Count, was alive, she apparently decided she couldn’t stand their noise and clatter and dismissed them all except a girl to clean and shop, and the old one who died. She has been living here in virtual isolation, seeing nobody, and thinking herself poor. That’s a hallucination of the old, I believe. You saw the way she can’t bear to throw anything away. But please don’t talk of this, Miss Hurst. One doesn’t gossip about one’s relatives’ infirmities.”
“Naturally I won’t talk about it,” Lavinia said stiffly.
“I particularly meant to Flora. That child is a jackdaw for gossip. She mustn’t be allowed to think her great-aunt peculiar. Nor must Edward. Children develop secret nightmares about things like that. I want them both to be fond of the poor old lady. They may give her a little pleasure in her last years.”
Charlotte, Lavinia divined, would have liked to have said last months, or even last weeks. Naturally she couldn’t be expected to have any fondness for an aunt she hadn’t seen since she was a child. But she scarcely needed to be a hypocrite. Or did she? Wasn’t it better that way, pretending an affection and concern she didn’t feel. At least it gave a more civilized veneer to the affair, and the poor Lady Tameson could deceive herself that she was being cherished.
Lavinia had found the long strange day quite exhausting. She thought she would sleep soundly, but contrarily it was too hot and she was too strung up and queerly apprehensive. She hadn’t seen Daniel at all. She had had her supper with the children, and gone to her room after they were settled in bed. Then she had begun thinking of the lonely old woman a prisoner in the dusty palazzo, and this had taken her depressed thoughts to Robin, who was even more of a prisoner. Finally she had got up to throw open the long narrow window and see if the moon was shining on the lagoon as it had done last night.
She thought its beauty would soothe her. It was very late, past midnight, and there was only a small knot of gondoliers lounging on the quay, talking vociferously, as usual. But no—there were still some strollers. Two people, a man and a woman, walked slowly down the humped bridge over the canal and toward the hotel. As they approached the door, the woman put her hand on the man’s arm, indicating to him that she didn’t want him to come farther. She wore a dark cloak and was heavily veiled. The man took off his hat and bowed exaggeratedly in a mocking way. Then he laughed. His laugh was quite audible and completely recognizable. It was that of Jonathon Peate.
Lavinia was almost certain that the veiled woman was Charlotte.
There was something peculiarly clandestine about them. Charlotte, if it were Charlotte, was hurrying from him as if she were extremely anxious to get away. Yet she paused to look back and he waved. As if he had her under some spell…
The next day Charlotte left Lavinia in the downstairs drawing room of Aunt Tameson’s house to fold and pack a pile of clothing and other objects.
“I hope you have been trained to pack neatly, Miss Hurst.”
Lavinia said with truth that she had. Three months in Cousin Marion’s employment had taught her that. But she doubted if she could constrict this mass of belongings—feather boas, bonnets, gowns, fans, buttoned boots, boxes of gloves, parasols, a large Bible with gilt clasps, bundles of letters tied with lavender ribbon—into boxes.
Over everything hung the violet perfume, making the large room, darkened by closed shutters, stifling and full of ghosts.
The silence was unbearably oppressive. The whole house was silent. It hardly seemed that there was an old woman still living upstairs. No wonder Lady Tameson wanted to be taken away to escape the ghosts of the past. There was not even the cheery chatter and bustle of servants, for Fernanda, the plump, slatternly maid, couldn’t speak English,
Charlotte had asked Lavinia if she spoke Italian.
“No more than a
“Naturally I won’t talk about it,” Lavinia said stiffly.
“I particularly meant to Flora. That child is a jackdaw for gossip. She mustn’t be allowed to think her great-aunt peculiar. Nor must Edward. Children develop secret nightmares about things like that. I want them both to be fond of the poor old lady. They may give her a little pleasure in her last years.”
Charlotte, Lavinia divined, would have liked to have said last months, or even last weeks. Naturally she couldn’t be expected to have any fondness for an aunt she hadn’t seen since she was a child. But she scarcely needed to be a hypocrite. Or did she? Wasn’t it better that way, pretending an affection and concern she didn’t feel. At least it gave a more civilized veneer to the affair, and the poor Lady Tameson could deceive herself that she was being cherished.
Lavinia had found the long strange day quite exhausting. She thought she would sleep soundly, but contrarily it was too hot and she was too strung up and queerly apprehensive. She hadn’t seen Daniel at all. She had had her supper with the children, and gone to her room after they were settled in bed. Then she had begun thinking of the lonely old woman a prisoner in the dusty palazzo, and this had taken her depressed thoughts to Robin, who was even more of a prisoner. Finally she had got up to throw open the long narrow window and see if the moon was shining on the lagoon as it had done last night.
She thought its beauty would soothe her. It was very late, past midnight, and there was only a small knot of gondoliers lounging on the quay, talking vociferously, as usual. But no—there were still some strollers. Two people, a man and a woman, walked slowly down the humped bridge over the canal and toward the hotel. As they approached the door, the woman put her hand on the man’s arm, indicating to him that she didn’t want him to come farther. She wore a dark cloak and was heavily veiled. The man took off his hat and bowed exaggeratedly in a mocking way. Then he laughed. His laugh was quite audible and completely recognizable. It was that of Jonathon Peate.
Lavinia was almost certain that the veiled woman was Charlotte.
There was something peculiarly clandestine about them. Charlotte, if it were Charlotte, was hurrying from him as if she were extremely anxious to get away. Yet she paused to look back and he waved. As if he had her under some spell…
The next day Charlotte left Lavinia in the downstairs drawing room of Aunt Tameson’s house to fold and pack a pile of clothing and other objects.
“I hope you have been trained to pack neatly, Miss Hurst.”
Lavinia said with truth that she had. Three months in Cousin Marion’s employment had taught her that. But she doubted if she could constrict this mass of belongings—feather boas, bonnets, gowns, fans, buttoned boots, boxes of gloves, parasols, a large Bible with gilt clasps, bundles of letters tied with lavender ribbon—into boxes.
Over everything hung the violet perfume, making the large room, darkened by closed shutters, stifling and full of ghosts.
The silence was unbearably oppressive. The whole house was silent. It hardly seemed that there was an old woman still living upstairs. No wonder Lady Tameson wanted to be taken away to escape the ghosts of the past. There was not even the cheery chatter and bustle of servants, for Fernanda, the plump, slatternly maid, couldn’t speak English,
Charlotte had asked Lavinia if she spoke Italian.
“No more than a
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