on him. “The widow identified it. It was Lord Augustus Fitzroy Hammond. He was buried in the family plot with all due ceremony.” She tried to keep her face straight and stare back into his eyes, with those incredible eyelashes. “He turned up again in the family pew in church.”
“Emily, you’re preposterous!” He was standing very close to her, and for the moment, George was not paramount in her mind. She knew she was beginning to smile, in spite of the fact that it was perfectly true. “We buried him again,” she said with a hint of a giggle. “It was all very difficult, and rather disgusting.”
“That’s absurd. I don’t believe you!”
“Oh it was—I swear! Very awkward indeed. You can’t expect Society to turn up to the same person’s funeral twice in as many weeks. It isn’t decent.”
“It isn’t true.”
“It is! I swear it! We had four corpses before we’d finished—at least I think it was four.”
“And all of Lord Augustus whatever?” He was trying to control his laughter.
“Of course not—don’t be ridiculous!” she protested. She was so close to him she could smell the warmth of his skin and the faint pungency of soap.
“Emily!” He bent and kissed her slowly, intimately, as if they had all the time in the world. Emily let herself go, stretching her arms up round his neck and answering him.
“I shouldn’t do this,” she said frankly after a few moments. But it was a factual remark, not a reproach.
“Probably not,” he agreed, touching her hair gently, then her cheek. “Tell me the truth, Emily.”
“What?” she whispered.
“Did you really find four corpses?” He kissed her again.
“Four or five,” she murmured. “And we caught the murderer as well. Ask Aunt Vespasia—if you’ve the nerve. She was there.”
“I just might.”
She disengaged herself with a shadow of reluctance—it had been nicer than it should have been—and began her way back past the flowers and the vines to the withdrawing room.
Mrs. March was holding forth on the chivalry of the pre-Raphaelite painters, their meticulousness of detail and delicacy of color, and William was listening, his face pinched and pained. It was not that he disapproved, but that she totally misunderstood what he believed to be the concept. She missed the passion and caught only the sentimentality.
Tassie and Sybilla were so positioned that they were obliged either to listen or to be openly rude, and long habit precluded the latter. Eustace, on the other hand, was master of the house and owed no such courtesy. He sat with his back to the group and discoursed upon the moral obligations of position, and George had on his face his look of polite interest which masked complete absence of attention; he was gazing towards the conservatory doors. He must have seen Emily and Jack Radley.
Emily felt a sudden, rather alarming sense of excitement; it was a crisis provoked at last!
She walked a fraction ahead of Jack but was still conscious of him close behind her, of his warmth and the gentleness of his touch. She sat down next to Great-aunt Vespasia and pretended to listen to Eustace.
The rest of the evening passed in a similar vein, and Emily hardly noticed the time until twenty-five minutes to midnight. She was returning to the withdrawing room from the bathroom upstairs, passing the morning room door, when she heard voices in soft, fierce conversation.
“... you’re a coward!” It was Sybilla, her voice husky with anger and contempt. “Don’t tell me—”
“You may believe what you like!” The answer cut her off.
Emily stopped, almost falling over as hope and fear choked each other and left her shaking. It was George, and he was furious. She knew that tone precisely; he had had the same welling up of temper when his jockey was thrashed at the race track. It had been half his own fault then, and he knew it. Now he was lashing out at Sybilla, and her voice came back thick with fury.
The door of the
“Emily, you’re preposterous!” He was standing very close to her, and for the moment, George was not paramount in her mind. She knew she was beginning to smile, in spite of the fact that it was perfectly true. “We buried him again,” she said with a hint of a giggle. “It was all very difficult, and rather disgusting.”
“That’s absurd. I don’t believe you!”
“Oh it was—I swear! Very awkward indeed. You can’t expect Society to turn up to the same person’s funeral twice in as many weeks. It isn’t decent.”
“It isn’t true.”
“It is! I swear it! We had four corpses before we’d finished—at least I think it was four.”
“And all of Lord Augustus whatever?” He was trying to control his laughter.
“Of course not—don’t be ridiculous!” she protested. She was so close to him she could smell the warmth of his skin and the faint pungency of soap.
“Emily!” He bent and kissed her slowly, intimately, as if they had all the time in the world. Emily let herself go, stretching her arms up round his neck and answering him.
“I shouldn’t do this,” she said frankly after a few moments. But it was a factual remark, not a reproach.
“Probably not,” he agreed, touching her hair gently, then her cheek. “Tell me the truth, Emily.”
“What?” she whispered.
“Did you really find four corpses?” He kissed her again.
“Four or five,” she murmured. “And we caught the murderer as well. Ask Aunt Vespasia—if you’ve the nerve. She was there.”
“I just might.”
She disengaged herself with a shadow of reluctance—it had been nicer than it should have been—and began her way back past the flowers and the vines to the withdrawing room.
Mrs. March was holding forth on the chivalry of the pre-Raphaelite painters, their meticulousness of detail and delicacy of color, and William was listening, his face pinched and pained. It was not that he disapproved, but that she totally misunderstood what he believed to be the concept. She missed the passion and caught only the sentimentality.
Tassie and Sybilla were so positioned that they were obliged either to listen or to be openly rude, and long habit precluded the latter. Eustace, on the other hand, was master of the house and owed no such courtesy. He sat with his back to the group and discoursed upon the moral obligations of position, and George had on his face his look of polite interest which masked complete absence of attention; he was gazing towards the conservatory doors. He must have seen Emily and Jack Radley.
Emily felt a sudden, rather alarming sense of excitement; it was a crisis provoked at last!
She walked a fraction ahead of Jack but was still conscious of him close behind her, of his warmth and the gentleness of his touch. She sat down next to Great-aunt Vespasia and pretended to listen to Eustace.
The rest of the evening passed in a similar vein, and Emily hardly noticed the time until twenty-five minutes to midnight. She was returning to the withdrawing room from the bathroom upstairs, passing the morning room door, when she heard voices in soft, fierce conversation.
“... you’re a coward!” It was Sybilla, her voice husky with anger and contempt. “Don’t tell me—”
“You may believe what you like!” The answer cut her off.
Emily stopped, almost falling over as hope and fear choked each other and left her shaking. It was George, and he was furious. She knew that tone precisely; he had had the same welling up of temper when his jockey was thrashed at the race track. It had been half his own fault then, and he knew it. Now he was lashing out at Sybilla, and her voice came back thick with fury.
The door of the
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