“Good morning, Vicar.” Charlotte held out her hand to Martha. “Good morning, Mrs. Prebble. I am sure Mama will be most touched by your sympathy.”
The vicar and Martha departed and Charlotte sat down hard on the overstuffed chair in the withdrawing room feeling suddenly cold and painfully unhappy.
Naturally Charlotte reported the substance of the vicar’s call when Mama and Emily returned for luncheon. No comment was passed, except the acknowledgement required by courtesy.
Mama returned to her room to spend the afternoon writing the necessary letters to inform other members of the family, godparents, cousins, of Sarah’s death. Emily found something to do in the kitchen. Charlotte busied herself with mending. It was really Millie’s job, but Charlotte wished for something to keep her from idleness; Millie would have to find another task, perhaps even doing the ironing again.
It was nearly three when Pitt came again. For the first time she admitted freely that she was pleased to see him.
“Charlotte,” he took one of her hands gently. His touch was warm, and she did not wish to withdraw; indeed her mind went ahead of her wishes to think of more.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” she said formally. She must keep control. “What can we do this time? Have you thought of some further questions?”
“No,” he smiled ruefully. “I can think of nothing else. I came merely to see you. I hope I do not need an excuse.”
She found herself embarrassed and unable to answer. It was ridiculous. No man had embarrassed her in this fashion except Dominic, and with Dominic it had been an empty confusion, without any end she could see. This time she hoped profoundly, with shaking heart, what the end might be.
She withdrew her hand. “Still, I should like to know if you have any further. . information? Some beliefs perhaps?”
“Some,” he looked at the chair, questioning if he might sit down. She nodded and he relaxed into it, still watching her. “But it is only the faintest idea as yet. I cannot see it clearly, and perhaps when I do there will be nothing there.”
She wanted to tell him about the distress she felt for Martha Prebble, the sense of her deep pain that had filled the room, her own helplessness in the face of something she thought she had seen, but not understood.
“Charlotte? What is troubling you? Has something happened since I was here last?”
She turned to look at him. For once she was not quite sure how to put her thoughts into words, a failing she was not accustomed to. It was difficult to express the sense of oppression that had weighed on her during and after the Prebbles’ visit without sounding foolish, over-imaginative. Yet she wished to tell him, it would comfort her profoundly if he understood. Perhaps he would even be able to dismiss it, show her it was a fancy.
He was still waiting, apparently knowing she was seeking words.
“The vicar and Mrs. Prebble were here this morning,” she began.
“Natural enough,” he was listening. “He was bound to call.” He shifted his weight. “I know you dislike him. I must say I have the greatest trouble being civil to him myself.” He smiled wryly. “I imagine it is even harder for you.”
She glanced at him, not sure for a moment if he were mocking her. He was, but there was tenderness in his face as well as amusement. For a moment the warmth of it, the sweetness of pleasure it brought her drove Martha Prebble from her mind.
“Why should that have upset you?” he brought her back to the present.
She turned away, so his look should not disturb her. “I’ve always felt ambivalent about Martha.” She was seriously trying now to tell him what was still struggling for form in her mind. “Her talk about sin is so depressing. She sounds like the vicar, seeing evil where I believe there is only perhaps a little foolishness which passes anyway with time and responsibility. People like the vicar always seem bent on spoiling pleasure, as if pleasure itself were against God. I can see that some pleasures are, or that they beguile one from the things one ought to do; but-”
“Perhaps he sees that as his duty?” Pitt suggested. “It’s clear-cut, easier than preaching charity, and certainly easier than practicing it.”
“I suppose so. And if I lived with someone like him for a long time I should learn to feel the same way as Martha Prebble does. Perhaps her father was a vicar, too. I never thought of that before.”
“And what is your other feeling?” he asked. “You said you were ambivalent.”
“Oh, pity, of course. And I think some admiration, too. You know, she really does try to live up to all that that wretched man teaches. And more. She is always visiting, caring for the sick and the lonely. I sometimes wonder how much she believes what she says about sin, or if she just adds it out of habit, and because she thinks she ought to, because she knows he would.”
“I dare say she doesn’t know herself. But that is not all, Charlotte. Why did they disturb you especially today? They have always been like this; you could not have expected anything else.”
What was the unease she had felt? She wanted to tell him, indeed she needed to. “She was talking about the need for punishment, even things like ‘if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out,’ and cutting off hands and things. It seemed so. . so extreme, as if she were frightened of it-I mean really panicked. She talked about washing in the blood of Christ, and things.” She looked at him. “And she spoke about Sarah as if there were evil in her, I mean not just general weakness, as there is in all of us, but as if she knew of something. I suppose that’s what upset me-she spoke as if she knew something I didn’t.”
He frowned, “Charlotte,” he began slowly, “please don’t be angry with me, but do you think Sarah confided in her something that she did not tell you? Is it possible?”
Charlotte was repelled by the thought, yet she remembered that Sarah had wanted to see Martha alone; she had trusted Martha. Sometimes it was easier to speak to someone outside the family.
“Perhaps,” she admitted reluctantly. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what Sarah could have done, but it could be-”
He stood up and came closer to her. She could feel his presence as if it were a warmth. She did not wish to move away. Indeed, she wished it were not immodest, improper to touch him.
“It could be something very slight,” he said gently. “Something that was of little importance, but to Martha Prebble, in the vicar’s eyes, a sin needing forgiveness. And for heaven’s sake don’t confuse the vicar with God. I’m sure God is nothing like as self-righteous-”
In spite of herself she smiled. “Don’t be ridiculous. God is love. I’m sure the vicar never loved anyone in his life.” She was touched by a bleak knowledge. “Including Martha.” She took a deep breath. “No wonder poor Martha is desperate, underneath all her good works, and her condemnation of sin. Not to be loved, not to love-”
He touched her arm very lightly. “And you, Charlotte? Do you still love Dominic?”
She felt herself colour with shame that she should have been so obvious.
“What made you believe-that I-?”
“Of course, I knew.” There was regret in his voice, a memory of pain. “I love you. How could I remain unaware that you loved someone else?”
“Oh.”
“You haven’t answered me. Do you still love him?”
“Don’t you know that I don’t? Or does it not matter to you now?” She was almost sure of what the answer would be, and yet she needed to have it spoken.
He turned her arm firmly till she was facing him.
“It matters to me. I don’t want to be second best?” There was a lift in his voice making it a question.
Very slowly she looked up at him. At first she was a little afraid, embarrassed by the power of feeling in his face, and by the depth and the sweetness of her own feeling. Then she stopped hiding, let go of pretence.