Cardington Crescent by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online

silver-gray eyes, and something in Tassie’s face that could have been admiration. But only once had George looked at her, and his smile was so artificial it hurt more than a scowl, because it was as if he did not see her at all.
    The sense of closeness had come from a direction she had learned to expect, but when she thought about it, not really to welcome. It was Jack Radley who joined her laughter, whose quick humor followed hers, and who at the end of the evening walked up the broad stairs with his hand at her elbow.
    She stopped on the landing, almost oblivious of him, waiting for George’s step but hearing instead the rustle of silk against the bannisters below her. She knew it would be Sybilla, and yet compulsion, a thread of hope, kept her looking till they came into sight, just in case it was not. George was smiling. The gas bracket on the wall shone on his dark hair and the white skin of Sybilla’s shoulders.
    George moved away from her as he saw Emily, the spontaneity dying out of his face and faint embarrassment taking its place. He looked back at Sybilla.
    “Good night, and thank you for a most delightful evening,” he said awkwardly, caught between the ease of intimacy the moment before and the faintly ridiculous formality he now finished with.
    Sybilla’s face was glowing; she was completely enclosed within whatever they had been saying—or doing. For her Emily did not exist, and Jack Radley was merely a shadow, part of the decor of the weekend. Words were superfluous; her smile said everything.
    Emily felt sick. All her efforts had been so much waste of time. She had been an actress in an empty theater, performing only for herself—as far as George was concerned she had not been there at all. Her behavior was immaterial to him.
    “Good night, Mr. Radley.” She stumbled over the words, and reaching out for the handle of her bedroom door, she opened it, went in, and closed it firmly behind her. At least she could shut them out until tomorrow. She could have nine hours of solitude. If she wanted to weep no one else would know, and when she had let go of some of the confusion and pain bursting inside her, there was the refuge of sleep before the necessity of decision.
    The maid knocked.
    Emily sniffed hard and swallowed. “I don’t need you, Millicent.” Her voice was strained. “You may go to bed.”
    There was a moment’s hesitation; then, “Very well, m’lady. Good night.”
    “Good night.” She undressed slowly, leaving her gown over the back of the chair, then took the pins out of her hair. It was a relief not to feel the weight of it on her head.
    Why? Was it something about Sybilla? Her beauty, her wit, her charm? Or was it some failure in herself? Had she changed, lost some quality that George had loved? She searched, trying to recall what she had said and done recently. How was it different from the way it had always been? In what way was she less than George wanted, or needed? She had never been cold or ill-natured, she was not extravagant, she had never been rude to his friends—and heaven knows she had been tempted! Some of them were so facile, so incredibly silly, and yet they spoke to her as if she were a child.
    It was a futile exercise, and in the end she crept into bed and decided to be angry instead. It was better than weeping. Angry people fight, and sometimes fighters win!
    She woke with a headache and a rush of the memory of failure. All the energy drained out of her, and she stared up at the sunlight on the plaster ceiling, finding it colorless and hard. If only it were still night and she could have more time alone. The thought of going down into the breakfast room to face all those bright smiles—the curious, the confident, the pitying—and having to pretend there was nothing wrong ... What everyone else could see of George and Sybilla was of no importance; she knew something the others did not, something that explained it all.
    She curled up smaller, hunching her