“I happen to be convinced that sometimes He does.” Lady Holmes’s tone was triumphant. “And maybe this is the year He smites those who have been thorns in my side.”
It took Livia a moment to realize that Lady Holmes was referring to Lady Amelia Drummond. That name had never been brought up in the Holmes household, certainly not in Livia’s hearing. But Lady Amelia’s abrupt death—she’d been in perfect health and vigor only the day before—had been quite the topic of gossip for the past fortnight.
Lady Holmes shoved past Livia.
“Wait. Is that all you know? Are there no other details?”
Lady Holmes stopped and thought for a moment. Then she snorted. “Mrs. Neeley said Roger Shrewsbury is devastated. Said he is sure his disgrace sent his mother into an early grave. How typical of a man, to think the world revolves around him.”
“Wait. Is—”
Lady Holmes marched on in the direction of Livia and Charlotte’s room. “When will you learn to be quiet, Olivia? I have other things to do than standing there and answering your questions—especially today.”
The silence, as Lady Holmes threw open the door, was thunderous.
Her question, when it came at last, deafened. “Where is Charlotte?”
Charlotte had been everywhere in London this day, or at least it felt that way to her throbbing feet.
By midmorning she—or rather, Miss Caroline Holmes from Tunbridge, typist—had secured a room at Mrs. Wallace’s boardinghouse, a very respectable place at a very respectable location near Cavendish Square.
The rest of her first day of freedom was spent whittling away at her scant funds. She was obliged to acquire a tea kettle, a chipped tea service, a spirit lamp on which to heat water, silverware and flatware, tooth powder, towels, and bed linens—plus a number of other miscellany that a young woman accustomed to living at her parents’ house never needed to worry about.
She tried to think of her purchases as an investment for the future, for when she and Livia—and Bernadine, too—would have a place of their own and direction over their collective existence.
But that dream was taking its last labored breaths, wasn’t it, all alone in a ditch somewhere?
Bernadine might not care much one way or the other, but Livia, Livia who was so proud, so fragile, and so constantly doubtful of herself . . .
Livia who mistrusted humanity yet feared being alone.
Charlotte had been Livia’s companion; she listened when Livia wanted to talk and remained quiet when Livia wanted to hear herself think. And Charlotte, too, had been a target of Lady Holmes’s wrath, with her refusal of proposal after proposal. But now Livia was unsupported and unshielded. Now she was all alone before both a scornful Society and a pair of livid parents with no other outlet for their anger.
Charlotte passed Cavendish Square, the trees and shrubs of which were dingy with soot. The air in London had always been terrible, but far more so for a woman who must walk all day long than one who had a carriage at her disposal. By midday, as she stood before the mirror in her new room at Mrs. Wallace’s, the top of her ruffled collar was already marked by a ring of grime on the inside. She didn’t want to think of its advanced state of soil after several more hours out and about.
Turning onto Wimpole Street, she made a stop at Atwell & Dewsbury, Pharmaceutical Chemists. Mrs. Wallace had recommended the place for the purchase of incidentals. Charlotte had visited the shop earlier in the day to buy bathing soap and matches—and to take a look at the selection of books that customers could borrow for a penny apiece.
But of course she hadn’t thought of everything. This time Mr. Atwell kindly sold her some stationery. And a package of one hundred perforated pieces of tissue for the water closet, wrapped in brown paper and without either of them ever mentioning it by name.
As she stepped out of the shop, a dapper older gentleman sauntered past on the opposite side of the street. He looked so much like Sir Henry she came to a dead halt.
Had she been angrier at him or herself? The latter, most likely. Livia had warned her repeatedly not to trust their father’s promises. But she had been deaf to those warnings—willfully deaf. Not that she thought Sir Henry the kind of paragon he most emphatically wasn’t, but because she believed that her good opinion and good will meant something to him.
They probably did, but not enough, in the end, to make any difference.
Mrs. Wallace’s place was around the corner. When Charlotte walked in, most of the boarders were milling about in the common room, socializing before supper.
“I’ll bet the girl’s mum is having a right laugh this minute,” said a vivacious brunette. “Goodness knows I would, if the old woman what caught my daughter and acted so hoity-toity about it is found dead the next morning.”
Charlotte’s ears heated as if a curling iron had been held too close.
“You don’t think the girl’s family had something to do with it?” said another woman. She was no more than twenty-one and looked excitable.
“Which old woman?” asked Charlotte.
The brunette turned toward her. “You must be the new girl. Miss Holmes, is it?” she asked, her demeanor friendly.
“Yes. Nice to meet you, Miss . . .”
“Whitbread. Nan Whitbread, and this is Miss Spooner.”
They all shook hands.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt, but what you were talking about sounded fascinating.”
“Oh, it is. My cousin works at one of the fancy dressmakers on Regent Street,” said Miss Whitbread. “And she kept hearing about it all day from the clients. They weren’t talking to her, of course, but among themselves, about the lady what caught her married son having a go at this young lady, hung the young lady out to dry, and then woke up dead the next morning.”
Lady Shrewsbury was dead? Dead?
“Oh, my,” Charlotte mumbled. “Just like that?”
“That’s what they say. Can’t remember the name for it, the condition what makes you bleed in the head.”
“An aneurysm of the brain?” Charlotte supplied.
“Sounds about right. First-rate story, ain’t it? Oh, I mean, isn’t it?” Miss Whitbread lowered her voice. “Mrs. Wallace don’t like us using ‘ain’t’ around here. Says it isn’t ladylike.”
“And if you got a young man who’s sweet on you, don’t ever mention it to her—or Miss Turner,” added Miss Spooner. “We aren’t supposed to have any gentlemen friends at all.”
“’Specially not a young man like Miss Spooner’s. He takes her out to tea shops and feeds her suppers,” said Miss Whitbread with a wink.
“Shh,” warned Miss Spooner, laughter and alarm alike dancing in her eyes. “Speak of the devil.”
Mrs. Wallace came into the common room. She was in her mid-thirties, a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a clear look of authority. Behind her followed a thin, short woman who must be at least five years older but was obviously a lieutenant, rather than the captain. Miss Turner then.
Mrs. Wallace greeted her boarders and introduced Charlotte. The company duly proceeded to the dining room, where Miss Turner said grace, and the women helped themselves to a supper of boiled bacon cheek and vegetable marrow.
Charlotte’s meals were very important to her. But this evening she noticed nothing of the food she put in her mouth. With half an ear she listened to Miss Whitbread tell her about the rules and customs of the house. The only question she asked was, “Do you think I’d be allowed to go out and buy a newspaper?”
“Oh, you don’t need to. Mrs. Wallace don’t like any of us going out after supper so she has the evening paper delivered.”
When Charlotte reached the common room after supper, Miss Turner already had the evening paper in hand. She read aloud from its pages as the other women knitted, mended hose, wrote letters, or played games of draughts.
“Now
listen to this advert, ladies. Seeking, sincerely and urgently, girl infant left behind on the doorsteps of Westminster Cathedral, on the night of the twenty-third of November, 1861.” Miss Turner peered over the top of the paper at the other occupants of the room. “This is why you must always be careful and not be led astray, or the same could happen to you—become a sorry woman looking for her child twenty-five years too late.”
The date sounded familiar. Charlotte searched her memory and recalled that there had been an awful pea-souper on that day in 1861. She sincerely doubted anyone would choose to venture out in such weather to abandon a baby, of all things, but she didn’t say anything.
At precisely nine o’clock Miss Turner laid aside the paper. All the other women rose and prepared to vacate the room.
Charlotte took the paper.
“Miss Holmes, lights-out is at half nine,” said Miss Turner officiously. “You should not read past that.”
“I won’t,” Charlotte promised.
In her room, a small but faultlessly clean space, she quickly found the death notice for Lady Shrewsbury. So Lady Shrewsbury truly was dead. When she’d been energetic and vigorous only the day before.
Lady Shrewsbury had seemed a great deal more upset at Charlotte than at her own son. But could she have been furious about him, rather than merely peeved? Could that fury have led to her perishing in her slumber?
Charlotte rubbed her temples, wishing she’d bought a cache of foodstuff. The portions at supper might have been enough for a woman of smaller appetites, but Charlotte had never been one of those women.
What was really going on? And would people think Charlotte might have had something to do with it?
Charlotte,
You liar!
You swore up and down that all would be well, that you would have no trouble landing a post in short order. How inebriated I must have been, to have taken you at your word.
I have since skimmed through your stacks of books and magazines having to do with female employment. I ended my reading with a pounding headache and a heart that cannot sink any lower.
The vast majority of avenues open to gentlewomen seeking work are for those who already possess the necessary educational and professional qualifications. Of which you have none. And those other opportunities you mentioned? Most require a period of apprenticeship, for which you have to pay a premium with money you do not have. The only positions that do not demand either education or apprenticeship pay so little they are only suitable for young girls working to supplement the family income, not for a grown woman trying to live on her own.
And I have not even brought up the Working Ladies’ Guild, which you described as so very helpful. It requires that a member personally vouch for you before you can seek employment via its registry. May the Almighty strike me dead for saying this to my own sister but Charlotte, no woman alive will risk her respectability to recommend you to any association or employer.
Not anymore. Not ever.
You knew all this. And you lied through your teeth. And I aided and abetted you in this hopeless venture. If I had shoved you in front of an oncoming omnibus, I could not have done worse as your sister.
Oh, what have you done, Charlotte? What have we done?
Livia
P.S. I wrote the above shortly before luncheon, but have not been able to leave the house to post it. I hope I will have better luck in the afternoon.
P.P.S. You were right about our parents’ reactions. Mamma was in a state and Papa coldly angry—and he changed his mind after first saying he would bring you back, exactly as you had predicted.
P.P.P.S. As you instructed, I told them I did not know when or how you had left. I said I had too much to drink and went to bed early in a stupor and you must have stolen out at night. I do not know how much Mamma and Papa believe me. They questioned Mott, too, and Mott turned out to be a tremendous liar: He looked them in the eye, and his expression remained frank and naive throughout.
P.P.P.P.S. Mamma has forbidden me to leave the house. I will try to entrust this letter to Mott.
P.P.P.P.P.S. An awful realization: If I cannot leave the house, then I cannot withdraw any money from the bank. Charlotte, promise me you will not let yourself starve to death on the streets—or worse. No, forget that. There is no worse fate than your starving to death on the streets. Do not let your pride be your end. If things go ill, come home. Please.
Charlotte met Miss Whitbread, who carried a heavy-looking satchel, outside Mrs. Wallace’s.
“Why, hullo, Miss Holmes,” said Miss Whitbread. “Back home early?”
“Yes,” Charlotte answered, opening the door for Miss Whitbread. “I have my own typewriter and the firm doesn’t mind if I brought some work home.”
Charlotte had always been a good liar. According to Livia, her expression didn’t change at all as she slipped between truths—having her own typewriter, for example—and falsehoods—in this case, having a firm that paid her for clacking away at said typewriter.
“That’s capital. I’m doing the same here—bringing work home.” Charlotte remembered that Miss Whitbread painted silks and cards for a living. “My employer’s got only the shop on the Strand—everybody who works for him takes their pieces home. It’s nice in a way, but to tell you the truth I wouldn’t mind if he had a studio somewhere, so I’ve a place to go during the day and people to see.”
“Yes, staying put in your room all day can become tedious.” Charlotte didn’t mind it so much, but Livia became antsy if she couldn’t get out for a daily walk.
“That, and not having anyone around for a good chinwag ’til supper.” Miss Whitbread set her satchel on a chair in the empty common room and rolled her shoulders. “That’s why I stopped to see my cousin today. We had a cup of tea and she gave me the latest about the scandal.”
Charlotte’s hand tightened on her reticule. “Do tell.”
Miss Whitbread needed no further prompting. “You won’t believe it. Apparently, the girl’s sister had a flaming row with the dead woman only hours before she died. A flaming row. They said she told the woman to her face that she, even more than her son, deserved to die for ruining her sister’s life.”
Charlotte felt as if she’d been hit in the stomach by a cricket bat.
“Oh, dear,” she said, praying her suitably interested face was holding together.
“That’s what I said.” Miss Whitbread nodded sagely. “I told my cousin, ‘Abby, this is going to be interesting before long. Real interesting.’”
The moment Charlotte had finished reading Livia’s letter, a weight had settled in her stomach. Not because of Livia’s dismay and anxiety at the realities of Charlotte’s employment prospects, but because the former had not said a word about Lady Shrewsbury’s death.
Now she knew why.
Just as she had concealed the truth from Livia, Livia was concealing the truth from her.
She didn’t believe Livia would be in any trouble from the law: Even if the Shrewsburys suspected that something might be awry, they would not let matters proceed to an inquest, where under questioning Roger Shrewsbury’s seduction of a virgin he could not possibly marry would become a matter of public record, carried in all the papers of the land.
Lady Shrewsbury would return from the dead first.
But Livia did not need to be wanted for murder to suffer. If rumors and speculations persisted long enough, Society would come to believe that she had something to do with Lady Shrewsbury’s death. And that would be enough for her to become marginalized, if not outright ostracized.
At least this time Charlotte had some food on hand. She had asked for an extra sandwich when she’d bought her lunch—and also some apricots sold at a discount because they’d been bruised during their travels.
She finished the sandwich first, washing it down with a cup of weak tea. The apricots came wrapped in cr
umpled newspaper. By habit she scanned the columns of print. Her eyes widened. She read the small article again, this time more attentively.
Mr. Harrington Sackville of Curry House, Stanwell Moot was found unconscious yesterday morning, from an apparent overdose of chloral. Unfortunately, he could not be revived and was pronounced dead on the scene.
He was a well-respected gentleman, said to have been in good health and spirits before his passing.
An inquest will be held in two days.
Charlotte frowned. She had very few talents that her mother found useful. In fact, she had only two: one, she knew most of Burke’s Peerage by heart; two, after her first Season in London, she developed a clear understanding of the myriad alliances and sometimes enmities that connected those families listed in Burke’s. Therefore, she knew exactly who Mr. Harrington Sackville was, and how he was related to two others who had also passed away recently and abruptly, and whose deaths were even more inexplicable than his.
Maybe she could yet do something to break the siege for Livia.
She sat down and pulled out a piece of stationery she’d bought at Atwell & Dewsbury, Pharmaceutical Chemists.
Six
“Ash,” called Roger Shrewsbury. “Ash, a minute of your time, please.”
Lord Ingram Ashburton turned around. “What can I do for you, Mr. Shrewsbury?”
They had known each other since they were children. Lord Ingram had never called his old school chum Mr. Shrewsbury, except when he presented the latter in formal introduction. Shrewsbury swallowed: He understood the rebuke for what it was. He understood that Lord Ingram no longer considered him a friend.
They were at the private cemetery on the Shrewsbury estate, on a high bluff above an inlet of River Fal, not far from the southern coast of Cornwall. Overhead the sky lowered ominously; rain was imminent. Lady Shrewsbury was already in the ground, and the mourners were fast dispersing, hoping to find shelter before the storm unleashed.
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