Midnight at Marble Arch

chapter



11



STOKER CAME INTO PITT’S office and closed the door behind him.

“Sir, something’s happened I think you should know about.” His expression was bleak, his eyes sharp and troubled.

“What is it?” Pitt asked immediately.

Stoker took a deep breath. “There’s been another very nasty rape of a young woman, sir, and I’m afraid she is dead. Seventeen, her father says. Respectable, good family. Walking out regular with a young man in the Grenadiers.”

Pitt felt horror ripple through him, then an overwhelming pity for the father, but also a sense of relief he was ashamed of. This was not Special Branch business. He could leave the pain and the bitter discoveries to someone else.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. “But it’s for the police to handle, Stoker, it’s nothing to do with us.”

“I’m not sure about that, sir,” Stoker said, shaking his head. “Very violent, it was. Quite a lot of blood, and her neck was broken with the force of the blow.” Stoker stood rigid, almost to attention, like a soldier.

“It’s still not ours,” Pitt said hoarsely. “It’s for the regular police. Unless … you’re not going to tell me she’s a foreign diplomat’s daughter, are you?”

Stoker raised his chin a little.

“No, sir, her father is an importer and exporter of some sort. But her young man’s a friend of Neville Forsbrook and his crowd, even met Miss Castelbranco once or twice, so her father says.” He waited, staring at Pitt.

“You think Neville might be to blame?” Pitt framed the words slowly.

“Don’t know, sir.” Stoker attempted to smooth his face of anger and frustration, but failed. “I doubt the newspapers will make that connection. Nobody else knows for sure that Miss Castelbranco was raped, and she was certainly alive until she fell through that window. And, by the way, they’ve arrested someone for raping Mrs. Quixwood, but it’s a close thing as to whether he was in custody at the time of this most recent attack.”

Pitt was startled. “Have they? Who was it?”

“Alban Hythe,” Stoker said flatly, his voice expressionless. “Young man. A banker, so they say. Married. Not what you’d expect. Seems they were lovers—at least that’s what I hear from a friend I have in the police.”

Pitt said nothing. He wondered what Narraway would think of Hythe’s arrest. He had not wanted to think Catherine Quixwood was in any way to blame, even remotely.

“What’s her name?” he asked, meeting Stoker’s eyes again. “The new victim, I mean.”

“Pamela O’Keefe, sir. It’ll make a big splash in the newspapers, I should imagine. When it does, the Portuguese ambassador’s going to be very upset. I would be.” He stood still in front of the desk, his bony hands moving restlessly.

Normally Pitt would have resented the pressure, even the suggestion of insolence; however, he knew it sprang from Stoker’s own sense of helplessness in the face of what he felt was an outrage. He expected Pitt, as head of Special Branch, to do something about it.

“Be careful, Stoker,” Pitt warned. “The Home Secretary personally sent me a note warning me that there’s nothing we can do about Angeles Castelbranco.”

Then suddenly Pitt’s anger overwhelmed him, the obscene injustice of it. His temper snapped—not with Stoker, but Stoker got the brunt of it simply because he was there.

“Damn it, man! I was in the building when the poor girl went through the window. Forsbrook says she was hysterical, and so she was. The only question is, what made her so. Was she terrified of him, and for good reason? Was she blaming him for something that someone else did to her? Or was it all in her own fevered imagination?”

Stoker’s eyes blazed but he knew to keep silent.

“Do you think I wouldn’t arrest the bastard if I could?” Pitt shouted. “No charge would stick to him and we’d end up looking ridiculous. Far more to the point, the poor girl is—” He stopped, appalled. “God! I was going to say decently buried—but she isn’t. She’s just shoved into some hole in the ground, because the sanctimonious bloody Church has decided she might have taken her own life!”

He very seldom swore, and he heard the echo of his own voice with disgust. He was shaking with fury. Every instinct in him was to attack, to punish Forsbrook until there was nothing left of him. And all he could do was stand by and watch.

And now Stoker too was expecting something of him he could not give. He wondered for a brief instant if Narraway would have done better.

Stoker did not flinch. “So are we going to let it go … sir?” he asked. His voice was so tight in his throat it was a pitch higher than normal.

“When was Alban Hythe arrested?” Pitt asked coldly.

“Last night, sir, or more accurately, late yesterday evening,” Stoker replied. “Shortly after Pamela O’Keefe was raped and killed, if that’s what you’re asking. Too close to call.”

“Of course that’s what I’m asking!” Pitt snapped. “So could he be guilty of killing Pamela O’Keefe, regardless of the crimes against Mrs. Quixwood or Angeles Castelbranco?”

“It doesn’t seem likely, sir,” Stoker said grimly. He took a breath. “I’d say we’ve got two violent men raping respectable women. Maybe three. Unless you’re thinking Angeles Castelbranco wasn’t actually raped.”

“No, I’m not thinking that!” Pitt all but snarled. He knew he was being unfair, but the sense of outrage and futility suffocated him. “Coincidences happen, but I don’t believe in them until there’s nothing else left.” He stared at Stoker’s blank face. “Find out if there’s any further connection between Forsbrook and this poor girl. Maybe he is the leader of a whole bunch of cowards that go after women.”

“A gang of them?” Stoker said with disgust, his hands curled into fists. “Isn’t that some special sort of crime?” There was a lift of hope in his voice.

“If he or any of them killed the O’Keefe girl, we can hang them just as high for that as for Angeles’s death,” Pitt replied. “Go and find out. But, Stoker …”

The younger man halted at the door and turned. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Be careful,” he warned again. “I would very much rather the Foreign Secretary had no occasion to think of us at the moment, let alone know anything. I’ve been told to leave it alone. It was an order. I need to be damn careful not to be seen disobeying. Your inquiries are for the purpose of making certain Mr. Forsbrook is not mistakenly blamed for any of this. Do you understand?”

Stoker snapped to attention, his eyes brilliant as sunlight on ice. “Absolutely, sir. We must protect our national honor. An upstanding young gentleman like Mr. Forsbrook musn’t be slandered by some foreign ambassador, no matter how upset the poor man might be about his daughter’s most unfortunate death in our capital city.” He took a breath and went on. “And we must make certain there is no connection in anyone’s mind between that and this other poor girl’s rape and murder, sir. Mrs. Quixwood is quite another matter … no connection whatever. Regrettably London appears to be full of rapists, and I suppose young ladies are not careful enough who they keep company with—”

“Stoker!” Pitt barked.

“Yes, sir?” Stoker opened his eyes wide.

“You’ve made your point.”

Stoker lowered his voice. “Yes, sir.” There was something close to a smile on his lips. “I’ll report to you as soon as I have anything, sir.” And without waiting to be dismissed, he turned on his heel and went out.

Pitt picked up the telephone to call Narraway.


TWO HOURS LATER PITT and Narraway walked along the Embankment with the magnificent Palace of Westminster towering above them in the sun. On the telephone Pitt had very briefly told Narraway of the new rape case, keeping the details until they met. Narraway in turn had given him nothing beyond the bare fact of Alban Hythe’s arrest. His own ambivalent emotions about it were clear in his voice.

On the river to their left a pleasure boat passed with people crowding the decks, laughing and pointing, straw hats waving, bright with ribbons. Somewhere out of sight a barrel organ was playing a popular song. The sound of laughter drifted on the breeze.

“Stoker told me this morning,” Pitt said quietly. “Apparently it happened yesterday evening. They can’t be sure as to the exact time. Quite early, though.”

“Alban Hythe was arrested by nine,” Narraway replied. “I know that beyond doubt.”

Pitt looked across at Narraway’s face, trying to read his emotions. As always, it was difficult. But he was getting to know Narraway far better now than he had when the man had been his superior. In the short time Pitt had been in charge of Special Branch he had carried the burden that Narraway had borne for years, and with that came a different kind of understanding between them.

In Narraway’s features he saw uncertainty and unhappiness. In a way, they had changed positions: Narraway was tasting the personal shock and pain, the dismay in the face of crime; Pitt was feeling the terrible loneliness and weight of responsibility he could not pass on to anyone else, could not even share.

“You don’t think he’s guilty of raping Catherine Quixwood, do you?” Pitt observed.

Narraway looked at him sharply. His eyes were nearly black in the sunlight, the pale streaks at his temples silver.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, expression half-concealed. “I’m not used to this … this sort of crime. It’s nothing like anarchy or treason. I don’t know how the devil you dealt with it, with the people and their … lives.”

“One at a time,” Pitt replied drily. “It’s not worse than being the one who decides who gets charged, who doesn’t, who’s let go quietly, and who gets killed. It’s just different. In the police you find the facts, then pass it all over to someone else to make the judgment.”

“Touché,” Narraway said quietly, glancing at Pitt and then away again. “And no, I don’t think I believe Alban Hythe raped Catherine Quixwood. But that may well be because I don’t want to. I liked him. And I like his wife. I don’t want to watch while all her hopes and dreams are laid bare and broken for the public to watch.”

“Liking people has very little to do with it,” Pitt pointed out. “Even sympathizing with them sometimes. More than once I’ve thought I could have done the same thing—had I been in the same situation.”

Narraway stared at him, incredulity in his eyes. As Pitt did not flinch, slowly the disbelief became the beginning of an understanding. “You mean kill someone?”

“Well, I certainly don’t mean rape them!” Pitt retorted a little waspishly. “But yes, I’ve felt like killing those who beat and terrify women, children, the weak, the old; those who blackmail and extort and yet manage to ensure the law doesn’t touch them.”

“And rapists?” Narraway asked.

“Yes, them also.”

“Pitt …” Narraway started.

Pitt smiled with a twisted humor. “Perhaps only if it happened to my wife, or daughter. But I can understand someone who would feel that way, who would want to take justice into his own hands.”

Narraway bit his lip. “So can I, and I have no wife or daughter. Do we need to watch Quixwood, once he knows that it’s Hythe? Or if Hythe gets off?”

“If he gets off, yes, very possibly,” Pitt admitted.

“And the Portuguese ambassador?” Narraway added quietly.

Pitt shivered. “I am watching. Castelbranco taking matters into his own hands is one of several things I am concerned about.”

Narraway looked at him closely. “And the others?”

“That whoever is doing this will not stop,” Pitt replied.

“All the same man? It can’t be, unless Hythe is innocent.” Narraway said it with something that could have been hope.

“Or we have two, or even three, men of such violent and brutal disposition loose in London right now,” Pitt finished the thought.

Narraway had no answer to that.


PITT HAD NOT SEEN Rafael Castelbranco for nearly a week. There had been no news to report that would ease any of the man’s distress. However, Pitt felt compelled to inform him of the arrest of Alban Hythe, and that as far as he was aware, Catherine Quixwood’s death had nothing to do with Angeles’s attack.

He made the appointment formally and presented himself at the Portuguese Embassy at four o’clock, as requested.

He was received in a large study with elegant furniture, a wooden floor with beautifully woven rugs and on the walls portraits of past kings and queens of Portugal.

Castelbranco came forward to greet him. He was at least outwardly composed, but was still wearing black relieved only by a white shirt, with no jewelry, not even a pocket watch. His face was calm but his eyes looked hollow, and his skin brittle and drained of color. He did not even pretend to smile, nor did he offer refreshment.

“Good afternoon, Commander Pitt,” he said in little more than a whisper, as if his throat was painful. “Have you come to tell me again that you can do nothing to prosecute the man who drove my daughter to her death?” There was no bitterness in his voice, no accusation, just pain.

Pitt hesitated. He had been prepared to be less blunt and this took him by surprise, but to be evasive now would be insulting.

“I suppose, for the present time, that is the truth,” he replied. “But the reason I came today is to tell you that a man has been arrested for the rape, and thus causing the suicide, of another woman. It is not public news yet, but it will be by tomorrow morning.”

Castelbranco was startled. His body stiffened. His dark eyes met Pitt’s with bewilderment. “Another woman? And you can arrest him for raping her?”

Pitt was embarrassed and he knew it showed in his face. “He appears to have had a relationship with her that can be proved,” he explained, feeling as if he was making excuses. “They were seen together. There are letters, gifts between them.”

Castelbranco said nothing, his eyes unmoving, his mouth closed tightly.

“She let him into her house, after dark,” Pitt went on. “When her husband was at a function in the course of his business, and she had dismissed the servants. The man raped her and beat her extremely badly. She was very seriously injured indeed, but it was actually an overdose of laudanum that directly caused her death.”

Castelbranco was stunned. He stepped back and sank into one of the chairs. He breathed in and out heavily, his fingers gripping the leather of the arms. For several moments he did not speak. When he did, it was with difficulty.

“Are you saying that this same … creature … raped my daughter, Mr. Pitt?”

Pitt felt again as if he was making excuses, totally ineffectually.

“No, Ambassador, I’m not. Nor am I suggesting that your daughter had any relationship with the man who did. I’m telling you of this only because the case bears a superficial resemblance, and I don’t want you to hear of it without some warning. Also, the man is only accused. He has not stood trial yet, and he has denied his guilt completely. Indeed, it is possible he is innocent.”

“You said there was a relationship between this man and the woman he raped? Letters, gifts, meetings?” Castelbranco accused.

“Yes, it seems so. And he cannot account for his time on the evening the poor woman was attacked.”

“She let him in? What kind of a woman was she?” Castelbranco glared at him, bewildered and hurt, desperately seeking escape from the thoughts that crowded in on him.

“According to what I have heard, a beautiful woman in her early forties, trapped in a lonely and sterile marriage,” Pitt replied.

“And so she took a lover who was depraved?” Castelbranco closed his eyes as if by not seeing Pitt he could deny the reality of what he had said. “Her poor husband. He must be insane with grief. I hear my daughter spoken of as if she was a loose woman, without virtue, but at least I know it was not true.” The tears seeped between his eyelids and it took him some moments to master himself. “What must he feel, poor man?”

“I can’t imagine,” Pitt confessed. “I’ve tried to. I think about my own wife and daughter. And son,” he added.

Castelbranco stared at him. “Your son?” Clearly he saw no sense in the remark.

“I look at my son.” Pitt did not avert his eyes. “He’s nearly twelve. What will I do to make certain he never misuses any woman, no matter who she is, or how she uses him?”

“Do you imagine this man’s father is thinking such a thing?” Castelbranco asked bitterly. “What guilt could be greater than that?” He gave a slight shrug, painfully, as if his shoulders ached. “Or perhaps he refuses to believe it? It takes great courage to accept the very worst you can imagine.”

“It would be better to have the courage to accept the possibility beforehand, and do what you can to prevent it, I suppose,” Pitt answered him. “But it is too late for that now.”

Castelbranco did not answer, just inclined his head in acknowledgment.

Pitt weighed his words carefully. He still had not delivered the message that was his reason for coming. He must do so.

“If this man proves to be guilty of raping Mrs. Quixwood—and that is by no means certain yet—but if he is, I would not blame Rawdon Quixwood if he were to find the opportunity to kill the man himself,” he admitted. “But much as I daresay Inspector Knox, the policeman concerned, would regret it, he would still have to arrest him and charge him with murder. He would then be tried, and if found guilty … perhaps not hanged, but he’d certainly spend many years in prison. It would magnify the tragedy immeasurably for his family. He has no children, but no doubt there are those who love him. Parents, maybe a brother or sister.”

“And if the law excuses this man who raped Mrs. Quixwood or you cannot find sufficient proof of his guilt?” Castelbranco asked. His voice was hoarse, barely audible, his eyes fixed on Pitt’s. “What if he murders him then? Or what if this man was found dead, how hard would Knox, or any of you, search to discover and prove who killed him?”

“You are hoping I’ll say we would make only a token effort, and be delighted to fail,” Pitt said with considerable compassion. “I would be tempted to, believe me. I daresay Knox would also. But then, this man has a young wife who not only loves him but believes in his innocence. Perhaps he has a father, or brothers who would look diligently for whoever killed him? How long does it go on?”

Castelbranco lowered his head, his eyes closed. “I understand your message, Mr. Pitt. I shall not murder my daughter’s rapist, even if I believe I have found him. Who would then look after my wife? She needs, and deserves, more of me than that. She too has lost her only child.”

“I’m sorry” was all Pitt could think of to say.

Castelbranco did not respond.


PITT ARRIVED HOME A little early. He had received a brief report from Stoker. So far there was nothing to suggest that Alban Hythe had ever met, or even heard of, Angeles Castelbranco. He had not attended any of the same social events, or moved in the same circles. Added to which, any theaters, dinners, or balls he enjoyed, he had gone to with his wife. The galleries and museums where he had met Catherine Quixwood were not places to which Angeles Castelbranco had ever been.

Charlotte must have heard his footsteps because she greeted him in the hall, kissing him quickly and then pulling away.

“Is it true?” she said urgently. “Have they arrested a man for the rape and murder of Catherine Quixwood? Is he the same man who raped Angeles? They won’t have to charge him with both, will they? Or would it be better if they did, then at least people would know she was a victim. I heard that he and Catherine were lovers. Is that true? Then why would he rape Angeles?”

“Where would you like me to begin?” Pitt said with a half smile. The warmth of his own home, the smells of clean laundry, of lavender, of furniture wax on polished wood all closed around him, and he wanted to forget the violence and loss of other people’s lives. He needed to build a barrier around himself and, for a time, push all the questions and worry outside, beyond his awareness. But he looked at Charlotte’s troubled face, the anxiety in her eyes, and knew he could not.

“Don’t equivocate, Thomas!” she said. “Tell me!”

“I know what you would like me to say,” he replied, his lips stiff, his tongue fumbling with the words. “That yes, we have someone. That he’s locked away and we’ll prove him guilty. That one day everyone will know Angeles was an innocent victim and her good name will be restored.”

“You think I want a comfortable lie?” she said incredulously. “We’ve been married for fifteen years, Thomas, and that’s what you think? It makes me wonder how many times you have told me what you imagined I wanted to hear rather than the truth. Sometimes? Often? Always?”

“Why are you so invested in this?” he demanded furiously. “You think someone’s going to attack you? No one is.”

“No one is?” She looked at him with real anger and fear. “Who’s to say? Or are you implying these brutes attack only foreigners? Catherine Quixwood was as English as I am!” She drew in a deep breath and went on. “You said he was her lover! So it was someone she knew and trusted. That could happen to any of us, especially someone young, who doesn’t know the difference between real love and—”

“Charlotte!” He cut across her words sharply. “I didn’t actually say anything at all; I just asked which question you wanted answered first.”

She was hurt, all the more so because he was right. “I want all of them answered. Have you told the Castelbrancos?”

“Yes, I have. They would hear of it soon enough, but I wanted to take this as an opportunity to warn Rafael not to do anything foolish.”

She paled, the anger in her eyes instantly replaced by horror.

He put his arm around her and gently led her toward the parlor. When they were inside he closed the door.

“They have arrested a very respectable young married man named Alban Hythe,” he told her, his voice calmer now. “His wife is young and charming, and so far still believes in him totally.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened, all fury turned to pity. “Poor woman,” she whispered. “I imagine she loves him—loves what she thought he was. She won’t be able to bear thinking anything else … until she has to.” She shook her head, and all the tiny muscles in her face tightened as she imagined the other woman’s pain. “I didn’t think there would be anything worse than losing a child, but perhaps this would be. It has robbed her not only of the present and the future, but of all that she believed of the past.”

“We don’t know that he’s guilty,” Pitt said gently. He wanted to comfort her, but he would not dare say anything less than the truth.

“Narraway isn’t at all sure that Hythe is guilty,” he said, watching her face.

She was startled. “Victor isn’t?”

Pitt didn’t mind that Charlotte had used his given name, that there was a degree of familiarity between his wife and his friend. He was perfectly aware that Narraway had been in love with Charlotte during the Irish adventure, and for some time before that, and that Charlotte knew it. She was quite certain that the feelings would pass, if they hadn’t already. Pitt wasn’t sure he agreed, but he trusted Narraway entirely.

“No,” Pitt agreed. “And he has been doing some investigating of his own.”

“So this Hythe man, he was Catherine’s lover?” she asked.

“He says not. She was lonely, intelligent, starved for someone with whom to share ideas, discovery, beauty.”

“And her husband is …” she chose her words delicately, “… a bore?”

“Perhaps insensitive,” he amended. “Yes, from her point of view, very possibly a bore. Maybe he was too involved in his business affairs.”

“And she was lonely enough to take a lover?” she pressed.

“Enough to seek a friend,” he corrected. “At least that is what Narraway thinks. He says Mrs. Hythe is also warm and interesting, and quite individual.”

Charlotte smiled. “For him to have noticed, she must be! So do they have the wrong man?”

“I don’t know, but it seems quite possible.”

“And what about Neville Forsbrook?” she challenged. “There is no doubt he is the one Angeles Castelbranco was terrified of.”

“Isn’t there?” Pitt thought back to his conversation with Stoker. “I wanted to ask you about that. You don’t think it could have been one of the other young men he was with? Think carefully, remember exactly what you saw.”

“Would that be his defense, if you charged him?” she said quickly.

“I imagine so.”

“Well, it was him. The others were only following his lead. She was looking at him all the time she backed away.” There was absolute conviction in her voice and in the bright anger in her eyes. “I’ll swear to it if I have to,” she added.

“You won’t.” Suddenly he was weary. “There’s nothing with which to charge him.”

“So Hythe may be innocent, and yet he’ll go to trial, whereas Forsbrook is guilty, and he’ll walk away without anyone even mentioning his name? What’s the matter with the world?” Now there was fear in her face again: fear of the unreason, the lack of justice.

Pitt wanted desperately to give her an answer that would offer comfort, or at least hope. She was looking at him, wanting it not only for herself but for everyone, for her children, and there was nothing he could say.

“Hythe hasn’t been tried yet,” he said quietly. “He may be found not guilty, clear his name.”

“Will it clear his name?” she asked. “Or will people go on thinking it was him, but that he just got away with it? Do you suppose people in general will really listen to the evidence?”

“We may get someone else for it,” he said, trying to force hope into his voice and his eyes.

“And Forsbrook?” she went on. “Will justice ever catch up with him? Or will people go on, happy with the easy answer that Angeles was a foreigner who lacked propriety?” Then she saw his face, and blushed miserably. “I’m sorry, Thomas. I know there’s nothing you can do. I wish I hadn’t said that.”

He smiled and kissed her gently. “I’m still looking for proof.”

“Be careful,” she warned. “It won’t help anybody if the government throws you out.”

“I won’t give them the excuse. I promise.” But even as he said it, he wondered if that was possible.


THEY ATE DINNER AT the kitchen table with the late sun streaming in through the back windows. The smell of clean cotton emanated from the sheets on the airing rail, and there was fresh bread on the rack above the oven.

Daniel ate with relish, as usual, but Jemima pushed her food around her plate. Her face was miserable, eyes down.

“If you don’t want that potato, can I have it?” Daniel asked hopefully, looking at her plate.

“ ‘May I,’ ” Charlotte corrected him automatically.

Daniel was disappointed. “You want it?” he said with surprise.

“No, thank you.” She stifled a smile. “The word ‘like’ is better than ‘want,’ in that way. ‘I would like it, please.’ But ‘can’ refers to ability. If you are asking permission for something you say, ‘may I please.’ ”

Wordlessly Jemima passed the potato over to her brother.

“Papa, what happened to Mrs. Quixwood? Why did she kill herself?” she asked suddenly.

Charlotte drew in her breath, held it a second, staring at Pitt, who looked quite taken aback. Then she let it out in a sigh.

“Was she in love with someone she shouldn’t have been in love with?” Tears brimmed in Jemima’s eyes and her cheeks were pink.

“You don’t kill yourself over that!” Daniel said with disgust. “Well, I suppose girls might …”

“It’s usually men who run out of control in that area, not women,” Charlotte said sharply. “And we don’t know what happened yet. Maybe we never will.”

“She was attacked in a very personal way,” Pitt replied, looking at Daniel. “Parts of the body that are private. And then she was badly beaten. She drank some wine with medicine in it, possibly to dull the pain, and she took too much, perhaps by accident, and that is what she died of.”

Daniel looked startled by all of this information, and suddenly very sober.

Pitt plowed on. “When you are older you will develop certain appetites and desires toward women. It’s a natural part of becoming a man. You will learn how to control them and, most important, that you do not make love to a woman unless she is as willing as you are.”

“You do not make love to her unless you are married to her!” Charlotte corrected him firmly, with a quick glance at Jemima, then back to Pitt.

In spite of himself, Pitt smiled. “We will have a long talk about that, a little later,” he told his son. “And not at the dinner table.”

“If he really hurt her, and it was his fault, why does everybody seem angry with her?” Jemima asked.

“Because they’re frightened,” Charlotte said before Pitt could frame an answer he thought suitable for his daughter, not really knowing how much she knew of the whole subject.

Jemima blinked and a tear slid down her cheek. “Why are they frightened?”

“Because rape can happen to any woman,” Charlotte said. “Just like being struck by lightning.”

“Hardly anyone gets struck by lightning,” Daniel pointed out. “And if you don’t go out and stand in the middle of a field in a thunderstorm, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Thank you.” Charlotte smiled at him. “That was the point I was trying to make. But when it does happen to someone, then people become afraid and they blame the person it happened to, because if it was their own fault, rather than the lightning’s fault, then everyone else is safe.”

“Was it her own fault?” Jemima did not seem comforted.

Charlotte looked at her steadily. “We have no idea, and it would be cruel of us to assume it was until we know. But perhaps you and I should have a longer talk about it this evening, at a more suitable time. Now please eat the rest of your dinner, and let us discuss something more pleasant.”


THE CONVERSATION COULD NOT be avoided. Charlotte knew from Jemima’s unhappy face that something was troubling her profoundly, something more than the usual day-to-day dreams and nightmares of being fourteen.

“Would it be my fault if—if I … really liked someone?” Jemima asked, her eyes lowered, too afraid to look up at her mother.

“What you feel is not your fault,” Charlotte picked her way through the minefield. “But what you do about it is your responsibility. Perhaps in view of what everyone is talking about, it is a good time to discuss what is wise behavior, what is becoming, and what is very likely to be misunderstood and taken as permission you really do not mean to give.”

“We’ve already talked about it, Mama.”

“Then why are you still unhappy and apparently confused?”

Jemima looked up and blinked, tears in her eyes again. “What is rape? I mean exactly? Could it happen to me? Would I die? I mean, would I have to commit suicide? That’s a terrible sin, isn’t it?”

“If someone is so desperately unhappy that she is driven to suicide, then I think I would forgive her,” Charlotte answered. “And I am certain God is better than I am, so I think He would forgive her too. There might be a price to pay, I don’t know. There normally is for anything done less well than we could have done it, for acts of omission as well as commission. But it is not my place, thank heaven, to judge anyone else. And as far as Mrs. Quixwood is concerned, we don’t know if she meant to die.”

“So she’ll be all right? In heaven, I mean?” Jemima said earnestly.

“Certainly. It is the man who raped her who will not.”

“Everybody says ‘rape,’ but they don’t say what he actually did to her.”

Charlotte knew that she must face the issue now, or make it even worse.

“We have talked about love and marriage before, and having children,” she said frankly. “If you love someone, and he is gentle and funny and wise, as your father is, then the acts of intimacy are wonderful. You will treasure them always. But if you imagine that kind of act with someone you do not know or like, and he tears your clothes off you and forces you and hurts you—”

Jemima let out a gasp of horror.

“That is what is called rape,” Charlotte finished. “It is terrible at the time—it must be—but that is not all. You may find that you are with child, which will have consequences for the rest of your life, because the child is a person, and one you have brought into the world. You will love him, or her, but the child will also remind you of what happened.”

Jemima stared at her, blinking slowly, tears on her cheeks.

“And as you have already heard, people will tend to blame you,” Charlotte continued. “They will say that somehow it was your own fault. You were dressed in such a way that he thought you were willing, or that you invited him and only said ‘no’ at the last moment. Or he may even say you were perfectly happy at the time, but that you are now claiming it is his fault now so that you are not to blame for losing your virginity, and therefore your reputation.”

“I think I might kill myself too,” Jemima said slowly.

“There will be no need,” Charlotte told her steadily. “It will not happen to you. You will not see young men alone until you are a very great deal older, by which time you will also be wiser and more able to make your own wishes known, unmistakably. No one ever treated me that way, nor will they treat you less than as the woman you choose to be.”

Jemima nodded. “And Papa will catch the man who did that to Mrs. Quixwood, won’t he?”

“Mrs. Quixwood is not his case, but he will help how he can. I fear, though, that it will not be easy, and it may take some time.”

Jemima smiled. “We’re lucky, aren’t we, to have Papa to look after us?”

“Yes, we are. But you will still not see young men alone, no matter who they are.”

“But …” Jemima began.

Charlotte raised her eyebrows slightly.

“But with others? If Fanny Welsh is there too, it’s all right?” Jemima insisted.

“I will take it under advisement, and let you know,” Charlotte replied.