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She was saying yes and no at what she hoped were appropriate junctures when she became aware of a girl of about seventeen hovering a few yards away. She was very thin and seemed to stand almost lopsidedly, as if she might walk with a limp. Her dress was a pretty blush pink, and very well cut, but all the dressmaker’s skill could not hide the drawn look on her face nor the smudges of tiredness under her eyes. Callandra had seen too many invalids not to recognize the signs of pain when she saw them so clearly, or the attitude of one who finds standing tiring.
“Excuse me,” she said, interrupting Arthur without a thought.
“Eh?” He looked startled. “Yes?”
“I think the young lady is waiting for you.” She indicated the girl in pink.
He turned around to follow her gaze. A mixture of emotions filled his face—discomfort, defensiveness, irritation, and tenderness.
“Oh—yes, Victoria, do come and meet Lady Callandra Daviot.”
Victoria hesitated; now that attention was drawn to her, she was self-conscious.
Callandra knew what life lay ahead for a girl who could not ever hope to marry. She would be permanently dependent upon her father for financial support, and upon her mother for companionship and affection. She would never have a home of her own, unless she were an only child of wealthy parents, which Victoria was not. Arthur would naturally inherit the estate, apart from a suitable dowry for his marriageable sisters. His brothers would make their own way, having been given appropriate education and a handsome start.
For Victoria, by far the most consistently painful thing would be the pity, the well-meaning and desperately cruel remarks, the unthinking questions, the young men who paid her court—until they knew.
With an ache inside her that was almost intolerable, Callandra smiled at the girl.
“How do you do, Miss Stanhope,” she said with all the charm she could muster, which was far more than she realized.
“How do you do, Lady Callandra,” Victoria said with a hesitant smile in answer.
“What a delightful garden you have,” Callandra went on. Not only was she considerably the elder, and therefore it was incumbent upon her to lead the conversation, it was quite apparent that Victoria found it hard to accomplish what duty required, and did not enjoy it. Social awkwardness was a pinprick compared with the mortal wound that had already been dealt her, but at that moment Callandra would have spared her even the thought of pain, much less its reality. “I see you have several fine pinks as well. I love the perfume of them, don’t you?” She saw Victoria’s answering smile. “A gentleman with an eyeglass was just explaining to me how they are propagated to cross one strain with another.”
“Oh yes—Colonel Strother,” Victoria said quickly, taking a step closer. “I’m afraid he does tend to elaborate on the subject rather.”
“Just a little,” Callandra conceded. “Still, it is a pleasant enough thing to discuss, and I daresay he meant it kindly.”
“I had rather listen to Colonel Strother on pinks than Mrs. Warburton on immorality in garrison towns.” Victoria smiled a little. “Or Mrs. Peabody on her health, or Mrs. Kilbride on the state of the cotton industry in the plantations of America, or Major Drissell on the Indian mutiny.” Her enthusiasm grew with a sense of ease with Callandra. “We get the massacre at Amritsar every time he calls. I have even had it served up with fish at dinner, and again with the sorbet.”
“Some people have very little sense of proportion,” Callandra agreed with answering candor. “On their favorite subject, they tend to bolt like a horse with a bit between its teeth.”
Victoria laughed; it seemed the analogy amused her.
“Excuse me.” A nice-looking young man of perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two came up apologetically, a small lace handkerchief in his hand. He looked at Victoria, almost ignoring Callandra and apparently not having seen Arthur at all. He held up the scrap of lawn and lace. “I think you may have dropped this, ma’am. Excuse my familiarity in returning it.” He smiled. “But it gives me the opportunity of presenting myself. My name is Robert Oliver.”
Victoria’s cheeks paled, then flushed deep red. A dozen emotions chased themselves across her face: pleasure, a wild hope, and then the bitterness of memory and realization.
“Thank you,” she said in a small tight voice. “But I regret, it is not mine. It must belong to some other—some other lady.”
He stared at her, searching her eyes to see whether it was really the dismissal it sounded.
Callandra longed to intervene, but she knew she would only be prolonging the pain. Robert Oliver had been drawn to something in Victoria’s face, an intelligence, an imagination, a vulnerability. Perhaps he even glimpsed what she would have been. He could not know the wound to the body which meant she could never give him what he would so naturally seek.
Without willing it, Callandra found herself speaking.
“How considerate of you, Mr. Oliver. I am sure Miss Stanhope is obliged, but so will be the handkerchief’s true owner, I have no doubt.” She was also quite convinced that Robert Oliver had no intention of seeking anyone further. He had found the scrap of fabric and used it as an excuse, a gracious and simple one. It had no further purpose.
He looked at her fully for the first time, trying to judge who she was and how much her view mattered. He caught something of the grief in her, and knew it was real, although of course he could not know the cause of it. His thin, earnest young face was full of confusion.
Callandra felt a scalding hot anger well up in her. She hated the abortionist who had done this. It was a vile thing to make money out of other people’s fear and distress. For an honest operation to go wrong was a common enough tragedy. This was not honest. God knew if the practitioner was even a doctor, let alone a surgeon.
Please—please God it had not been Kristian. The thought was so dreadful it was like a blow to the stomach, driving the breath out of her.
Did she want to know, if it had been? Would she not rather cling to what she had, the gentleness, the laughter, even the pain of not being able to touch, of knowing she never could have more than this? But could she live with not knowing? Would not the sick, crawling fear inside her mar everything, guilty or not?
Robert Oliver was still staring at her.
