by Anne Perry
Pitt arrived home just before midnight. He let himself in with his key, and took his boots off in the hall to avoid making a noise as he crept along to the kitchen. There he found a dish of cold meat on the table, with fresh homemade bread, butter, and pickles set out, and a note from Charlotte. The kettle was to the side of the hob and only needed moving over, the water in it hot already. The teapot was on the stove, and beside it the tea caddie, enameled and painted with a picture of flowers, and a spoon.
He was halfway through his meal when the door opened and Charlotte came in, blinking in the light, her hair round her shoulders in a polished cascade like mahogany in the firelight. She wore an old dressing robe of blue embroidered wool, and when she kissed him he caught the scent of soap and warm sheets.
“Is it a big case?” she asked.
He looked at her curiously: there was none of her usual sharp inquisitiveness, her scarcely masked desire to meddle—at which she had at times proved remarkably successful.
“Yes—murder of a Member!” He answered, finishing the last slice of his bread and pickle. He did not feel like telling her the grim details, for tonight he wished to put it from his mind.
She looked surprised, but far less interested than he had expected. “You must be very tired, and cold. Have you made any progress?” She was not even looking at him, pouring herself a cup of tea. She sat down at the kitchen table opposite. Was she being superbly devious? If so, it was not like her: she knew she was very bad at it.
“Charlotte?”
“Yes?” Her eyes were dark gray in the lamplight, and apparently quite innocent.
“No, I haven’t made any progress.”
“Oh.” She looked distressed, but not interested.
“Is something wrong?” he asked with sudden anxiety.
“Have you forgotten Emily’s wedding?” Her eyes widened, and suddenly he recognized all her emotions, the excitement, the concern that everything should be well, the loneliness at the thought of Emily’s going away, the whisper of envy for the glamor and the romance of it, and the genuine happiness for her sister. They had shared much together and were closer than many sisters, their different personalities complementing each other rather than being cause for misunderstanding.
Pitt put out his hand and took hers, holding it gently. The very gesture was an admission, and she knew it before he spoke.
“Yes I had forgotten—not the wedding, but that it was Friday already. I’m sorry.”
Disappointment passed over her face like the shadow of a cloud. She mastered it almost immediately. “You are coming, aren’t you, Thomas?”
He had not been sure until that moment that she really wanted him to. Emily had originally married far above even their parents’ very comfortable aspiring middle-class social position, becoming Lady Ashworth, with status and very considerable wealth. Recently widowed, she now proposed marrying Jack Radley, a gentleman of undoubted good breeding but who had no money at all. Charlotte had done the unspeakable and married a policeman, socially on much the same level as the ratcatcher or the bailiff!
The Ellisons had always treated Pitt with courtesy. In spite of her sharply reduced circumstances and the loss of all her previous social circle, they knew Charlotte was happy. Emily gave her cast-off gowns, and now and again new ones, and she bought them both handsome presents as often as tact allowed and shared with Charlotte the exhilaration and the tragedy, the danger and triumph of Pitt’s cases.
But still Charlotte might have been secretly relieved if he were unable to attend the wedding, fearing condescension on the one hand, his social gaffes. On the other, the differences between her former world and his were subtle but immeasurable. He was unreasonably glad that she wanted him there; he had not realized how deep his suppressed hurt had been, because he had refused to look at it.
“Yes—at least for a while. I may not be able to stay long.”
“But you can come!”
“Yes.”
Her face relaxed and she smiled at him, putting her hand over his. “Good! It will matter so much to Emily, as well as to me. And Great-aunt Vespasia will be there. You should see my new dress—don’t worry, I haven’t been extravagant—but it really is special!”
He relaxed at last, letting go all the knots inside him as the darkness slid away. It was so ordinary, so incredibly trivial: the shade of a fabric, the arrangement of a bustle, how many flowers on a hat. It was ridiculous, immensely unimportant—and sane!
4
PITT LEFT AT ABOUT half past seven the next morning, and Charlotte swept into action as soon as he was out of the door. Gracie, her resident maid, took care of everything in the kitchen, including getting breakfast for Jemima, now aged six and very self-possessed, and Daniel, a little younger and desperately eager to keep up. There was a tremendous air of excitement in the house, and both children were far too aware of the importance of the day to sit still.
Charlotte had their new clothes laid out on their beds: cream frills and lace for Jemima, with a pink satin sash, and a brown velvet suit with a lace collar for Daniel. It had taken over an hour’s persuasion and finally a downright bribe—that next time they rode on the omnibus he would be able to pay his own bright penny fare to the conductor—to convince him that he was going to wear this!
Charlotte’s dress had been specially made for her, something she had taken for granted before her marriage. Now she usually made her gowns herself, or adapted them from ones given her by Emily or on rare occasions by Great-aunt Vespasia.
But this was magnificent, the softest crushed plum-colored silk, low cut at the front to show her throat and fine shoulders and just a touch of bosom, fitted at the waist, and with a bustle so exquisitely feminine she felt irresistible merely at the sight of it. It swished deliciously when she walked, and the shade was most flattering to her honey-warm skin and auburn hair, which she had polished with a silk scarf until it shone.
It took her an hour and several unsuccessful attempts to dress, curl, and pin it exactly as she wished, and to assure that her face was improved in every way possible, short of anything which could actually be called “paint.” Paint was still a cardinal sin in society and only indulged in by women of the most dubious morality.
When another thirty minutes had been taken up in minor adjustments to the children’s clothing and Jemima’s hair ribbons, she finally put on her own gown, to the breathless squeals and sighs of the children and the intense admiration of Gracie, who could hardly contain herself for delight. She was on the edge of the most total romance; she had seen Emily many times and thought her a real lady, and she would hang on every word when her mistress returned and told her all about the wedding. It was better than all the pictures in The Illustrated London News, or even the most sentimental songs and ballads she heard cried in the street. Not even the penny dreadfuls she read by candlelight in the cupboard under the stairs could match this—after all, those were people she had never met, or cared about.
Emily sent a carriage for them on the chime of ten o’clock, and by twenty minutes past, Charlotte, Jemima, and Daniel alighted at St. Mary’s Church, Eaton Square.
Immediately behind her, Charlotte’s mother, Caroline Ellison, stepped out of her carriage and signaled her coachman to continue and find a suitable place to wait. She was a handsome woman now in her middle fifties and wearing her widowhood with vigor and a new and rather daring sense of freedom. She was dressed in golden brown, which suited her admirably, and a hat nearly as splendid as Charlotte’s. Holding her hand was Emily’s son Edward, now Lord Ashworth in his father’s stead, wearing a dark blue velvet suit, his fair hair combed neatly. He looked nervous and very sober and held onto his grandmother’s hand with small, tight fingers.
Behind them, helped discreetly by a footman, came Caroline’s mother-in-law, well into her eighties, making the most of every twinge and infirmity, her bright black eyes taking in everything, and her ears with their pendulous jet earrings highly selectively deaf.
&nb
sp; “Good morning, Mama,” Charlotte kissed Caroline carefully, so as not to disarrange either of their hats. “Good morning, Grandmama.”
“Think you’re the bride?” the old lady said sharply, looking her up and down. “Never seen such a bustle in all my life! And you’ve too much color—but you always had!”
“At least I can wear yellow,” Charlotte replied, looking at her grandmother’s sallow skin and dark gold gown and smiling charmingly.
“Yes you can,” the old lady agreed with a glare. “And it’s a pity you didn’t—instead of that! What do you call it? No color I ever saw before. Well, if you spill raspberry fool on it no one will ever know!”
“How comforting,” Charlotte said sarcastically. “You always did know the right thing to say to make a person feel comfortable.”
The old woman bent her head. “What? What did you say? I don’t hear as well as I used to!” She picked up her ear trumpet and placed it ostentatiously near her hand so it would be ready for instant use to draw attention to her infirmity.
“And you were always deaf when you chose to be,” Charlotte replied.
“What? Why can’t you stop mumbling, child!”
“I said I would call it rose.” Charlotte looked straight at her.
“No you didn’t!” the old lady snapped. “You’ve got above yourself since you married that tom-fool policeman. Where is he, anyway? Didn’t care to bring him into society, eh? Very wise—probably blow his nose on the table napkins and not know which fork to use!”
Charlotte remembered again how intensely she disliked her grandmother. Widowhood and loneliness had made the old woman spiteful; she commanded attention either by complaining or by attempting to hurt those around her.
Charlotte ceased looking for an adequately cutting reply. “He’s working on a case, Grandmama,” she said instead. “It is a murder, and Thomas is in charge of the investigation. But he will be here for the ceremony if he can.”
The old lady sniffed fiercely. “Murders! Don’t know what the world’s coming to—riots in the streets last year. ‘Bloody Sunday’ indeed! Even housemaids don’t know how to behave themselves these days; lazy, uppity, and full of impertinence. You live in sad times, Charlotte; people don’t know their place anymore. And you haven’t helped—marrying a policeman, indeed! Can’t imagine what you were thinking of! Or your mother either! Know what I’d have said if my son had wanted to marry the parlormaid!”
“So do I!” said Charlotte, finally letting go of her temper. “You’d have said, ‘Lie with her by all means, as long as you’re discreet about it, but marry someone of your own social class, or above—especially if she has money!’ ”
The old lady picked up her cane as if she would have rapped Charlotte across the legs with it; then, realizing her granddaughter would barely feel it through the weight of her skirts, she tried to think of a verbal equivalent—and failed.
“What did you say?” she snapped in defeat. “You mumble dreadfully, girl! Have you artificial teeth or something?”
It was so ludicrous Charlotte burst into laughter and put her arm round the old lady, astonishing her into silence.
They had just got inside the church and were being ushered to their seats when Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould arrived. She was Charlotte’s height, but slender now to the point of gauntness, and stood ramrod stiff, dressed in ecru-colored lace over coffee satin, with a hat of such rakish elegance that even Caroline gasped. She was over eighty; she had stood at the top of the stairs as a girl and peeped through the banisters as the guests arrived in her father’s house to dance the night away after the news of the victory of Waterloo. She had been the most startling beauty of her day, and her face, although imprinted with time and tragedy, still held the grace and proportion of loveliness that nothing would mar.
She had been the favorite aunt of Emily’s late husband, and both Emily and Charlotte loved her deeply. It was an affection which she returned, even defying convention enough to include Pitt, not caring in the slightest what other people thought of her for receiving a policeman in her withdrawing room as if he had been a social entity, and not one of the less desirable tradesmen. She had always had both the rank and the beauty to disregard opinion, and as she got older she used it shamelessly. She was a keen reformer of laws and customs of which she did not approve, and she was not averse to meddling in detection whenever Charlotte and Emily provided her with the opportunity.
Church was not the place for greetings; she merely inclined her head minutely in Charlotte’s direction and took her seat at the end of the pew, waiting while the other guests arrived.
The groom, Jack Radley, was already at the altar, and Charlotte was beginning to feel anxious when at last Pitt slipped into the pew beside her, looking surprisingly smart and holding a black silk hat in his hands.
“Where did you get that?” Charlotte whispered under her breath, in a moment of alarm as to the expense of such a thing he would never use again.
“Micah Drummond,” he answered, and she saw the appreciation in his eyes as he saw her gown. He turned and smiled at Great-aunt Vespasia, and she bent her head graciously and slowly dropped one eyelid.
There was a buzz of excitement, then a hush, and the organ changed tone and became magnificent, romantic and a little pompous. In spite of herself Charlotte turned to gaze backwards to see Emily framed by sunlight in the arch of the church doorway, walking slowly forwards on the arm of Dominic Corde, the widower of their elder sister Sarah. A host of memories came flooding back for Charlotte: Sarah’s wedding, the turmoil of her own emotions in those early years when she had imagined herself so terribly, hopelessly in love with her brother-in-law Dominic; Charlotte herself walking up the aisle on her father’s arm to stand by Pitt at the altar. She had been certain then that she was doing the right thing, despite all the mounting fears, the knowledge she would lose many friends and the security of position and money.
She was still sure it was right. There had been hardships, of course, things she would have considered drudgery eight years ago. Now her world was immeasurably wider, and she knew that even on a policeman’s pay, with a little allowance of her own from her family, she was by far one of the world’s most fortunate souls. She was seldom cold and never hungry, nor did she lack for any necessity. She had known a multitude of experiences, but never tedium, never the fear that she was wasting her life in useless pursuits, never the endless hours of embroidery no one cared about, the painting of different watercolors, the deadly calls, the dreadful tea parties full of gossip.
Emily looked marvelous. She was wearing her favorite water green silk, set against ivory and embroidered with pearls. Her hair was perfectly dressed, like a pale aureole in the sunlight, and her fair skin was flushed with excitement and happiness.
Jack Radley had no money and probably never would have, nor a title; Emily would cease to be Lady Ashworth, and it had cost her a moment’s regret. But Jack had charm, wit, and a remarkable ability for companionship. And since George’s death he had proved he had both courage and generosity of spirit. Emily not only loved him, she liked him enormously.
Charlotte slipped her hand into Pitt’s and felt his fingers tighten over hers. She watched the ceremony with happiness for Emily and no shadow of anxiety for the future.
Pitt was obliged to leave almost as soon as the formal part of the ceremony was over. He remained only long enough to congratulate Jack, kiss Emily, and greet Caroline and Grandmama, and Great-aunt Vespasia in the vestry.
“Good morning, Thomas,” Vespasia said gravely. “I am delighted you were able to come.”
Pitt clutched Micah Drummond’s hat and smiled back at her.
“I am sorry for having been so late,” he said sincerely, “and for having to leave in such haste.”
“No doubt a pressing case.” She raised her fine silver eyebrows.
“Very,” he agreed, knowing she was curious. “An unpleasant murder.”
“London is full of them,” she replied.
“Is it of personal motive?”
“I doubt it.”
“Then a thankless task for you, and requiring little of your peculiar skills. No social issue, I presume?”
“None so far. It looks to be merely political, or perhaps the work of a random madman.”
“An ordinary violence, then.”
He knew she was vaguely disappointed that there was no opportunity for her to meddle, even vicariously through Charlotte or Emily; he knew also that she did not wish to admit it.
“Very pedestrian,” he agreed soberly. “If that is what it proves to be.”
“Thomas—”
“Excuse me, ma’am.” And with a little bow he smiled once more at Emily, turned, and walked briskly away, through the church gateway and down Lower Belgrave Street towards Buckingham Palace Road.
A small reception was to be given in one of the town houses in Eaton Square by a good friend of Emily’s, and after a few more moments they all walked across the street in the sun, first Emily on Jack’s arm followed by Caroline and Edward, then Charlotte and her children. Dominic offered his arm to Great-aunt Vespasia, and she accepted it graciously, although her mind was still on the retreating figure of Pitt. Grandmama was escorted, grumbling all the way, by a close friend of the groom.
It was the beginning of a new stage of life for Emily.
Then Charlotte suddenly thought of the women in the public meeting, some so outrageously complacent, so sure of their comfort, their unassailable positions, others risking derision and notoriety to fight for a cause that was surely hopeless. How many had once been brides like this, full of hope and uncertainty, dreaming of happiness, companionship, safety of the heart?
And how many had ended a few short years later like the woman Ivory they had spoken of with such disdain—fighting for redress, a byword for unhappiness?
