Charlotte stepped into it and pulled it up. “Cerise must be a remarkable woman to look ravishing in this! Fasten me up. Come on, I’ve only ten minutes to get to the conservatory. Where’s the wig?”
Emily finished the fastening and passed her the black wig. It took them several minutes to get it right and to apply the rouge Charlotte had brought. Emily stood back and looked at her critically.
“You know that’s not bad,” she said with considerable surprise. “In fact, you look quite dashing, in a garish sort of way.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said sarcastically, but her hands were shaking and her voice was not quite level.
Emily was watching her closely. She did not ask if Charlotte still wanted to go on with it.
“Right,” Charlotte said more firmly. “See if the passage is clear. I’d hate to meet the parlormaid on the stairs.”
Emily opened the door and looked out, took half a dozen steps—Charlotte could hear her feet on the boards—then came back again. “Come on! Quick. You can get down these stairs, and if there’s anyone coming we’ll duck into Veronica’s room.”
They scuttled along the corridor, down the stairs, and onto the main landing; then Emily stopped sharply and held up her finger in warning. Charlotte froze.
“Amelia?” It was a man’s voice. “Amelia? I thought you were looking after Miss Barnaby?”
Emily started down again. “Yes I am. I’ve come to get her a tisane.”
“ ’Aven’t you got any upstairs?”
“Not peppermint. Would you get me some? I’ll stay here in case she calls—I don’t think she’s well at all. Please, Albert.”
Standing above her, at the head of the stairs, Charlotte could hear the smile in her voice and picture the soft look. She was not in the least surprised when Albert agreed without a murmur, and the next moment Emily was back at the bannister again, whispering fiercely to her to hurry.
Charlotte came down so rapidly she almost fell on the last step. She catapulted across the open hallway and through the conservatory door into the blessed dimness of the sparse, yellow night-lights. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, she felt as if her whole body must be shaking, and no effort could fill her lungs with enough air.
She stood under the ornamental palm at the far end of the pathway, so she could see the door to the hall. If anyone came she could step forward and the light would catch primarily her shoulder and skirt, showing that burning color; her face would remain in the shadow of the overhanging frond.
But would anyone come? Perhaps Cerise never made assignations by letter. Or maybe her writing or the words she used were utterly different from what Charlotte had written, and the recipients would recognize that instantly. She had given Julian Danver the earliest time. If he were going to come he should be here any moment. In fact, he was late. How long had she been here?
She could hear the faintest sound of footsteps somewhere in the house—probably Albert in the hall. They were not coming this way. Closer to her there was a steady dripping of moisture from one leaf to another, and finally onto the damp earth beneath. The smell of vegetation was overpowering.
She tried to occupy her mind and failed utterly. Every train of thought dissolved into chaos, driven out by the tension that was tightening like the slow turning of a ratchet. Her hands were sticky and felt like pins and needles. Was she going to stand here in the dark under a potted palm half the night?
The whisper startled her so violently it could have been at her shoulder—she did not even know what the words had been.
He was standing just inside the doorway, eyes wide, the yellow light making his cheeks look unnaturally haggard and chiseling his nose more finely.
Charlotte stepped forward just enough to present a clear silhouette against the green, and for the light to catch the searing pink dress.
He was surprised when he saw the color, the smoothness of her bare shoulder and the slender curve of her neck, the black wig. For an instant the pain in him was totally naked. It was too late to call it back—Garrard Danver had loved Cerise. The storm of it had left the wrack in his face. In spite of himself, he came towards her.
She had no idea what to do—conspiracy, infatuation she had been half prepared for, but not such pain.
Unconsciously she backed towards the palm, and the light above her fell on her bosom.
Garrard stopped. His eyes were hollow, he was like a caricature, ugly and beautiful; even in his despair there was self-knowledge, a shaft of irony.
Then she understood. Of course: everyone had said Cerise was thin, nearly flat-chested, and Charlotte was rather well endowed. Even with a tight dress and unflattering camisole she still could not pass for the elegant leanness Cerise was said to have.
“Who are you?” he said very quietly.
“Who did you think I was, when you came?” She had thought of that question long before.
His smile was ghastly. “I had no idea. I never imagined you were whom you pretend to be.”
“Then why did you come?” It was a challenge.
“To see why you wanted me, of course! If you’ve blackmail in mind, you’re a fool! You’re risking your life for a few pounds.”
“I don’t want money!” she said sharply. “I want—” She stopped. He was close to her now, so close she could have lifted her hand and touched his cheek. But she was still in so deep a shadow that he had not recognized her. There was someone else in the doorway, someone motionless with horror, and yet with such a passion of jealousy in her face she might truly have seen hell in the quietly dripping leaves and the two figures standing almost touching each other, and that harsh, incandescent, outrageous dress.
Loretta York. Garrard turned very slowly and saw her. He did not look embarrassed, as Charlotte had expected, nor ashamed. The wretchedness in his face was fear—and worse than that, a kind of revulsion.
Water slid off the leaves and landed on the lily petals with a faint plink. All three of them stood motionless.
At last Loretta gave a little shudder and turned on her heel and went out.
Garrard looked at Charlotte, or rather at the gloom where she stood. His voice was hoarse, he had to make two attempts at speaking.
“Wha—what do you want?”
“Nothing. Leave. Go back to the party,” she hissed.
He hesitated, peering at her, unsure whether to believe her or not, and she retreated, almost backing into the palm.
“Go back to the party!” she whispered fiercely. “Go back!”
His relief was flickering, but he did not wait: all he wanted was to escape. A moment later she stood alone in the conservatory. She tiptoed to the door and looked out. There was no one in the hall, not even Emily. Should she risk running upstairs now, or wait until Emily gave her the signal? Perhaps this emptiness was the signal? If Albert came back it would be too late.
She was at the foot of the stairs without having made a conscious decision. It was too late to go back. She picked up the magenta taffeta of her skirt and ran up as fast as she could. Please heaven there would be no one on the landing, nor anyone on the stairs leading to the servants quarters.
She got to the top, breathless, her heart pounding. The narrow passage was deserted, nothing but doors on either side. Which one was Emily’s? Hellfire! She had completely forgotten! Panic rose inside her. If anyone came she would have to dive for the nearest room and hope it was empty.
There were footsteps on the stairs now! She scuttled to the door, turned the handle, and pushed it. She was only just inside when the footsteps reached the top. She waited. If they came in here there was nothing at all she could do. Frantically she looked around for something to hit them with. She could not be hauled downstairs like a common housebreaker!
“Charlotte! Charlotte, where are you?”