couldn’t be any help.”
Charlotte was saved the necessity of answering by the arrival of the most magnificent old lady she had ever seen, with hair piled immaculately and back as straight as a ramrod. Her nose was a shade too long, and her eyes a little hooded, and yet the remnant of beauty was unmistakable, and her intimate knowledge of it and its power even more so.
Emily got to her feet with a trifle more haste than dignity. It was a long time since Charlotte had seen her the least out of composure, and it was telling. She hoped it was not anxiety that she would not know how to behave, and thus let her down.
“Aunt Vespasia,” Emily said quickly. “May I present my sister, Charlotte Pitt?” She looked at Charlotte penetratingly. “My great aunt-in-law, Lady Cumming-Gould.”
Charlotte had no need of warning.
“How do you do, ma’am,” she inclined her head very slightly, enough for courtesy and too little for obsequiousness.
Vespasia extended her hand, and her eyes regarded Charlotte frankly from toe to top, ending with a direct stare from her flittering old eyes.
“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt,” she answered levelly. “Emily has often spoken of you. I am pleased that you have been able to call.” She did not add “at last,” but it was in her voice.
Charlotte doubted that Emily had spoken of her at all, still less that it had been often. It would have been most injudicious—and Emily had never been injudicious in her life—but she could hardly argue. Neither could she think of a suitable answer. “Thank you” seemed so foolish.
“It is kind of you to make me welcome,” she heard herself saying.
“I hope you are staying to luncheon?” It was a question.
“Oh yes,” Emily rushed in quickly before Charlotte had time to flounder. “Of course, she will stay. And this afternoon we shall go calling.”
Charlotte drew breath to make some excuse. She could not possibly go around Paragon Walk with Emily, dressed in gray muslin. Momentarily she was angry with Emily for putting her in such a position. She turned to glare at her.
Aunt Vespasia cleared her throat sharply.
“And who, precisely, did you have it in mind to call upon?”
Emily looked at Charlotte, realized her mistake, and fished herself out of it with aplomb.
“I thought Selena Montague. She admires herself in plum pink, and Charlotte will look so much better in it I should enjoy putting her in my new silk, and obliging Selena to look at her. I do not care for Selena,” she added as an aside to Charlotte, quite unnecessarily. “And the dress will fit you excellently. The foolish dressmaker got her fingers muddled and made it much too long for me.”
Aunt Vespasia allowed her a small smile of admiration.
“I thought it was Jessamyn Nash you disliked,” she remarked casually.
“I like irritating Jessamyn,” Emily waved a hand. “That is not really the same thing. I have never thought whether I like her or not.”
“Whom do you like?” Charlotte inquired, wanting to know more about the Walk. Now that she was freed from the immediate problem of dress, her mind went back to Fanny Nash and the fear that the others seemed to have forgotten.
“Oh,” Emily considered for a moment. “I quite like Phoebe Nash, Jessamyn’s sister-in-law, if she would be a little more definite. And I like Albertine Dilbridge, although I have no patience with her mother. And I like Diggory Nash, but I do not know why. I can think of nothing in particular to say about him that is good.”
Luncheon was announced, and the three of them departed for the dining room. Charlotte had not seen a meal of such simple grace for a long time, perhaps not ever. It was all cold, and yet of such delicacy that it must have taken hours to prepare. In the still heat it was delicious just to contemplate the cold soups, fresh salmon with minute cold vegetables, ices, sherbets and fruit. She was halfway through eating it, elegantly, as if she ate such things every
Charlotte was saved the necessity of answering by the arrival of the most magnificent old lady she had ever seen, with hair piled immaculately and back as straight as a ramrod. Her nose was a shade too long, and her eyes a little hooded, and yet the remnant of beauty was unmistakable, and her intimate knowledge of it and its power even more so.
Emily got to her feet with a trifle more haste than dignity. It was a long time since Charlotte had seen her the least out of composure, and it was telling. She hoped it was not anxiety that she would not know how to behave, and thus let her down.
“Aunt Vespasia,” Emily said quickly. “May I present my sister, Charlotte Pitt?” She looked at Charlotte penetratingly. “My great aunt-in-law, Lady Cumming-Gould.”
Charlotte had no need of warning.
“How do you do, ma’am,” she inclined her head very slightly, enough for courtesy and too little for obsequiousness.
Vespasia extended her hand, and her eyes regarded Charlotte frankly from toe to top, ending with a direct stare from her flittering old eyes.
“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt,” she answered levelly. “Emily has often spoken of you. I am pleased that you have been able to call.” She did not add “at last,” but it was in her voice.
Charlotte doubted that Emily had spoken of her at all, still less that it had been often. It would have been most injudicious—and Emily had never been injudicious in her life—but she could hardly argue. Neither could she think of a suitable answer. “Thank you” seemed so foolish.
“It is kind of you to make me welcome,” she heard herself saying.
“I hope you are staying to luncheon?” It was a question.
“Oh yes,” Emily rushed in quickly before Charlotte had time to flounder. “Of course, she will stay. And this afternoon we shall go calling.”
Charlotte drew breath to make some excuse. She could not possibly go around Paragon Walk with Emily, dressed in gray muslin. Momentarily she was angry with Emily for putting her in such a position. She turned to glare at her.
Aunt Vespasia cleared her throat sharply.
“And who, precisely, did you have it in mind to call upon?”
Emily looked at Charlotte, realized her mistake, and fished herself out of it with aplomb.
“I thought Selena Montague. She admires herself in plum pink, and Charlotte will look so much better in it I should enjoy putting her in my new silk, and obliging Selena to look at her. I do not care for Selena,” she added as an aside to Charlotte, quite unnecessarily. “And the dress will fit you excellently. The foolish dressmaker got her fingers muddled and made it much too long for me.”
Aunt Vespasia allowed her a small smile of admiration.
“I thought it was Jessamyn Nash you disliked,” she remarked casually.
“I like irritating Jessamyn,” Emily waved a hand. “That is not really the same thing. I have never thought whether I like her or not.”
“Whom do you like?” Charlotte inquired, wanting to know more about the Walk. Now that she was freed from the immediate problem of dress, her mind went back to Fanny Nash and the fear that the others seemed to have forgotten.
“Oh,” Emily considered for a moment. “I quite like Phoebe Nash, Jessamyn’s sister-in-law, if she would be a little more definite. And I like Albertine Dilbridge, although I have no patience with her mother. And I like Diggory Nash, but I do not know why. I can think of nothing in particular to say about him that is good.”
Luncheon was announced, and the three of them departed for the dining room. Charlotte had not seen a meal of such simple grace for a long time, perhaps not ever. It was all cold, and yet of such delicacy that it must have taken hours to prepare. In the still heat it was delicious just to contemplate the cold soups, fresh salmon with minute cold vegetables, ices, sherbets and fruit. She was halfway through eating it, elegantly, as if she ate such things every
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