meant to discomfort their unthinking arrogance, not seriously frighten them.
“There is gold in the Transvaal, and diamonds,” she replied. “Where there are fortunes to be made, there are fortunes to be lost as well. The raid failed. It was a big gamble, and we have no idea yet what the end may be. Perhaps you are right and, to take the chance with such high stakes, Dr. Jameson is a hero.”
There were several moments of silence. No one was comfortable. The peace and satisfaction of the party had been shattered by a sudden and very chilling reality.
“There won’t be war,” Sabine said dismissively, waving her hand with its heavy emerald ring. “Mr. Churchill is talking nonsense, as usual. He will say anything to draw attention to himself. All kinds of people have invested in Africa. They won’t allow a war to break out. If you knew a little more about real money, finance, and investment, you wouldn’t even say such a thing.”
Charlotte decided to let it go. “Perhaps not,” she agreed. “And undeniably, Mr. Rhodes is usually very successful. No one needs to win every skirmish to win a war.”
“It’s not a war,” Arabella said waspishly. “It was an attempt to—” She realized she was not sure what she meant and stopped abruptly. “Mr. Churchill is a buffoon,” she finished, glaring at Charlotte.
At last Emily was stung to defend her own position. “I cannot allow you to say that unchallenged.” She spoke quietly and with a smile, but there was a degree of steel in her voice. “He is not always right—I know of no one who is—but at times he is remarkably perceptive, and a voice of warning that should be heeded. The Jameson Raid was a fiasco, and Mr. Chamberlain has had to order Sir Hercules Robinson, the Governor-General of the Cape Colony, to repudiate it.”
“He wouldn’t have if it had succeeded,” Marie pointed out.
“Of course not.” Emily made a slight gesture of conciliation.
“If.” Charlotte smiled also. “If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. Unfortunately, they aren’t. Perhaps that is what heroes are about, which is why one nation’s heroes are another nation’s enemies.”
“Well, I am British, and I shall honor our heroes.” Arabella fixed Charlotte with a glare. “You must choose whatever you will.”
Charlotte kept her smile, although she felt it false. “I shall wait until I know more about it. At the moment I confess my ignorance.”
“That is an excellent decision, all things considered,” Arabella snapped.
In spite of herself, Charlotte laughed, which was the last thing Arabella expected. Her argument was derailed.
Emily stepped in quickly. “Perhaps we should attend the trial and at least become somewhat informed about the affair?” she suggested.
“Half of London will be there,” Marie said, nodding her head.
“I daresay the other half will be at the other miserable trial,” Flora remarked with a shudder. “I think I prefer not to know anything about that one. I should have nightmares.”
“I’m sure you have no need,” Marie said comfortingly. “You are in no danger whatever.”
For a moment Charlotte was not certain what they were referring to.
“Another news item about which you know nothing?” Arabella inquired with a slight smirk, seeing Charlotte’s blank expression. “Why, Catherine Quixwood was having an affair with a younger man, and he assaulted and then murdered her. All dreadfully sordid. No doubt they will hang him.”
Charlotte felt her fury return like a tidal wave, all but taking her breath away. Any consideration of Emily’s party was swept aside.
“No, I had no idea,” she said with cloying sweetness. “But then, I do not interest myself very much in other people’s more … intimate lives. As you so correctly say, it is all dreadfully sordid.” She enunciated each word with distaste. “I merely know of Catherine Quixwood as a woman who had great charm. That was all I wished to know.”
Flora stifled a giggle. Charlotte realized with sudden perception that she also disliked Arabella, but could not afford to let it be known. Now she remembered the sense of freedom she had felt at being no longer involved in Society, the loss of its glamour far outweighed by the opposing gain of autonomy.
Emily rushed into the thick silence to rescue what she could of her party.
“I feel so sorry for poor Rawdon Quixwood,” she said, looking from one to the other of them, except Charlotte. “He must be suffering appallingly. I can’t even imagine it.”
“What a terrible thing,” Marie agreed. “Is there anything more painful than total, devastating disillusion? Poor man.