Brunswick Gardens (24 page)

“I thought it was Mallory she was attacking,” Ramsay observed mildly. “The doctrine of the transubstantiation of the host is a Roman belief.”

“Then what do you do it for?” Tryphena countered. “You must believe it is something. Or why dress up in embroidered clothes and go through the whole performance?”

Ramsay looked at her sadly but said nothing.

“It is a reminder of who you are and the promises you have made,” Dominic said to her as patiently as he could. “And unfortunately we do need reminding.”

“Then it wouldn’t matter if it were bread and wine or biscuits and milk,” she challenged, her eyes bright and victorious.

“Not in the slightest,” he agreed with a smile. “If you meant what you said and came with the right spirit. Far more important you come without anger or guile.”

She was flushed. The triumph was slipping away from her. “Unity said it was just extremely good theater, designed to impress everyone and keep them obedient and in awe of you,” she argued, as if quoting Unity proved something. “It is all show and no substance. It is the desire for power on your part, and superstition on theirs. It makes them feel comfortable if they confess their sins and you forgive them; then they can start over again. And if they don’t, then they live in terror of you.”

“Unity was a fool!” Mallory said sharply. “And a blasphemer.”

Tryphena swung around to face him. “Well, I didn’t notice you saying that to her when she was alive. You’re suddenly very brave now she’s not here anymore and can’t reply for herself.” Her scorn was devastating. “You were quick enough then to do as she asked you. And I don’t recall your ever contradicting her in public in that tone of voice. What conviction you’ve suddenly developed, and fire to defend your faith.”

Mallory’s face was white and his eyes hot and defensive. “There was no point in arguing with Unity,” he said with a very slight tremor in his voice. “She never listened to anyone because her mind was made up before you began.”

“Isn’t yours?” Tryphena countered, glaring at him across the white linen and the glass and the dishes.

“Of course it is!” His eyebrows rose. “Mine is a matter of faith. That is quite different.”

Tryphena slammed down her fork. She was fortunate not to chip her plate.

“Why does everyone presume that their own belief is based on some virtuous thing like faith, which is all praiseworthy, and Unity’s belief is wicked and insincere and based on emotion or ignorance? You are so self-righteous it is sickening … and absurd. If you could see yourselves from the outside you’d laugh.” She threw the words at them, her face twisted with fury and knowledge of her own helplessness. “You’d think you were a parody. Except you’re too cruel to be funny. And you win! That’s the unbearable part of it. You win! There’s superstition and oppression and ignorance everywhere, and catastrophic injustice.” She stood up, glaring at them with tears in her eyes. “You all sit here eating your dinner, and Unity is lying on a cold table in a shroud, waiting to be buried. You’ll all dress up—”

“Tryphena!” Vita protested, and was ignored. She turned to Ramsay desperately, but he did nothing.

“… in your gorgeous gowns and robes,” Tryphena went on, her voice choking, “and play the organ and sing your songs and intone prayers over her. Why can’t you speak in a proper voice?” She stared at her father challengingly. “How can you speak like that if you really mean a thing you say? You’ll carry on like a bad oratorio, and all the time one of you killed her! I keep expecting to wake up and find this is all a nightmare, except I realize it’s been going on for years, one way or another. Maybe this is hell?” She flung her arms out, only just missing the top of Dominic’s head. “All this … hypocrisy! Though hell is supposed to be hot, maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just bright and endless … nauseating.” She swung around to Vita. “And don’t bother to tell me to leave the room … I’m going to. If I stayed I should be sick.” And she knocked her chair over backwards and stormed out.

Dominic rose and picked up the chair. It would be pointless to try to make excuses for her.

Ramsay looked wretched, eyes cast down towards his plate, skin white around the lips, flushed in patches on his cheeks. Clarice was staring at him with naked distress. Vita kept her gaze steadily ahead of her, as if she could not bear any of it but could not escape.

“For someone who speaks so disparagingly of theater,” Clarice said huskily, “she manages to put on a highly dramatic performance. Overacting a bit, though, don’t you think? The chair was unnecessary. Nobody likes an actress who upstages the rest of the cast.”

“She may be acting,” Mallory retorted, “but I’m not!”

Clarice sighed. “What a pity. It would have been your best excuse.”

Dominic looked at her quickly, but she was turned towards Ramsay again.

“For what?” Mallory would not let it go.

“Everything,” she answered.

“I haven’t done anything!” he said defensively, then inclined his head towards his father.

There were two hectic spots of color on Clarice’s cheeks. “You mean you didn’t push Unity? I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe she was having an affair with Dominic.”

Vita glared at her daughter, her eyes wide and angry. She drew in her breath to say something, but Clarice continued loudly and clearly.

“I can remember lots of things, now I think about it, times when she sought his company, little looks, glances, standing very close to him—”

“That’s not true!” Vita interrupted her at last, her voice tight, as if her throat would barely allow the words through. “It’s a wretched and irresponsible thing to say, and you will not repeat it. Do you understand me, Clarice?”

Clarice looked at her mother in surprise. “It is all right for
Tryphena to imply that Papa murdered Unity, but not to say that Unity was having an affair with Dominic? Why ever not?”

Dominic could feel his own face burning. He remembered those moments, too, with a clarity which horrified him and made him wish he were anywhere but at this table, with Vita looking hurt and dismayed, Mallory’s lip curled in loathing, and Ramsay avoiding everyone’s eyes, drowning in his own fear and loneliness.

“I suppose he got tired of her,” Clarice went on relentlessly. “All that political preaching can become a bit tedious. There are times when it is terribly predictable, and that is a bore. She didn’t listen, you see, and men hate a woman who doesn’t at least pretend she hangs on their words, even if her mind is miles away. It’s an art. Mama is wonderful at it. I’ve watched her hundreds of times.”

Vita blushed and seemed about to say something, but was too frozen in embarrassment.

No one except Dominic noticed the door open and Tryphena appear in the entrance.

“I daresay he found Mama was attractive,” Clarice went on in the prickly silence. “That’s it. Dominic fell in love with Mama …”

“Clarice … please …” Vita said desperately, but her voice was low, her eyes downcast.

Mallory stared at his sister, his attention at last truly caught.

“I can see it.” Clarice warmed to the drama. She sat back with her eyes closed, her chin lifted. She, too, was giving a fine performance. “Unity still besotted with Dominic, but he is bored with her and he’s moved on to someone more feminine, more alluring.” Her expression was rapt, a fierce concentration filling her. “But she will not give him up. She cannot bear rejection. She blackmails him with their past liaison. She will tell everyone. She will tell Papa; she will tell the church. He will be thrown out.”

“That’s nonsense!” Dominic protested angrily. “Stop it! You are talking completely irresponsibly, and none of it is true.”

“Why not?” She opened her eyes and turned on him. “Why shouldn’t someone else be blamed? If it’s fair to blame Papa, why not you, or Mallory … or me, for that matter? I know I didn’t, but I don’t know about the rest of you. Isn’t that why we are all sitting here wondering about each other, remembering everything we can and trying to make it have meaning? Isn’t that what we are all afraid of?” She flung her arms out in an expansive gesture, her eyes wide. “It could be any one of us. How can we protect ourselves except by proving it was somebody else? How well do we really know each other, the secret selves behind the familiar faces? Don’t stop me, Mallory!” He had leaned forward. She pushed him away impatiently. “It’s true!” She laughed a little wildly. “Maybe Dominic got bored with Unity, fell in love with Mama, and when Unity wouldn’t let him go, he killed her. And he’s only too happy to see Papa blamed for it, because it not only keeps Dominic from being hanged for it, it gets rid of Papa at the same time. Then Mama is free to marry him, and—”

“That’s absurd!” Tryphena said from the doorway, her voice loud and furious. “It’s quite impossible.”

Clarice swiveled to face her sister. “Why? People have killed for love before now. It makes far more sense than thinking Papa killed her because she was an atheist. Heavens, the world is full of atheists. Christians are supposed to convert them, not kill them.”

“Tell that to the Inquisition!” Tryphena snapped back, coming further into the room. “It’s impossible because Dominic wouldn’t have thrown Unity over. If she’d even have looked at him in that way, which is terribly unlikely, then she’d have been the one to get bored and break it off. And she wouldn’t stoop to blackmail. It is infinitely beneath her.” She looked at Clarice with loathing. “Everything you say just shows the
poverty of your own mind. I came down to apologize, because I disturbed the meal, which was bad manners. But I can see that’s all rather pointless now, since Clarice has just accused one of our guests of having an illicit affair with the other and then murdering her in order to blame my father and marry my mother. What is a little thing like upsetting the dinner table?”

“Unity wasn’t a guest,” Clarice said pedantically. “She was an employee. Papa hired her to help with the translations.”

Dominic rose to his feet. He was surprised to find he was shaking. Even his legs felt unsteady. He gripped the back of his chair, knuckles white. He looked from one to another of them.

“One thing Clarice said is true; we are all afraid, and it is making us behave very badly. I do not know what happened to Unity, except that she is dead. Only one person here does know, and there is no purpose in us all protesting innocence or, unless we have some definite fact, in accusing anyone else.” He wanted to add that he had not had an affair with Unity, but it would only lead to a round of denials, exactly what he had suggested they do not do. “I am going to study for a while.” And he turned and left the table, still trembling inside and aware of a coldness of fear touching his skin. Clarice’s suggestion was preposterous, of course it was. But it was not unbelievable. It was a far better motive than anything attributable to Ramsay.

    A thoroughly appalling evening was compounded by the arrival of Bishop Underhill at quarter past nine. Both Dominic and Ramsay had no alternative but to go down to the withdrawing room to receive him. He had called in his official capacity to offer his sympathy and support to the whole household during their bereavement and in this most difficult time.

Everyone was gathered together; it was due to his rank in the church. They were all uncomfortable in their different ways. Tryphena glared at him. Vita sat demurely, pale-faced, eyes full of dread. Mallory tried to pretend he was not there. Clarice
mercifully kept silent, sitting motionless except for the occasional glance at Dominic.

The bishop stood, awkwardly, uncertain what to do with his hands. One moment he held them together, the next gestured with them wide open, then dropped them, and then started again.

“I am sure all our sympathies are with you during this ordeal,” he said resonantly, as if he were addressing an entire congregation. “We shall pray for you in every way … in every possible way.”

Clarice put her hands up to her face and stifled something which may have been a sneeze. Dominic was sure it was laughter, and he thought he knew what pictures were in her mind. He wished he were free to do the same instead of being obliged to listen seriously and look as if he were full of respect.

“Thank you,” Vita murmured. “It is all so horribly confusing.”

“Of course it is, my dear Mrs. Parmenter.” The bishop seized on something specific to address. “One must seek always for honesty and the guidance of the light of truth to find our way. The Lord has promised to be a lamp unto our path. We must put our trust in Him.”

Tryphena rolled her eyes, but the bishop was not looking at her.

Ramsay sat in wretched silence, and Dominic felt agonized for him. He was like a butterfly on a pin, still alive.

“We must have courage,” the bishop went on.

Clarice opened her mouth and then closed it again. Her face showed her struggle to keep her temper, and for once Dominic could identify with her utterly. Courage to do what? Not offer the hand of friendship or any promise of loyalty or help. That the bishop had very carefully refrained from doing. He had spoken nothing but the most guarded platitudes.

“We will do all we can,” Vita promised, looking up at him. “You are very kind to come to see us. I know how busy you are …”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Parmenter,” he responded with a smile. “It is the very least I could do …”

“The very least,” Clarice said under her breath, then she added aloud, “We knew that you would do that, Bishop Underhill.”

“Thank you, my dear. Thank you,” he accepted.

“I hope you will help us to behave honorably and to have the courage to act only for the best?” Vita went on rather quickly. “Perhaps a word of advice now and then? We should appreciate it so much. I …” She left the words hanging between them, the uncompleted sentence witness to her distress.

“Of course,” the bishop assured her. “Of course I will. I wish … I wish I knew … my own experience …”

Dominic was embarrassed for them all, and ashamed of himself for how profoundly he loathed the bishop. He should have admired him, should have felt he was a rock of support, wiser than they, stronger, filled with compassion and honor. Instead, the bishop seemed to have hedged and evaded, given general advice they did not need, and scrupulously avoided committing himself to anything.