“Why, Maria,” cried Lady Frances, injured. “I only wished to help! As for its being merely Mrs. Quincey’s fancies, you should know that it is not only Mrs. Quincey I heard it from. It is being talked of everywhere one goes, and it will look very bad for Mr. Wythe if he does not put a stop to it. If you must know—”
But Lady Wythe would never hear what she must know, for Lady Frances caught sight of Zacharias, and blushed scarlet. Lady Wythe’s eyes were damp, and her nose reddish, for to her own vexation she always wept when she was angry.
“Zacharias, I was just saying to Lady Frances that I think we had better go home,” said Lady Wythe, composing herself. “Your Committee meets early tomorrow, does not it? And I find I am too tired to remain. But Lady Frances will forgive me, I am sure. She is too good-natured to hold a grudge.”
Though she had been chiding Lady Frances but a moment ago, Lady Wythe pressed her hand now. To Lady Frances’s credit, she responded splendidly:
“I should, only there is nothing to forgive! It was kind of you to come. I only hope,” she added in a lower voice, “I only hope I have not added to your troubles, Maria, my dear.”
Though her friendship with Lady Frances was salvaged, Lady Wythe’s evening was beyond repair. Once Zacharias had handed her into the carriage, she burst out:
“Wretched creatures! How can they say such appalling things! Theywould never have dared to be so odious in Sir Stephen’s day. How I wish—!”
She took a handkerchief out of her reticule with shaking hands, and pretended to blow her nose. Zacharias knew exactly what she would have said, however, if she had permitted herself to conclude her sentence, and she could not have wished for Sir Stephen to be restored to his life and office more urgently than he.
“How I wish I could help you,” she said instead.
“I beg you will not let such talk distress you,” said Zacharias. “My office confers on me immunity from any charge, you know, so it is only an unpleasant rumour, and cannot have any real consequence. I do not let it concern me.” This was not wholly true, but he spoke evenly enough, he hoped, that Lady Wythe would believe him untroubled.
Lady Wythe lowered her handkerchief and fixed anxious blue eyes upon Zacharias. “You had heard this rumour before?”
Zacharias nodded. “I hope—” But he could not say what he hoped. It would make it too clear what he feared. He averted his face, so Lady Wythe could not see his expression, and said, with difficulty, “He was—dead, you know—when I arrived.”
“Oh, Zacharias,” said Lady Wythe, distressed. “Is there any need to explain yourself tome? Sir Stephen told me of his complaint even before he confided in his physician. We knew his heart would be the death of him. I only wish we had prepared you for it. Sir Stephen knew he ought to tell you, but he could never bring himself to the point: he could not bear to think he must leave you so soon. He would be so proud if he could see how well you have done—and so sorry to have caused you such trouble.”
Zacharias shook his head, twisting his hands together—a nervous habit Sir Stephen had sought to rid him of, but to which he reverted in times of intense emotion. He opened his mouth to speak, scarcely knowing what he was about to confess, but the ghost spoke first.
“If you tell Maria about me, I shall never forgive you,” said Sir Stephen.
•••
ZACHARIASdid not choose to address his guardian’s spectre, but sat in furious silence throughout the remainder of the journey, to poor Lady Wythe’s confusion. It was only when she had been restored to her home, and Zacharias was safely ensconced in his study, that he exclaimed:
“I wish you would not jump into my conversations! It is extraordinarily difficult not to betray you by my response. Did not you say we should do everything within our power to prevent Lady Wythe’s becoming aware of you, since she has such a horror of ghosts?”
Zacharias would never have spoken so abruptly to Sir Stephen in life. Though they had by no means always been of one mind, Zacharias had not often ventured to make Sir Stephen aware of the fact. Perhaps there had lurked in him the old childhood worry, that if he did not make every effort to please—if he showed any sign of being less than his benefactor desired—he might find he was no longer wanted.
But death, in its backhanded kindness, had torn that ancient fear from him, even as it had robbed Lady Wythe of her chief support, and Zacharias of the man he had esteemed most in the world. There was now no reason to put off any quarrel, and Zacharias could not doubt Sir Stephen’s disinterested attachment when his ghost continued to haunt him with such unwelcome persistence.
“Had I remained silent, you would have forgotten your bond,” said Sir Stephen, with an aggravating lack of remorse. “You promised me, you know, that you would not tell her of what happened that night.”
Zacharias shook his head.
“Lady Wythe ought to be told,” he said. “Of all people in this world or the next, she has the best right to know what happened the night you died.”
“If it were only the manner of my death that would be revealed, I should not disagree,” said Sir Stephen. “But to confide in Maria would be to entrust the details of the Exchange to a member of the laity—a female, no less! You are unpopular enough, Zacharias, not to draw your colleagues’ opprobium upon you by divulging sorcery’s greatest secret.”
“There can be no question of Lady Wythe’s breaking a confidence,” argued Zacharias. “The comfort it will give her to know that you are well will be incalculable, and... even she must wonder.” His voice dropped, so that only someone possessed of the preternatural hearing of the dead could have heard his next words: “Even she must doubt.”
Sir Stephen was a tall, bluff man, still vigorous despite the grey in his hair. His broad frame recalled that of a general more than a scholar and sorcerer, but the frank countenance and clear blue eyes concealed an unsuspected shrewdness. It had been said by his thaumaturgical enemies, half in disapprobation and half in envy, that Sir Stephen ought to have set himself up as a politician: he would not have ended as anything less than Prime Minister.
“Maria, doubt whetheryoumight be a murderer?” cried Sir Stephen with an air of incredulity. “Never believe it, Zacharias! Because she knew Nurse’s authority must not be questioned, she would pretend to credit the stories of your wickedness, but when punishment had been dealt and you were borne off bawling to the nursery, what dark suspicions Maria raised then! What aspersions cast upon poor Nurse Haddon’s probity! ‘She was not certain Nurse understood Zacharias. He never meant to be naughty. Such a nature as his needed only patience and affection to govern it.’ It would take more than the whisperings of a parcel of ill-bred magicians to shake her faith in you.”
But nursery reminiscences would not do. Zacharias’s countenance wore a stubborn look with which Sir Stephen was intimately familiar. So had Zacharias frowned when he was four, and did not wish to eathis porridge. So he looked now, twenty years later, when prevented from doing what he believed to be right.
“I might be persuaded to release you from your promise, if you agreed to tell Maria of your complaint,” said Sir Stephen. “She might be able to help relieve your distress.”
“My complaint is not such as any mortal can remedy,” said Zacharias, but he said no more. His battle was lost, as Sir Stephen knew it would be the moment he referred to Zacharias’s illness. That was an aspect of the secret of Sir Stephen’s death that Zacharias would not willingly speak of, however highly he valued honesty.
