For the first time he smiled. “I imagine about as much as a man trusts his valet,” he answered. “Or perhaps a trifle more: women spend more time at home, and on the whole give more attention to appearance.”
There was another aspect that needed explaining, Charlotte realized.
“Jack, she probably won’t see a newspaper. Maids don’t, especially if there is something sensational in it. The butler will keep it from them.” She saw the surprise in his face. “Of course he will! He won’t want all his maids swapping horror stories under the stairs, and up half the night with nightmares.” It was plain from Jack’s face that he had never thought of that, and she realized with a brief shadow of pity that he had very few roots. He was an eternal guest, never a host, too well-bred to be poor, but without the means to keep up with his peers. But there was no time for such issues now. Then she remembered that already one of her own servants had left, and if Pitt was not cleared very soon there would be pressure on Gracie too. Her mother would try to persuade her to find a better place. And come to think of it, Charlotte had no money and she would not be able to keep Gracie anyway, or anyone else. She had enough of her allowance from her own inheritance to eat, at least for a few weeks—The fear loomed up again. She was not only afraid of isolation and insufficient means, but worst of all, life without Pitt. There was not even time to make up for the stupid arguments, to be to him all the things she wanted to be.
She must not think of it, it would destroy her. She took a long breath, her lungs hurting as if the air were sharp. She must fight—anybody and everybody if necessary.
“Please ask Emily to stay there,” she repeated.
“I will.” Jack hesitated, and for the first time he looked awkward, his eyes avoiding hers, scanning the tabletop, the row of blue-ringed dishes on the dresser beyond. “Charlotte—have you any money?”
She swallowed. “For a while.”
“It’s going to be hard.”
“I know.”
He colored faintly. “I can give you a little.”
She shook her head. “No. Thank you, Jack.”
He searched for words. “Don’t—don’t let pride—”
“It’s not pride,” she assured him. “I’m all right for now. And when I’m not ...” Please God she would have found the murderer by then, and Pitt would be free! “When I’m not, Emily will help.”
“I’ll go and tell her. I’ll say it’s a family illness—they’ll let e in for that. Even the butler wouldn’t be martinet enough to deny anyone the right to that sort of news.”
“But how will you explain knowing it? You’ll have to explain that, or they’ll be suspicious.” Always at the front of her mind was the necessity to learn the truth, before everything else. “They won’t leave you alone with her, you know. There’ll be the housekeeper there, or the other lady’s maid, for propriety if nothing else.”
He looked taken aback for a moment, then he brightened. “Write a letter. I’ll say it’s from her family, explaining the situation. She can ask for a day off, to come and visit you on your sickbed.”
“Half day,” she corrected automatically. “She hasn’t been there long enough for one yet, but they might give it to her on grounds of compassion. Please do, Jack—go today. I’ll write a letter straightaway, and I’ll tell her to burn it as soon as she’s read it. There are plenty of fires.” She stood up even as she was speaking and went hastily into the parlor, turning up the lights, not noticing how cold it was till her fingers touched the icy surface of the desktop. She took out paper, ink, and pen and began to write.
Dearest Emily,
Something completely appalling has happened—Thomas found Cerise but she was already dead. Someone broke her neck, and they have arrested him for her murder. They have taken him to “the Steel” in Coldbath Fields, to await trial. I went to Mr. Ballarat, but he will do nothing. Either they have told him to leave it alone, or he is simply a coward and is only too glad to be rid of Thomas before he unearths something embarrassing about someone in power.
It is all up to us now, there is no one else. Please stay where you are and be very, very careful! Remember Dulcie! Half of me wants to beg you to come home with Jack immediately, tonight, so you will be safe; the other half knows you and I are Thomas’s only chance. He must have been close on the trail of someone very powerful and very dangerous. Please Emily, be careful. I love you,
Charlotte
She blotted it rather clumsily. It was scribbled, and her fingers were stiff. Then without rereading it she folded it, not very straight, and slipped it into an envelope. She sealed it, put the top back on the ink, and turned the gas down before going back to the kitchen. She gave the letter to Jack.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promised. “We must plan.”
She nodded, overwhelmed with loneliness now that he was going. With him here she did not feel so frightened; even with Gracie’s loyalty, and the children, she would be alone when he was gone. Then there would be time to think, and nothing to do all the long, cold night. She dreaded waking in the morning.
“Good night.” She forced the moment to come, because waiting for it was worse, and she did not want to weep again. It was pointless, and too hard to stop.
“Good night.” Now at the point of going he also seemed reluctant. He was worried for her, and she knew it. Perhaps he really did love Emily. What an unspeakable way to discover it!
Jack hesitated a moment more, then as he could think of nothing further to say, turned and went to the door. She followed to let him out and watched him step into the street, where the wet cobbles shone in the dim gaslight, globes hung like baleful moons in haloes of rain.
He touched her cheek gently, then walked rapidly away towards the main road and the passing hansoms.
She was so tired she should have slept well, but her dreams were filled with fear, and she woke up many times, fighting for breath, her body aching with tension and her throat sore. The darkness seemed interminable, and when at last the gray dawn came, with rain beating on the window, it was a relief to get up. She was so tired she fumbled with her gown when she went downstairs to draw the pitcher of hot water, then changed her mind and washed in the kitchen anyway; it was warmer. Before dressing she decided to have a cup of tea. The taste of it would wash away some of the gritty feeling and its heat might wash out the tightness in her throat.
She was still sitting at the kitchen table when Gracie came in, also in her dressing gown, her hair down over her shoulders. She looked like a child. Charlotte had never noticed how threadbare her nightclothes were before. She must get her new ones—if she could ever afford it again. She wished she had done it sooner.
Gracie stood still, eyes wide, afraid to speak and uncertain what to say. But her gaze was perfectly steady and hot with loyalty. She longed to ask Charlotte if she was all right but did not dare, in case it seemed impertinent.
“Have a cup of tea before we begin,” Charlotte offered. “The kettle’s still just about boiling.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Gracie accepted with some awe; she had never in her life before sat at the kitchen table taking tea in her nightgown.
But from then on the day got worse. The baker’s boy did not call but passed on down the street. The fishmonger’s boy, on the contrary, rang loudly, presented the account up to date, and demanded payment in full, with the warning that should madam be buying fish in future—which he appeared to doubt—all transactions would be strictly for payment in cash and on delivery. Gracie told him to be about his business and all but boxed his ears on the doorstep, but she was sniffing fiercely and her eyes were red when she came back to the kitchen.
Charlotte thought of sending her for bread, then realized how unfair that would be, and perhaps rash; obviously her loyalty was intense and she would retaliate against any jibes, even if only overheard. Charlotte was older and surely could learn to keep the peace. She should not hide behind a girl.