to seem affable. It was even more important to be as hard and as resilient as steel underneath. And clever; one must always be clever.
Then the thought that had been on the edge of his mind for weeks forced its way in: was he actually in the right job? It was the first time he had truly allowed the idea into his mind. He had once believed this job was the answer to what he would do with his life; it suited his charm, his judgment and ease with people, and the degree of leisure and choice that wealth gave him.
As a member of Parliament he would earn Emily’s respect and the public’s acceptance as a man of some purpose.
The fire crackled and sank a little. He should ring the bell and have the footman fetch more wood.
Emily was watching him. Had she any idea what was racing through his mind?
“I shall go to visit Cecily tomorrow,” she said with a rueful smile. “I imagine many of her friends will not. I hope you don’t mind?” It was a question, but he had an absolute conviction that, now that he was better, she would do whatever he said.
“Could I persuade you not to?” he asked with a smile.
“Only if you gave me a reason so strong I couldn’t argue against it. Do you want to?” She glanced at the fire, and then back at him.
“No. I think you should go. Tell me, Emily…do you like Godfrey?”
She stood up, crossed to the bellpull and tugged it. As soon as the footman came she requested more wood, and perhaps a little coal as well. It was a bitter evening. The footman obeyed, taking the scuttle with him.
“Do you?” Jack insisted as soon as the door was closed.
“Pardon?” she asked innocently.
“Do you like Godfrey Duncannon?” he repeated.
“Not very much,” she admitted.
“Why? I want to know.”
“I haven’t got a sensible answer. I think he’s-cold.”
“That’s a sensible answer. Does Cecily love him?”
Emily shrugged. She always did that with great elegance.
“I don’t know. I think she once did.” She did not add anything, but he knew she was thinking that that could happen to anyone, and probably did to many. The danger had brushed by them too, just months ago: the drifting apart, the taking for granted, the small faults becoming more important, the loss of laughter, the protests remembered rather than forgiven.
Did Jack forget that Emily, like Cecily Duncannon, had brought the money to the marriage? Most of the time. When he remembered it, it was with a sense of obligation, the need to live up to it. Did Godfrey feel the same?
Did Emily ever wonder how much the money was Jack’s reason, and the love a well-played act? It wasn’t! But did he make sure enough that she knew that?
“You should go and see her,” he said. “Please do. And find a way to say how sorry I am about all of this.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at him suddenly. “I didn’t want to argue with you about it.”
“But you would have done?” he said with a smile, to rob the words of any sting.
She smiled even more sweetly. “Yes.”
She had not asked him how the case coming to trial would affect his future. It could be another failure, tying his name to one more man of importance who had come to a spectacular crisis in his career, albeit not of his own fault. Was it bad luck? Or Jack’s misjudgment? Should he give thought to some other career where his skills were better employed? For now, he would say nothing. He smiled back at Emily, and tried to ease himself into a more comfortable position. He was fortunate to be so little injured. He could easily have been killed in that alley. If the shot had been only a few inches further to the right…It was time to think rather more deeply.
Emily went to the Duncannon house with considerable misgiving. She had no idea whether Cecily would receive her or not. She had brought a note to leave if she was refused entrance. There was so little to say that it seemed rather ridiculous, but friendship required that she not take the easy escape of claiming that she did not know what to say. There were all kinds of tragedies for which there were no adequate words, nothing that healed the pain. But one did not leave people alone, regardless.
It was a cold morning with a bitter wind from the east that cut through woolen coats and even fur collars, as if it were straight off the North Sea, which it probably was. She was relieved when the door was opened. A blank-faced butler took a moment to recognize her, and then pulled the door wide and stepped backward to invite her in.
“Mrs. Duncannon is in the morning room, ma’am,” he said gravely. The pallor of his face suggested that he knew they were on the eve of tragedy. “If you will excuse me a moment, I will see if she is well enough to receive you.” Without waiting for Emily’s reply, he closed the front door and walked smartly across the wide hallway and knocked on one of the doors. A moment later he returned to take Emily into the morning room where Cecily Duncannon was waiting.
“Emily. How kind of you…” Cecily began, then faltered into an awkward silence. She looked ravaged, her skin pale, dark rings around her eyes as if she were bruised. She seemed beaten physically as well as emotionally. All her old vitality was gone. Perhaps that had been nervous energy anyway, bringing nothing more than the strength needed to keep the pains of reality just beyond reach. Emily had not understood it at the time, but now it seemed so clear. Cecily had known for a while now that this day, or a day like it, was always going to come. What courage it must have taken to seize the time before, and live it to the full. Were it Emily’s own son, Edward, could she have found the strength to do that?