wave of memory so sharp it was as if it had carried her physically back ten years, she recalled being in her parents’ home in Cater Street, her mother’s exasperation because she would not behave appropriately and encourage suitable young men. She could not imagine loving anyone but Dominic then. She had cared for Sarah, of course, but been painfully jealous of her as well. Then Sarah had been killed, and the whole world had been thrown into turmoil. Dominic had shown his weaknesses. In the space of a week he had fallen from an idol of gold to one of clay. Disillusion had been bitter indeed, mixed as it was with grief and fear.
In the end she had learned to love Pitt, not as a dream or an ideal but as a real man, human, exasperating at times, fallible, challenging, but with a courage and honesty Dominic had never had. And for Dominic she had learned a friendship rooted in tolerance and a certain kindness. But Dominic giving his life to religion! That was beyond her power to imagine.
“Dominic is a curate in Reverend Parmenter’s house?” Her voice rose, her disbelief still sharp.
“Yes,” he replied, watching her carefully, searching her face. “Dominic is the other person who could conceivably have killed Unity Bellwood.”
“He couldn’t!” she said instantly.
A shadow crossed his eyes. “Probably not,” he agreed. “But someone did.”
She sat silently, trying to think of another explanation, something that would make sense of the little she knew, that would not sound silly and defensive when she said it, but nothing came. Pitt leaned forward and put more coal on the fire. Eventually, after twenty minutes with no sound but the ticking of the clock, the flames and settling of coal in the fire, and the wind splattering rain in gusts onto the window, she spoke about something else. Her sister Emily was on the Grand Tour, and her letters from Italy were full of anecdotes and descriptions. She told him about the latest, written from Naples and including vivid descriptions of the bay, of Vesuvius, and of her trip to Herculaneum.
At eleven o’clock the following morning, when courteous enquiry had assured her that Pitt would be busy pursuing the medical evidence and reporting to Cornwallis, Charlotte alighted from a hansom in Brunswick Gardens and pulled the bell at number seventeen. She could not help but notice the drawn blinds and the discreet crepe on the door, and that they had gone so far as to put straw on the roadway to muffle the horses’ hooves, even though Unity had not been a member of the family.
When a somber butler answered she smiled at him.
“Good morning, ma’am. May I be of any assistance?” he enquired.
“Good morning.” She produced her card and offered it to him. “I am sorry to trouble you at such an unfortunate time, but I believe there is a Mr. Dominic Corde staying here? He is my brother-in-law. I have not seen him for some years, but I should like to offer him my congratulations on his recent ordination.” She did not mention Unity’s death specifically. Possibly it had not been in the newspapers, and even if it had, a household such as this might disapprove strongly of ladies who read of such things. Ignorance was a far better approach.
“Certainly, ma’am. If you care to come in I shall see if Mr. Corde is at home.” He led her through the vestibule and across a most extraordinary hallway she would have liked to look at more carefully. He left her in a morning room only slightly less exotic. He took her rain-spotted hat and cloak and departed, presumably to ask the curate if indeed he had a sister-in-law, and if so did he wish to see her.
It was less than ten minutes before the door opened and she swung around to see Dominic, older, definitely touched with a little gray, and handsomer than she had remembered. Maturity suited him; whatever pain he had experienced had refined the callowness from him. The old arrogance had been replaced by something wiser. And yet it still seemed absurd to see a clergyman’s high, white collar around his neck.
Suddenly her voice dried in her throat.
“Charlotte!” He came forward with a rueful smile. “I suppose Thomas told you about the tragedy here?”
“Actually, I came to congratulate you on your calling and your ordination,” she said with slightly stiff politeness, and not a great deal of truth.