caring, can I? But I’m not going to go around asking questions, of course not! Don’t be foolish. I mean, that would be most unseemly. You should know I wouldn’t do that to you. I can be tactless, I admit, but I am not quite stupid!”
Emily relented, probably because she also was curious and the whole thing was not close enough to be ugly yet.
“Of course, I know that. I’m sorry. I am a little highly strung at the moment,” she colored very faintly at her reference to her condition; she had not yet become accustomed to it, and it was not a subject one discussed. “Fanny was rather ordinary, really. I suppose you do want the truth? She was the last person in the world I would have thought to provoke such a passion in anyone. I can only presume he was quite mad, poor creature. Oh.” She tightened her lip, caught in a social gaffe herself. She took pride that since her marriage she had made herself immune to such things. Charlotte’s influence must be contagious. “I suppose one shouldn’t sympathize with him,” she corrected. “That is quite wrong. Except that, if he is mad, of course, he cannot help it. Will Thomas catch him?”
Charlotte did not know how to reply. She could say simply that she did not know, but that was no answer at all. What Emily was really asking was: did Thomas have any knowledge; was it inside or outside the Walk; could they all dismiss it as a tragedy, but something beyond their own affairs, a brief intrusion, now entirely of the past, something that had happened in the Walk, but could as easily have occurred anywhere else in the mad creature’s path?
“It’s too early to say,” she temporized. “If he is quite mad, he could be anywhere by now, and since there was no reason for selecting Fanny, except that she was there, he will be very hard to recognize—even when we find him.”
Emily looked directly at her.
“Are you saying it is possible it was not someone mad?”
Charlotte avoided her eyes.
“Emily, how can I know? You say Fanny was very— ordinary, not in the least a flirt—”
“No, no one less so. She was not plain, exactly. But you know, Charlotte, the older I get, the more I believe beauty is not so much a matter of what your features or your coloring may be, but the way you behave and what you believe of yourself. Fanny behaved as though she were plain. Whereas Jessamyn, if you look at her dispassionately, is not really so very beautiful, and yet she behaves as if she were quite marvelous. Therefore everyone sees her so! She believes it—and so we do too.”
It was very perceptive of Emily to know that. Charlotte wished she could have known it herself when she was younger and cared desperately. She could recall with painful clarity how wretched she had felt at fifteen when Sarah and Emily seemed so pretty and she felt plain, all elbows and feet. She was already the tallest, and still growing. She might become perfectly gigantic, and no man would ever care for her. She would look over the tops of their heads! She thought young James Fortescue so attractive, but she knew she was at least two inches taller than he was and found herself unable to say anything at all in his presence. He had ended up by admiring Sarah instead.
“You are not listening!” Emily accused.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“That Thomas has been up and down the Walk asking questions of all the men. He even asked George where he was.”
“Of course,” Charlotte said reasonably. This was the part she had been fearing since the beginning. “He has to. After all, George may have seen something that appeared quite usual at the time, but now that we know what happened, he would recognize it as important.” She was pleased with the way she had phrased that. It was immediate and yet completely rational. It did not sound contrived to make Emily comfortable.
“I suppose so,” Emily conceded. “Actually George wasn’t even here that evening. He was in town at his club, so he
Emily relented, probably because she also was curious and the whole thing was not close enough to be ugly yet.
“Of course, I know that. I’m sorry. I am a little highly strung at the moment,” she colored very faintly at her reference to her condition; she had not yet become accustomed to it, and it was not a subject one discussed. “Fanny was rather ordinary, really. I suppose you do want the truth? She was the last person in the world I would have thought to provoke such a passion in anyone. I can only presume he was quite mad, poor creature. Oh.” She tightened her lip, caught in a social gaffe herself. She took pride that since her marriage she had made herself immune to such things. Charlotte’s influence must be contagious. “I suppose one shouldn’t sympathize with him,” she corrected. “That is quite wrong. Except that, if he is mad, of course, he cannot help it. Will Thomas catch him?”
Charlotte did not know how to reply. She could say simply that she did not know, but that was no answer at all. What Emily was really asking was: did Thomas have any knowledge; was it inside or outside the Walk; could they all dismiss it as a tragedy, but something beyond their own affairs, a brief intrusion, now entirely of the past, something that had happened in the Walk, but could as easily have occurred anywhere else in the mad creature’s path?
“It’s too early to say,” she temporized. “If he is quite mad, he could be anywhere by now, and since there was no reason for selecting Fanny, except that she was there, he will be very hard to recognize—even when we find him.”
Emily looked directly at her.
“Are you saying it is possible it was not someone mad?”
Charlotte avoided her eyes.
“Emily, how can I know? You say Fanny was very— ordinary, not in the least a flirt—”
“No, no one less so. She was not plain, exactly. But you know, Charlotte, the older I get, the more I believe beauty is not so much a matter of what your features or your coloring may be, but the way you behave and what you believe of yourself. Fanny behaved as though she were plain. Whereas Jessamyn, if you look at her dispassionately, is not really so very beautiful, and yet she behaves as if she were quite marvelous. Therefore everyone sees her so! She believes it—and so we do too.”
It was very perceptive of Emily to know that. Charlotte wished she could have known it herself when she was younger and cared desperately. She could recall with painful clarity how wretched she had felt at fifteen when Sarah and Emily seemed so pretty and she felt plain, all elbows and feet. She was already the tallest, and still growing. She might become perfectly gigantic, and no man would ever care for her. She would look over the tops of their heads! She thought young James Fortescue so attractive, but she knew she was at least two inches taller than he was and found herself unable to say anything at all in his presence. He had ended up by admiring Sarah instead.
“You are not listening!” Emily accused.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“That Thomas has been up and down the Walk asking questions of all the men. He even asked George where he was.”
“Of course,” Charlotte said reasonably. This was the part she had been fearing since the beginning. “He has to. After all, George may have seen something that appeared quite usual at the time, but now that we know what happened, he would recognize it as important.” She was pleased with the way she had phrased that. It was immediate and yet completely rational. It did not sound contrived to make Emily comfortable.
“I suppose so,” Emily conceded. “Actually George wasn’t even here that evening. He was in town at his club, so he
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