to think.” A third gave the slightest indication with a twitch of one elegant shoulder. “Anyway, I’m quite sure she has her eye on Sir Pelham Forsbrook.”
Charlotte’s attention was caught by that last name. He was the father of Neville Forsbrook, who had so cruelly taunted Angeles. She glanced sideways at Isaura and saw the distress in her face before she could conceal it with a feigned smile of interest.
“Is Sir Pelham thinking of marrying again?” Charlotte asked, with no idea of the circumstances, except that, with a son he owned to, he had to have been married once.
“
She
is thinking of it, my dear,” the first woman said with a smile very slightly condescending. “Pelham is worth a fortune. All kinds of investments in Africa, I believe. Probably gold, I should think. Didn’t they find masses of it in Johannesburg last year? And he’s a very charming man, sort of dark and interesting, a powerful face.”
One of the others giggled slightly. “I do believe you are attracted to him yourself, Marguerite.”
“Nonsense!” Marguerite said a trifle too quickly. “Eleanor was afriend of mine. I wouldn’t dream of it. Such a tragedy. I haven’t got it out of my mind yet.”
Charlotte made a mental note to ask Vespasia what had happened to Eleanor, who was presumably Forsbrook’s late wife. For the moment, she turned to Isaura and said how delighted she had been to meet her again, and excused herself from the conversation.
She was still wondering about the Forsbrook family when she noticed a group of young women, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old, laughing and talking together. They were all pretty, with the unlined features and the blemishless complexions of the young, but one of the girls in particular caught Charlotte’s attention.
Her hair and eyes were both startlingly dark and quite beautiful against the peach tones of her high-necked gown. Also, she had an air of intensity that instantly made her stand out; she seemed far more serious than the others, with a look of being occupied in some private concern. Charlotte watched her for several moments as one of the other girls spoke to her and she had to ask for the words to be repeated before she replied. Even then her answer was vague, drawing a taunt, and then giggles from two of the others.
There was something familiar in her unease, and then Charlotte realized that she was Angeles Castelbranco. Her dress was utterly different from the ball gown she had worn at the embassy, but the resemblance to her mother should have been sufficient for Charlotte to recognize her again, even at a slight distance and from an angle.
There was more laughter. A young man passed close to them and smiled. Discreetly he regarded all of them but clearly it was Angeles who took his eye. Beside her the others looked pallid, even ordinary, though today her dress was extremely modest and she made no attempt to hold his glance.
The young man smiled at her.
She gave a very slight smile back at him, then immediately lowered her eyes.
He hesitated, uncertain whether he dared speak to her when she had given him no encouragement.
One of the other girls smiled at him. He inclined his head in a small bow, then walked on. Two of the girls giggled.
Angeles looked unhappy, even uncomfortable. She excused herself and moved away toward where Isaura was still involved in conversation.
Charlotte found Vespasia again. Together they strolled over toward a magnificent bed of mixed flowers, bright with pink and blue spires of lupin and dozens of gaudy oriental poppies in a profusion of scarlets, crimsons, and peaches.
Charlotte described to Vespasia how she had seen Angeles act, the other girls and the young man.
“And it troubles you?” Vespasia asked quietly.
“I’m not sure why,” Charlotte admitted. “She looked so ill at ease, as if she had a deep unhappiness she was trying to overcome, but could not. I suppose I have forgotten what it was like to be sixteen.
Charlotte’s attention was caught by that last name. He was the father of Neville Forsbrook, who had so cruelly taunted Angeles. She glanced sideways at Isaura and saw the distress in her face before she could conceal it with a feigned smile of interest.
“Is Sir Pelham thinking of marrying again?” Charlotte asked, with no idea of the circumstances, except that, with a son he owned to, he had to have been married once.
“
She
is thinking of it, my dear,” the first woman said with a smile very slightly condescending. “Pelham is worth a fortune. All kinds of investments in Africa, I believe. Probably gold, I should think. Didn’t they find masses of it in Johannesburg last year? And he’s a very charming man, sort of dark and interesting, a powerful face.”
One of the others giggled slightly. “I do believe you are attracted to him yourself, Marguerite.”
“Nonsense!” Marguerite said a trifle too quickly. “Eleanor was afriend of mine. I wouldn’t dream of it. Such a tragedy. I haven’t got it out of my mind yet.”
Charlotte made a mental note to ask Vespasia what had happened to Eleanor, who was presumably Forsbrook’s late wife. For the moment, she turned to Isaura and said how delighted she had been to meet her again, and excused herself from the conversation.
She was still wondering about the Forsbrook family when she noticed a group of young women, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old, laughing and talking together. They were all pretty, with the unlined features and the blemishless complexions of the young, but one of the girls in particular caught Charlotte’s attention.
Her hair and eyes were both startlingly dark and quite beautiful against the peach tones of her high-necked gown. Also, she had an air of intensity that instantly made her stand out; she seemed far more serious than the others, with a look of being occupied in some private concern. Charlotte watched her for several moments as one of the other girls spoke to her and she had to ask for the words to be repeated before she replied. Even then her answer was vague, drawing a taunt, and then giggles from two of the others.
There was something familiar in her unease, and then Charlotte realized that she was Angeles Castelbranco. Her dress was utterly different from the ball gown she had worn at the embassy, but the resemblance to her mother should have been sufficient for Charlotte to recognize her again, even at a slight distance and from an angle.
There was more laughter. A young man passed close to them and smiled. Discreetly he regarded all of them but clearly it was Angeles who took his eye. Beside her the others looked pallid, even ordinary, though today her dress was extremely modest and she made no attempt to hold his glance.
The young man smiled at her.
She gave a very slight smile back at him, then immediately lowered her eyes.
He hesitated, uncertain whether he dared speak to her when she had given him no encouragement.
One of the other girls smiled at him. He inclined his head in a small bow, then walked on. Two of the girls giggled.
Angeles looked unhappy, even uncomfortable. She excused herself and moved away toward where Isaura was still involved in conversation.
Charlotte found Vespasia again. Together they strolled over toward a magnificent bed of mixed flowers, bright with pink and blue spires of lupin and dozens of gaudy oriental poppies in a profusion of scarlets, crimsons, and peaches.
Charlotte described to Vespasia how she had seen Angeles act, the other girls and the young man.
“And it troubles you?” Vespasia asked quietly.
“I’m not sure why,” Charlotte admitted. “She looked so ill at ease, as if she had a deep unhappiness she was trying to overcome, but could not. I suppose I have forgotten what it was like to be sixteen.
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