7
EMILY WAS APPALLED when she came into the library in answer to Albert’s summons and saw Pitt standing there. Thank heaven the circumstances had given him little time to express his outrage or to press his demand that she leave. When Veronica returned to consciousness, Pitt had been obliged to remain silent, except for the few remarks to excuse himself, leaving Emily alone with her mistress propped up against the cushions, looking like death warmed over.
Emily felt so intense a pity for her it was like a new wound, but she also knew that she would probably never have a better chance than now, when Veronica was shocked and off balance, to draw some unguarded word from her as to what had frightened her so profoundly.
She bent down beside her and touched her hand. “Ma’am, you do look ill,” she said gently. “Whatever did he say to you? He ought not have been allowed!” She stared so intently at Veronica’s ashen face that some sort of answer was unavoidable.
“I—I think I fainted,” Veronica whispered at last.
Mentally Emily apologized to Pitt for the injustice she was about to do him; then with all the skill she could muster, she let genuine compassion fill her eyes. “Did he threaten you, ma’am? What did he say? He has no right! You should report him: What was it?”
“No,” Veronica said quickly, then bit her lip, struggling with the lie. “No—he—he was really quite civil. I. . .” For a moment her eyes met Emily’s and she hesitated on the brink of speech, the temptation to trust so vivid that Emily could trace every thread of it, the wavering, the rival fears.
Emily held her breath.
But the moment passed. Veronica turned away and the tears spilled and ran down her cheeks. She lay back and closed her eyes.
Emily longed to put her arms round her and tell her she understood, she knew what it was like to lose your husband suddenly, violently, in the horror of murder, with the knowledge that someone must hate so much that only death could satisfy them. And she also knew the fear that grew day by day, fear of confusion, of a whole world become incomprehensible and full of secrets, some of them hideous; and the fear that the truth might be worse than you could bear. And there was the fear that with knowledge you, too, might become a victim—and at the back of every other fear, the one that you might be guilty of some stupidity, or some neglect that had contributed to it all, a permanent rising, whispering guilt!
And for Emily, too, there had been the fear that the police would suspect her. Her motive had looked to be so obvious!
Was that what Veronica was afraid of now? Did she feel Pitt treading closer? Was it terror for herself that had made her faint?
Or was she afraid for someone she was protecting— someone like Julian Danver? It was more like Pitt to be oblique, to go for the weakest link in the chain of events: not the murderer himself but the person most likely to yield to pressure.
Or was Veronica afraid, as Emily had been, of the people in her husband’s family who believed she was guilty, or who wanted her to be—not only of errors of judgment, of the occasional selfishness, but literally physically guilty of murder? Was that the passion between Loretta and Veronica—that Loretta believed her daughter-in-law had killed her son? Was taking her revenge in her own way, slowly, day by day, turning the knife, collecting one word after another until she had proof? It was a far more delicate torture than the simple hangman’s noose, and Loretta could administer it herself—and watch.
Or was it Cerise she was afraid of?
Or in spite of the fear now, was she Cerise herself? And was it her paymasters of whom she was terrified, now that the net was closing in?
Whatever the truth, there was no point in pursuing it at present. The moment when she might have spoken was gone, and Emily knew it would be foolish to betray her curiosity. She felt a little sick. She did not want it to be Veronica. She could not help liking her, even feeling a kind of identity. But Emily was angry also, because of her own inability to judge. Her emotions were strong, she wanted to protect the victims and attack the offenders, of all sorts, whether guilty of murder, or only of hatred and meanness of soul; but she could not discern who they were.
“Would you like to go upstairs, ma’am?” she said, perhaps less tactfully man she might have. “Before anyone comes and—” She realized how far she was committing herself and stopped.
But Veronica understood. She swung her legs down from the sofa and sat up very slowly, still dizzy.
“Yes—yes, I would rather.” There was no need to add Loretta’s name; all the implications hung in the air between them, perfectly understood, but it would not do to speak them aloud.
Slowly, side by side, they left the library, crossed the hall to the stairs, and went up.
That evening Edith had another one of her “spells,” and Emily was asked to lay out the dinner gowns for both Veronica and Loretta.
“Poor Edith. She should see a doctor,” she said with cloying sweetness. “Shall I ask Mrs. York to call one for her? I’m sure she would; she thinks so highly of Edith.”
Fanny tittered and then stopped abruptly when the housekeeper glared at her.
“There’s no need for you to tell us what to do and what not to, miss!” Mrs. Crawford snapped at Emily. “We’ll call a doctor if it’s necessary! You’re a sight too ready with your advice!”
Emily affected innocence and a slight air of having been hurt.
“I’m sure I was only trying to help, Mrs. Crawford, being that I shall see Mrs. York in the line of duty. To save you going out of your way.”
“I’ll go where I please, miss, and none of your business!”
“The girl was only trying to help,” the butler said reasonably. “And maybe we should get a doctor to Edith. She has more turns than a hurdy-gurdy!”
Libby burst into a fit of giggles and half slid under the table.
“Oh, you are so witty, Mr. Redditch,” Bertha said admiringly.
Nora snorted. She had observed Bertha’s eye for Redditch and, having tried her own hand there and failed, regarded it with scorn. Anyway, she had every intention of doing better than a butler—Bertha could have him and welcome! She wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life living in someone else’s house! She was going to have one of her own, with nice linen and crockery, and a maid of all work.
Redditch smirked slightly; admiration was very pleasant.
“Control yourself, Libby,” he said sententiously. “No call for all that. Yes, Mrs. Crawford, I think Amelia might mention it to Mrs. York.”
“Yes, Amelia,” Nora agreed with a little sniff. “Why don’t you do that?”
Joan opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind. But she stared at Emily and shook her head so slightly it might have been an illusion of the gaslight, except for the expression of warning in her eyes.
“Scorch any slips today?” Nora asked sarcastically.
Emily smiled back. “No, thank you. Did you spill any soup?”
“I never spill soup! I know my job!”
“You used to,” Albert said with satisfaction. In his opinion Nora was a step above herself. He had tried to be friendly with her, and she thought herself too good for a junior footman. And she had ticked him off in front of the tweeny. “I remember when you dropped a potato in the French ambassador’s lap.”
“And I remember a few of your mistakes, too!” Nora said fiercely. “Do you want me to begin?”
“Do as you please, I’m sure,” Albert said airily, but his face was bright pink.
“I will! How about the day you stood on Lady Wortley’s train? I can still hear the taffeta rip!”
Redditch decided to take control. “That’ll do!” The butler straightened himself in his chair and fixed them with a stern eye. “I won’t have name-calling and interfering with other people’s jobs. Nora, what you said was uncalled for!”