by Anne Perry
Caroline pulled a face.
Charlotte imagined the two sisters as girls sitting on a sabbath afternoon in silence, carefully sewing such things, all fingers and thumbs, hating every moment of it, wondering how long until tea when Papa would read the Scriptures to them; they would answer dutifully, and then after prayers be released to go to bed.
Grandmama cleared her throat and looked with disfavor at an enormous glass case filled with stuffed and mounted birds.
The antimacassars were stitched in brown upon linen, and all a trifle crooked.
The parlormaid returned to say that the Misses Worlingham would be charmed to receive them, and accordingly they followed her back across the hall and into the cavernous withdrawing room hung with five chandeliers. Only two of these were lit, and the parquet wooden floors were strewn with an assortment of Oriental rugs of several different shades and designs, all a fraction paler where the pile had been worn with constant tread, from the door to the sofa and chairs, and to a distinct patch in front of the fire, as if someone had habitually stood there. Charlotte remembered with an odd mixture of anger and loss how her father had stood in front of the fire in winter, warming himself, oblivious of the fact that he was keeping it from everyone else. The late Bishop Worlingham, no doubt, had done the same. And his daughters would not have raised their voices to object, nor would his wife when she was alive. It brought a sharp flavor of youth, being at home with her parents and sisters, the callowness and the safety of those times, taken for granted then. She glanced at Caroline, but Caroline was watching Grandmama as she sailed up to the elder of the Misses Worlingham.
“My dear Miss Worlingham, I was so sorry to hear of your bereavement. I had to come and offer my condolences in person, rather than simply write a letter. You must feel quite dreadful.”
Celeste Worlingham, a woman in her late fifties with strong features, dark brown eyes and a face which in her youth must have been handsome rather than pretty, now looked both confused and curious. The marks of shock were visible in the strained lines around her mouth and the stiff carriage of her neck, but she had admirable composure, and would not give in to unseemly grief, at least not in public, and she considered this public. Obviously she did not recall even the barest acquaintance with any of her visitors, but a lifetime of good manners overrode all.
“Most kind of you, Mrs. Ellison. Of course Angeline and I are very grieved, but as Christians we learn to bear such loss with fortitude—and faith.”
“Naturally,” Grandmama agreed, a trifle perfunctorily. “May I introduce to you my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Caroline Ellison, and my granddaughter, Mrs. Pitt.”
Everyone exchanged courtesies and Grandmama fixed her eyes on Celeste, then changed her mind and looked at Angeline, a younger, fairer woman with mild features and a comfortable, domestic look. Grandmama swayed back and forth on her feet and planted her stick heavily on the carpet and leaned on it.
“Please sit down, Mrs. Ellison,” Angeline said immediately. “May we offer you some refreshment? A tizanne, perhaps.”
“How kind,” Grandmama accepted with near alacrity, pulling Caroline sharply by the skirt so she also was obliged to sit on the fat red sofa a step behind her. “You are as thoughtful as ever,” Grandmama added for good measure.
Angeline reached for the hand bell and rang it with a sharp, tinkling sound, and almost as soon as she had replaced it on the table the maid appeared. She requested a tizanne, then changed her mind and asked for tea for all of them.
Grandmama sank back in her seat, set her stick between her own voluminous skirts and Caroline’s, and rather belatedly masked a look of satisfaction with concern again.
“I imagine your dear brother will be a great strength to you, and of course you to him,” she said unctuously. “He must be most distressed. It is at such a time that families must support each other.”
“Exactly what our father the bishop used to say,” Angeline agreed, leaning forward a little, her black dress creasing across her ample bosom. “He was such a remarkable man. The family is the strength of the nation, he used to say. And a virtuous and obedient woman is the heart of the family. And dear Clemency was certainly that.”
“Poor Theophilus passed on,” Celeste said with a touch of asperity. “I am surprised you did not know. It was in The Times.” For an instant Grandmama was confounded. It was no use saying she did not read obituaries; no one would have believed her. Births, deaths, marriages and the Court calendar were all that gentlewomen did read. Too much of the rest was sensational, contentious or otherwise unsuitable.
“I am so sorry,” Caroline murmured reluctantly. “When was it?”
“Two years ago,” Celeste answered with a slight shiver. “It was very sudden, such a shock to us.”
Caroline looked at Grandmama. “That will have been when you were ill yourself, and we did not wish to distress you. I imagine by the time you were recovered we had forgotten we had not told you.”
Grandmama refused to be obliged for the rescue. Charlotte was moved to admiration for her mother. She would have allowed the old lady to flounder.
“That is the obvious explanation,” Grandmama agreed, staring at Celeste and defying her to disbelieve.
A flicker of respect, and of a certain dry humor, crossed Celeste’s intelligent face.
“Doubtless.”
“It was very sudden indeed.” Angeline had not noticed the exchange at all. “I am afraid we were inclined to blame poor Stephen—that is, Dr. Shaw. He is our nephew-in-law, you know? Indeed I almost said as much, that he had given Theophilus insufficient care. Now I feel ashamed of myself, when the poor man is bereaved himself, and in such terrible circumstances.”
“Fire.” Grandmama shook her head. “How can such a thing have happened? A careless servant? I’ve always said servants are nothing like they used to be—they’re slovenly, impertinent and careless of detail. It is quite terrible. I don’t know what the world is coming to. I don’t suppose she had this new electrical lighting, did she? I don’t trust that at all. Dangerous stuff. Meddling with the forces of nature.”
“Oh, certainly not,” Angeline said quickly. “It was gas, like ours.” She barely glanced at the chandelier. Then she looked wistful and a little abashed. “Although I did see an advertisement for an electric corset the other day, and wondered what it might do.” She looked at Charlotte hopefully.
Charlotte had no idea; her mind had been on Theophilus and his unexpected death.
“I am sorry, Miss Worlingham, I did not see it. It sounds most uncomfortable—”
“Not to say dangerous,” Grandmama snapped. She not only disapproved of electricity, she disapproved even more of being interrupted in what she considered to be her conversation. “And absurd,” she added. “A bedpost and a maid with a good strong arm was sufficient for us—and we had waists a man could put his hands ’round—or at least could think of such a thing.” She swiveled back to Celeste. “What a mercy her husband was not also killed,” she said with a perfectly straight face, not even a flicker or a blush. “How did it happen?”
Caroline closed her eyes and Grandmama surreptitiously poked her with her stick to keep her from intervening.
Charlotte let out a sigh.
Celeste looked taken aback.
“He was out on a call,” Angeline answered with total candor. “A confinement a little earlier than expected. He is a doctor, you know, in many ways a fine man, in spite of—” She stopped as abruptly as she had begun, a tinge of pride creeping up her cheeks. “Oh dear, I do beg your pardon. One should not speak ill, our dear father was always saying that. Such a wonderful man!” She sighed and smiled, staling mistily into some distance within her mind. “It was such a privilege to have lived in the same house with him and been of service, caring for him, seeing that he was looked after as such a man should be.”
Charlotte looked at the plump, fair figure with its benign face, a blurred echo of her sister’s, softer, and more obviously vulnerable. Sh
e must have had suitors as a young woman. Surely she would rather have accepted one of them than spend her life ministering to her father’s needs, had she been permitted the chance. There were parents who kept their daughters at home as permanent servants, unpaid but for their keep, unable to give notice because they had no other means of support, ever dutiful, obedient, ever loving—and at the same time hating, as all prisoners do—until it was too late to leave even when the doors were at last opened by death.
Was Angeline Worlingham one of these? Indeed, were they both?
“And your brother also.” Grandmama was unstoppable; her beadlike eyes were bright and she sat upright with attention. “Another fine man. Tragic he should die so young. What was the cause?”
“Mama-in-law!” Caroline was aghast. “I really think we—Oh!” She gave a little squeal as the old lady’s stick poked her leg with a sharp pain.
“Have you the hiccups?” Grandmama inquired blandly. “Take a little more of your tea.” She returned to Celeste. “You were telling us of poor Theophilus’s passing. What a loss!”
“We do not know the cause,” Celeste said with chill. “It appears it may have been an apoplectic seizure of some sort, but we are not perfectly sure.”
“It was poor Clemency who found him,” Angeline added. “That is another thing for which I hold Stephen responsible. Sometimes he is a touch too free in his ideas. He expects too much.”
“All men expect too much,” Grandmama opined sententiously.
Angeline blushed furiously and looked at the floor; even Celeste looked uncomfortable.
This time Caroline ignored all strictures and spoke.
“That was a most unfortunate turn of phase,” she apologized. “I am sure that you meant it was unfair to expect Clemency to cope with the discovery of her father’s death, especially when it was quite unexpected.”
“Oh—of course.” Angeline collected herself with a gasp of relief. “He had been ill for a few days, but we had not presumed it serious. Stephen paid scant regard to it. Of course”—she drew down her brows and lowered her voice confidentially—“they were not as close as they might have been, in spite of being father- and son-in-law. Theophilus disapproved of some of Stephen’s ideas.”
“We all disapprove of them,” Celeste said with asperity. “But they were social and theological matters, not upon the subject of medicine. He is a very competent doctor. Everyone says so.”
“Indeed, he has many patients,” Angeline added eagerly, her plump hands fingering the beads at her bosom. “Young Miss Lutterworth would not go to anyone else.”
“Flora Lutterworth is no better than she should be,” Celeste said darkly. “She consults him at every fit and turn, and I have my own opinions that she would be a good deal less afflicted with whatever malady it is had Stephen a wart on the end of his nose, or a squint in one eye.”
“Nobody knows what it is,” Angeline whispered. “She looks as healthy as a horse to me. Of course they are very nouveau riche,” she added, explaining to Caroline and Charlotte. “Working-class really, for all that money. Alfred Lutterworth made it in cotton mills in Lancashire and only came down here when he sold them. He tries to act the gentleman, but of course everyone knows.”
Charlotte was unreasonably irritated; after all, this was the world in which she had grown up, and at one time might have thought similarly herself.
“Knows what?” she inquired with an edge to her voice.
“Why, that he made his money in trade,” Angeline said with surprise. “It is really quite obvious, my dear. He has brought up his daughter to sound like a lady, but speech is not all, is it?”
“Certainly not,” Charlotte agreed dryly. “Many who sound like ladies are anything but.”
Angeline took no double meaning and settled back in her seat with satisfaction, rearranging her skirts a trifle. “More tea?” she inquired, holding up the silver pot with its ornate, swan neck spout.
They were interrupted by the parlormaid’s return to announce that the vicar and Mrs. Clitheridge had called.
Celeste glanced at Grandmama, and realized she had not the slightest intention of leaving.
“Please show them in,” Celeste instructed with a lift of one of her heavy eyebrows. She did not glance at Angeline; humor was not something they were able to share, their perceptions were too different. “And bring more tea.”
Hector Clitheridge was solid and bland, with the sort of face that in his youth had been handsome, but was now marred by constant anxiety and a nervousness which had scored lines in his cheeks and taken the ease and directness out of his eyes. He came forward now in a rush to express his condolences yet again, and then was startled to find an additional three women there whom he did not know.
His wife, on the other hand, was quite homely and probably even in her very best years could only have offered no more charms than a freshness of complexion and a good head of hair. But her back was straight, she could well have walked with a pile of books on her head without losing any, and her eye was calm, her manner composed. Her voice was unusually low and agreeable.
“My dear Celeste—Angeline. I know we have already expressed our sympathies and offered our services, but the vicar thought we should call again, merely to assure you that we are most sincere. So often people say these things as a matter of custom, and one does not care to take them up on it for precisely that reason. Some people avoid the bereaved, which is scarcely Christian.”
“Quite,” her husband agreed, relief flooding his face. “If there is anything we can do for you?” He looked from one to the other of them as if he awaited a suggestion.
Celeste introduced them to the company already present, and everyone exchanged greetings.
“How very kind,” Clitheridge said, smiling at Grandmama. His hands fiddled with his badly tied tie, making it worse. “Surely a sign of true friendship when one comes in times of grief. Have you known the Misses Worlingham long? I do not recall having seen you here before.”
“Forty years,” Grandmama said promptly.
“Oh my goodness, how very fine. You must be exceedingly fond of each other.”
“And it is thirty of them since we last saw you.” Celeste finally lost her temper. It was apparent from her face that Grandmama mildly amused her, but the vicar’s waving hands and bland words irritated her beyond bearing. “So kind of you to have come just now when we are suffering a dramatic loss.”
Charlotte heard the sarcasm in her tone, and could see in the strong, intelligent face that none of the motives or excuses had passed her by.
Grandmama sniffed indignantly. “I told you, I did not read of poor Theophilus’s death. If I had I would surely have come then. It is the least one can do.”
“And at Papa’s death too, no doubt,” Celeste said with a very slight smile. “Except perhaps you did not read of that either?”
“Oh, Celeste. Don’t be ridiculous.” Angeline’s eyes were very wide. “Everyone heard of Papa’s passing. He was a bishop, after all, and a most distinguished one. He was respected by absolutely everybody!”
Caroline attempted to rescue Grandmama.
“I think perhaps when someone passes in the fullness of their years, it is not quite the same grief as when a younger person is cut off,” she offered.
Grandmama swung around and glared at her, and Caroline colored faintly, more with annoyance at herself than apology.
The vicar fidgeted from one foot to the other, opened his mouth to say something, then realized it was a family dispute, and retreated hastily.
Charlotte spoke at last.
“I came because I had heard of Mrs. Shaw’s magnificent work attempting to improve the housing standards of the poor,” she said into the silence. “I have several friends who held her in the very highest esteem, and feel her loss is one to the whole community. She was a very fine woman.”
There was utter silence. The vicar cleared his throat nervously. Angeline gave a little gasp, then put her handkerch
ief to her mouth and stifled it. Grandmama swiveled around in her seat with a crackle of taffeta and glared at Charlotte.
“I beg your pardon?” Celeste said huskily.
Charlotte realized with a hollowness, and a rush of blood up her cheeks, that obviously Clemency’s work was unknown to her family, and to her vicar. But it was impossible to retreat; she had left herself no room at all. There was nothing to do but advance and hope for the best.
“I said she was a very fine woman,” she repeated with a rather forced smile. “Her efforts to improve the living standards of the poor were greatly admired.”
“I fear you are laboring under a misapprehension, Mrs…. er—Pitt,” Celeste replied, now that she had recovered her poise. “Clemency was not concerned in any such matter. She did her ordinary duties such as any Christian woman will do. She took soup and the like, preserves and so on, to the deserving poor about the neighborhood, but so do we all. No one does as much as Angeline. She is always busy with some such thing. Indeed, I serve on several committees to assist young women who have—er—fallen into difficult circumstances and lost their character. You appear to have poor Clemency confused with someone else—I have not the slightest idea who.”
“Nor I,” Angeline added.
“It sounds a very virtuous work,” Mrs. Clitheridge put in tentatively. “And most courageous.”
“Quite unsuitable, my dear.” The vicar shook his head. “I am sure dear Clemency would not have done such a thing.”
“So am I.” Celeste finished the subject with a chilly stare at Charlotte, her rather heavy brows raised very slightly. “Nevertheless, it was gracious of you to call. I am sure your mistake was perfectly genuine.”
“Perfectly,” Charlotte assured her. “My informants were the daughter of a duke and a member of Parliament.”
Celeste was taken aback. “Indeed? You have some notable acquaintances—”
“Thank you.” Charlotte inclined her head as if accepting a compliment.
“There must be another lady by the same name,” the vicar suggested soothingly. “It seems unlikely, and yet what other explanation is there?”
