Chapter 49
Cecilia had cause to be grateful for the fact, which she had not previously realised with her conscious mind, that Miss Macintyre had never throughout the years she had spent living in their household shown herself to be in the least intimidated by Mrs Constantine, unlike so many other people.
And she was not intimidated now, but calmer than one would have believed possible.
Perhaps the precious Rembrandt currently hanging in her bedchamber, where she could see it the moment she woke, was giving her confidence too.
Euphemia took charge of the necessary explanations, as one lady of a certain age to another, and while it was clear that Leontina was somewhat suspicious of the Major’s presence near the Hall on the night of Lord Pallant’s death, that suspicion did not appear to resolve itself into anything more definite.
Mama merely grunted sceptically at the end of the tale, and expressed a desire to meet this gentleman and thank him for his solicitude towards her daughters.
It could have been much worse. Imagine being an only child, the focus of unrelenting parental scrutiny.
There was safety in numbers, Cecilia thought, as often before.
And though it was selfish to be so relieved, at least nobody had found a dead baron in her bedchamber.
As far as anyone knew, she was entirely blameless, as were they all.
The Constantines were not prisoners in this time, even if it felt a little as though they were. They went to visit the Bartrums and the Drinkwaters, Cecilia driving the dog cart so that Miss Macintyre could stay at home and nap.
Nothing of any significance whatsoever was said or done in either place.
Cecilia was very careful in her attitude towards Alistair that afternoon, not looking at him or addressing him too much or too little, and she could tell (though she hoped others could not) that he was doing exactly the same in return.
She couldn’t be confident she’d succeeded in portraying herself as entirely indifferent to him, not to someone who knew her as well as her mother must, but at any rate, Leontina said nothing afterwards, offered her no challenge and forced no confidences, and she must be content with that and ask for nothing more.
She could, of course, have headed out alone onto the sands one day when Alistair was walking, and come across him as if by accident and had private speech with him there, but she must be aware that her protectors and others would see them together, which seemed unwise in their current somewhat precarious situation.
Perhaps she was being overcautious and nobody would have thought it at all unusual, not even her ever-vigilant mother; the balance of her mind was sadly unsettled, and she could not tell.
All she could do was watch him from her window as he walked, day after day, night after night, and wonder what might be going through his mind.
As for her own thoughts… She told herself that it was foolish to imagine that whatever lay between them could be so easily destroyed by the adverse circumstances they had recently experienced.
It might be fragile and new, their understanding, but if it could be torn apart by events entirely outside their control, it would prove, she had to acknowledge, that it had never been worth anything in the first place.
If the conditions of scrutiny under which they were currently living – which she found irksome even though she knew that they existed chiefly for the family’s safety – were soon to be relaxed, which surely they must be because they could not be guarded by constables forever, she could only hope that Alistair would hear of it directly through the extremely efficient rural news system, and come to see her at night as soon as possible.
She’d be out there waiting till he did. The truth was, she missed him, missed talking frankly with him as much as anything else; seeing him in public was not the same, and not enough for her.
And again, she wondered if he could possibly share her feelings.