Page 79 of A Perfect Gentleman

“How could talking to a few people or searching through a cabinet or a trunk hurt her? She’s not lifting anything or shoving things about.”

“I cannot comprehend why you ask me a question if you intend to ignore the answer.”

“Grandmother . . .” Graeme realized he was gritting his teeth and forced himself to relax his jaw. “I certainly don’t mean to ignore your answer. But I fail to see how talking to someone about that alms society would be any different from paying a call.”

“Paying calls is entirely different. It requires no mental effort.”

“I can’t disagree with that, but why—”

“You shouldn’t disturb a woman in her condition. She should have calm and peace; it does not do to distress her. Although I must say, when it comes to Abigail, it’s more likely she is the one distressing others. You, for instance, have not been the same since she arrived. Look at yourself—your cuffs are uneven, your ascot is crooked, and your hair is every which way. You look as if you’ve been tearing out your hair.”

“I have been tearing out my hair.”

“There you are.” She nodded, pleased at having proved her point. “There’s no good to be had in what you’re doing. If you want to give alms, then pray do so. All this stirring about just muddies the waters.”

“What waters?” He leaned forward, intrigued. “Grandmother, do you know something about what Father was doing?”

“Of course not. I found it best not to know what your father was doing. I can’t imagine what Reginald could have done with that fund that is so interesting, anyway. You have been asking the most peculiar questions. You’re upsetting Philomena.”

This statement, he knew, should be interpreted as, “You’re annoying me.” Gravely he said, “I assure you, I have no desire to upset Mrs. Ponsonby. Though I cannot think why my questions would have done so.”

“It reminds her of her husband. George was a bit of a fool, but she was enamored of him. Reginald was fond of him, as well; I suppose George must have had hidden qualities.”

“What does Mr. Ponsonby have to do with the fund? He was a trustee, I know, but he didn’t do anything special, did he? He wouldn’t have known anything, would he?”

“Really, Montclair, what is this obsession you have with knowing things? It isn’t the fund that upsets Philomena; it’s that time. She hates to be reminded of, well, you know . . .”

“No, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “That George took his own life.”

“He did?” Graeme’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought it was an accident. He fell from a cliff.”

“Of course that is what we told everyone. We were hardly going to say he jumped.”

“He did? How do you know? Did someone see it?”

“No. But we all knew he wouldn’t just go for a ramble along the cliffs. He was the laziest man who ever lived.”

“Why would he commit suicide?”

“Must you phrase things so indelicately? You’ve spent too much time around your American wife. George was in despair because he lost all his money in that stock scheme. Your father felt quite guilty about it because of course he had encouraged George to invest in it, thinking to help him. Philomena blames herself; she says George believed he’d failed her. Well, he had, of course, but how that silly man thought it would help her for him to die, leaving her penniless, I cannot imagine.”

“Mm. Thoughtless of him.” Graeme considered what Abby would make of this news. She would be certain it supported her theory that the deaths of fund members were suspicious. In the next instant, he remembered how things were between Abby and him now. He wondered if he would ever have such conversations with Abby again.

His fears were borne out that evening, when he suffered through a stilted, awkward conversation at the dinner table. He and Abby exchanged nothing but meaningless pleasantries along the paths his grandmother chose to follow. He was glad for the respite of the customary glass of port alone while the women retired to the drawing room. By the time he joined them, Abby had already gone to her room.

“Poor dear. She was quite tired. Of course, that’s only to be expected.” Mrs. Ponsonby nodded significantly at him. “I fear she wasn’t feeling herself this afternoon. So pale.”

Graeme thought of Abby’s pale face and shadowed eyes. Had that been because of pregnancy? It seemed more sorrow and lack of sleep that he had seen in her face. But why was she unhappy? She had reached her goal, the conception of a child.

Perhaps her unhappiness came from causing him pain. That would be in keeping with her character. She took too much upon herself; look at the way she suffered for her father’s deeds. If he went to her, if he told her how much he wanted her . . .

And wasn’t that a perfect indication of how low he’d sunk, that he was actually considering trading on her kind nature? He was disgusted with himself.

He wished he could talk to someone about the feelings roiling inside him, but there was no one. He couldn’t discuss such things with his mother, even if she were here, and he could well imagine James’s scornful reaction to such maunderings. There was only one person to whom he could talk freely. Unfortunately that person was Abby.

Graeme went up to bed early. He saw the light under Abby’s door and hesitated, but resolutely passed by. He tried to read but could not. He thought of ringing for his valet, but then he would have to go to bed, and the thought did not appeal. He paced the floor. He flung himself back into his chair.