‘I think Will’s seen this house a million times before. I didn’t want to bore him asking for a guided tour.’
‘Our family never tires of showing off the house. It’s quite special. Will tells me you’re a dancer. Did you meet through the theatre? What was Will’s latest project? The one at the Royal Court?’
The Royal Court? thought Amy. Who’s been hiding his light under a bushel?
‘No, we met through a mutual acquaintance,’ she said, knowing that this was her moment. ‘A member of your family. Georgia Hamilton.’
Clarissa’s face did not move; there was no change in her expression at all – and to Amy, that was more telling than a sneer.
‘Georgia?’ she said evenly. ‘How is she?’
Did she really care? Was she genuinely curious about the cousin she hadn’t seen, barring that glance on Regent Street, in fifty years? She must have thought of Georgia from time to time – how could she not, given the traumatic circumstances of their rift? Or had she really learnt to live with it, to put people and inconvenient events from her mind?
‘She’s not too well actually,’ said Amy. ‘In fact she doesn’t think she has very long to live.’
Now that got a reaction. Clarissa looked as if she had been slapped; her face drained of colour apart from two pink dots in the centre of her cheeks.
‘Can’t they do anything?’
Amy shook her head.
‘Apparently not – although she’s not in any pain, and she’s still able to walk and look after herself.’
‘That’s something at least,’ Clarissa said, looking down at the floor.
‘In fact, we have just been to New York together,’ said Amy.
‘New York?’
‘Yes, it was something Georgia was desperate to do. I finally found out that she wanted to go there because New York was where she had planned to go on her honeymoon with her fiancé.’
Clarissa frowned.
‘Yes, I heard she had been married.’
‘Not that fiancé,’ said Amy. She looked straight at Clarissa. ‘I mean Edward.’
The old woman shook her head.
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t seen Georgia in many years. Do I know Edward?’
‘Yes, Clarissa, Edward Carlyle. Your husband’s brother. You might remember him. He’s the one you accused of rape.’
Amy had heard the expression ‘her face hardened’, but she had never understood it properly until that moment. Clarissa’s features looked as if they had been carved from stone.
‘I believe you have confused me with someone else,’ she said in clipped, even tones. If she had been disconcerted, wrong-footed by Amy’s unexpected mention of Georgia, it disappeared in an instant and she was once again the lady of the house, the formidable grande dame.
Come on, Amy, don’t give in now, she said to herself. She thought of Georgia falling in her flat, the flowers scattering across the carpet; she thought of the story she had told and the look of unhealed pain on her face when she had spoken of Edward, her love, and the fate that had befallen him.
‘No, Clarissa,’ she said, meeting the older woman’s gaze, ‘I don’t think I have confused you with anyone else. You do remember Edward, I take it? The man whose life you destroyed? The man who – because of your accusations – was banished to Singapore and his death?’
‘I am well aware of the tragedy, young lady. This is my family. I am simply denying your very unpleasant insinuations.’
‘Oh, they’re more than insinuations,’ said Amy. ‘They are facts.’
‘Facts?’ Clarissa barked harshly. ‘Says who? Georgia? There are no facts here, only slanderous lies, lies that I will vigorously contest if need be. Do not underestimate me, Miss Carrell.’
Amy shook her head.