by Anne Perry
“I’ll finish it when we get back,” Charlotte said. “What time does Tilda go out?”
“ ’Bout now,” Gracie replied.
“Then you’d better put some more water in the stockpot and pull it to the side of the hob so it doesn’t boil dry, and we’ll go.” Charlotte wiped her hands on her apron, then undid it and took it off. “Fetch your coat.”
It was nearly an hour before they saw Tilda coming towards them along the street, but so distracted by her thoughts that Gracie had spoken to her twice before she realized it was she who was being addressed.
“Oh, Gracie!” she said with intense relief, the furrows of anxiety ironing out of her face. “I’m so glad ter see yer. ’Ave yer ’eard anythin’? No—no, o’ course yer ’aven’t. I’m that stupid or I wouldn’t ’ave asked. ’Ow could yer? I ’aven’t ’eard a word.” Her face puckered again as she said it and tears filled her eyes. It obviously cost her all the will she had to keep any composure at all.
“No,” Gracie agreed, taking Tilda by the arm and pulling her a few steps sideways out of the pathway of other pedestrians. “But we’re gonna do summink about it. I brought Mrs. Pitt along, an’ we can ’ave a cup o’ tea an’ she wants ter ask yer a few things, like.”
Tilda looked at Charlotte, now standing beside them. The maid’s eyes were wide with alarm.
“Good morning, Tilda,” Charlotte said firmly. “Can you spare half an hour without making your mistress upset with you? I should like to learn a little more about your brother so we can look for him more effectively.”
Tilda was momentarily lost for words, then her fear overcame her shyness. “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, if I tell ’er it’s ter do wi’ Martin. I told ’er already as ’e were missin’.”
“Good,” Charlotte approved. “In the circumstances I think that was very wise.” She glanced up at the gray, misty sky. “Our conversation would be better held inside, over a hot cup of tea.” And without waiting for agreement or otherwise, she turned and led the way to the small baker’s shop where they also served refreshments, and when they were seated at a table, to Tilda’s astonishment, ordered tea and hot buttered muffins.
“How old is Martin?” Charlotte began.
“Twenty-three,” Tilda answered immediately.
Charlotte was impressed. That was young for a valet, which was a skilled occupation. At such an age she would have expected him to be no more than a footman. Either he had been in service since he was very young or he was unusually quick to learn.
“How long has he been in the Garrick household?” she continued.
“Since ’e were seventeen,” Tilda said. “ ’E went there as a footman, but Mr. Stephen took a likin’ to ’im. ’E were a bootboy wi’ the Furnivals afore that, but they din’t need another footman, so ’e moved on, an’ up, like.” There was a ring of pride in her voice and she sat a little more upright, her shoulders squared as she said it.
A shred of humor flickered into Charlotte’s mind. How Tellman would despise a life of such dependence upon the favor of one family, the physical comfort bought at such a price of pride. And yet, as Gracie had pointed out to him in some heat at Charlotte’s kitchen table, everyone depended upon the goodwill of others, on their skills or their patronage, their friendship or their protection. It was only that some forms of dependence were more obvious than others, not any more real.
“It sounds as if he is very good at his job,” she said aloud, and saw Tilda smile back. “Was he happy there, as far as you know?”
Tilda leaned forward a little. “Yes, ’e were! That’s just it, ’e never said a word about not bein’ suited, an’ I would ’a known. We din’t never tell each other lies.”
Charlotte believed that was true of Tilda, the younger and far more dependent of the two, but Martin might well have kept his own counsel on some subjects. However, it would serve no purpose now to challenge Tilda’s perception of his nature. “What does he look like?” she asked instead.
“Bit like me,” Tilda answered very practically. “Taller, o’ course, an’ bigger, like, but same colored ’air an’ eyes, an’ same kind o’ nose.” She indicated her own short, neat features.
“I see. That’s very helpful. Is there anything else you can tell us about him which might be of use?” Charlotte asked. “Is there any young lady he admires? Or who admires him, perhaps?”
“Yer thinkin’ as someone might ’a set ’er cap at ’im, an’ if ’e turned ’er down, got nasty?” Tilda said with a shiver.
The serving girl came with tea and hot buttered muffins and they waited until she was gone. Charlotte indicated that they should eat, and she herself poured the tea. “It is possible,” she answered the question. “We need to know a great deal more. And since people are apparently not going to tell us willingly, we shall have to find it out for ourselves, and as soon as possible. Tilda, they already know you, and your interest in the matter. I think it will be wisest if you do not call them again, at least for the time being. I am not acquainted with the family, although I might contrive to change that. Gracie, it seems as if you will have to be the one to begin.”
“ ’Ow am I gonna do that?” Gracie asked, her muffin halfway to her mouth. Her voice was a mixture of determination and fear. She very carefully avoided looking at Tilda.
Charlotte had racked her brain and still had no idea. “We shall discuss that when we get home,” she replied. Gracie might very well read her indecision, but she would not betray it in front of Tilda. “Would you like more tea?” she offered.
They finished the muffins, Charlotte paid for them, and as soon as they were outside on the pavement again Tilda, now acutely aware of the time she had been away on her errands, which no queuing could explain, hastily thanked them both and took her leave.
“ ’Ow am I gonna get inter the Garrick ’ouse an’ ask ’em questions?” Gracie said as soon as they were alone and walking back towards Keppel Street. Her slightly apologetic air, as if she knew she was causing embarrassment but could not avoid it, showed that she had no idea either.
“Well, we can’t tell the truth,” Charlotte replied, looking straight ahead of her. “Which is a shame, because the truth is easier to remember. So it will have to be an invention.” She avoided using the word lie. What they must say was not really deception because it was a greater truth they were seeking.
“I don’ mind bein’ a bit free wi’ exactness,” Gracie said, creating her own euphemism. “But I can’t think o’ nothin’ as’ll get me in! An’ I bin scratchin’ me ’ead ter come up wi’ summink. Cor, I wish as Samuel Tellman’d believe me as summink’s really wrong ’ere. I knew ’e were stubborn, but ’e’s worse ’n tryin’ ter back a mule inter the shafts. Me granfer ’ad a mule fer ’is cart wot ’e took the coal in. Yer never saw a more awk’ard beast in all yer life. Yer’d swear as ’is feet was glued ter the floor.”
Charlotte smiled at the image, but she was trying to think also. They rounded the corner from Francis Street into Torrington Square, facing the rising wind. A newsboy was grabbing at his placard as it teetered and threatened to knock him over. Gracie ran forward and helped him.
“Thank yer, miss,” he said gratefully, righting the board again with difficulty. Charlotte glanced at the newspaper she had saved from being blown away as well.
“In’t nuffink good, missus,” the boy said, pulling his face into an expression of disgust. “The cholera’s got to Vienna now too. The French is fightin’ in Mada—summink, an’ blamin’ our missionaries fer it. Says as it’s all our fault.”
“Madagascar?” Charlotte suggested.
“Yeah … that’s right,” he agreed. “Twenty people killed in a train smashup in France, just when someone’s gorn an’ opened a new railway from Jaffa, wherever that is, ter Jerusalem. An’ the Russians ’as arrested the Canadians fer nickin’ seals. Or summink. D’yer want one?” he added hopefully.
Charlotte smiled and held out the money. “Thank you,” she accepted,
taking the top one, which was now considerably crumpled. Then she and Gracie continued on towards Keppel Street.
“ ’E’s right,” Gracie said glumly. “There in’t nothin’ good in ’em.” She indicated the newspaper in Charlotte’s hand. “It’s all ’bout fightin’ an’ silliness an’ the like.”
“It seems to be what we consider news,” Charlotte agreed. “If it’s good, it can wait.” That part of her mind still working on how to get Gracie into the Garrick house began to clear. “Gracie …” she said tentatively. “If Tilda were ill, and you did not know that Martin was not there, wouldn’t it be the natural thing for you to go to him and tell him about her? Maybe she is too ill to write—assuming she can?”
Gracie’s eyes brightened and a tiny smile of anticipation curved her lips. “Yeah! I reckon as that’s what any friend’d do—eh? She’s bin took sudden, an’ I gotta tell poor Martin, in case she don’t get better quick. An’ I know where ’e works ’cos Tilda an’ I is good friends … which we are. I’d better go soon, ’adn’t I? Give ’er time ter get ’ome, an’ be took, like, an’ fer me ter ask me mistress, an’ ’er bein’ very good, she tells me ter do it fast!” She grimaced suddenly, lighting her thin, little face with amazing vitality.
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed, unconsciously increasing her pace and rounding the corner into the wind again with her skirts swirling and the newspaper flapping in her arms. “There’s nothing at home that can’t wait. The sooner you go, the better.”
HALF AN HOUR LATER, fortified with another cup of tea, Gracie began. She was excited, and so afraid of making a mistake that her stomach was fluttering inside her and she had to breathe in and out deeply and speak her words carefully in order not to stumble. She straightened her coat one more time, swallowed hard, and knocked on the scullery door of the Garrick house in Torrington Square. There was no point in waiting any longer. Time would not improve her task. She must do this for Tilda, and for Martin, of course, unless it was too late.
She had planned what she was going to say as soon as the door opened. Nevertheless, it had stayed shut until she lifted her hand to knock again, harder this time, so that when it did swing wide she nearly fell in. She jerked herself upright, gasping, and found herself less than a foot away from the scullery maid, a fair-skinned girl several inches taller than herself, with hair falling out of its skewed pins. The maid started to speak, shaking her head. “We din’t—”
“Good day,” Gracie said at the same time, and carrying on when the other girl stopped. She could not afford to be refused. “I come wi’ a message. I’m sorry ter disturb yer just before luncheon, like. I know as yer’ll be terrible busy, but I need ter tell yer.” She did not have to pretend to anxiety, and her emotion must have carried through every part of her aspect, because the girl’s face filled with immediate sympathy.
“Yer’d better come in,” she invited, backing inside for Gracie to pass. It was a generous gesture.
“Ta,” Gracie said with appreciation. It was a good beginning—in fact, the only one that could be a beginning at all. She gave the girl a quick half smile. “Me name’s Gracie Phipps. I come from Keppel Street, jus’ ’round the corner, but that’s not really got nuffin’ ter do wif it. Me message is ’cos o’ somewhere else.” She glanced around the well-stocked scullery hung with ropes of onions, sacks of potatoes on the floor, and several hard, white cabbages and various other root vegetables on wooden slatted shelves. On hooks on the walls were larger cooking vessels, handles looped over the pegs, and on the floor in the corner, jars of what were presumably different kinds of vinegars, oils and perhaps cooking wines.
“I’m Dorothy,” the other girl responded. “Me ma called me Dora, but they call me Dottie ’ere, an’ I don’t mind. ’Oo’d yer come ter see?”
Gracie blinked as if she were fighting tears. She could not afford to begin by mentioning Martin Garvie’s name, or the girl might simply tell her he was not there and show her out again, and she would have learned nothing. A bit of dramatic acting might be called for. “It’s ’bout me friend Tilda,” she replied. “I dunno ’er that close, but she’s got no one else, an’ she’s terrible sick. She’s got no family ’cept ’er brother, an’ he’s gotter know afore—” She stopped. She did not actually want to say that Tilda was dying, unless it was absolutely necessary, but she was happy for it to be understood. Of course if she really had to, then she would invent anything at all that would help.
“Oh, cor!” Dottie said, her face crumpling with sympathy. “ ’Ow ’orrible!”
“I gotta tell ’im,” Gracie repeated. “They in’t got nobody else, either of ’em. ’E’ll be that upset… .” She allowed imagination to paint the picture.
“ ’Course!” Dottie agreed, moving towards the step up to the kitchen, and the warmth and smells of cooking that drifted towards them. “Come in an’ ’ave a cup o’ tea. Yer look perished.”
“Ta,” Gracie accepted. “Ta very much.” Actually she was not really cold; it was a very pleasant day and she had walked briskly, but fear had welled up inside her just as it did when one was tense with cold, and it must look the same. To be inside and form some opinion of the household was what she wanted. She followed Dottie up the wooden steps into a large kitchen with a high ceiling strung with an airing rail, presently carrying only towels for drying dishes, and several strings of dried herbs. On the walls copper pans gleamed bright and warm.
The cook, a rotund woman who obviously sampled her own skills, was muttering to herself as she beat a creamy mixture in a round bowl, rough brown on the outside, white earthenware within. She looked up as Gracie came in tentatively.
“Oh?” the cook said, fixing her with boot-button eyes. “An’ what ’ave we got ’ere, then? We don’ need no more maids, an’ if we do, we’ll get our own. Yer look like a twopenny rabbit anyway. Don’ nobody feed yer?”
A thoroughly sharp rejoinder that would have put the cook in her place in a hurry rose to Gracie’s lips, but she bit it back. Tilda would owe her for her forbearance.
“I in’t lookin’ fer work, ma’am,” she said respectfully. “I got a position as suits me very well. I’m maid to a lady and gentleman in Keppel Street, wi’ me own ’ouse’old, an’ two children to care for.” That was a bit of an exaggeration—there was only the cleaning woman under her instruction—but it was not an outright lie either. She saw the look of disbelief in the cook’s round face. “I came ter give a message,” she hurried on.
“A friend of ’ers is dyin’, Mrs. Culpepper,” Dottie added helpfully. “Gracie’s tryin’ ter tell ’er family, all there is of ’em.”
“Dyin’?” Mrs. Culpepper said with surprise. It was obviously not at all what she had expected, or fully believed. “Wot of?”
Gracie was prepared for that. “Rheumatical fever,” she said without hesitation. “Terrible poorly, she is.” She allowed her real fears for Martin, which were now gnawing deeply inside her, to invest her expression with pain.
Mrs. Culpepper must have seen it. “I’m sorry to ’ear that,” she said with what looked to be a genuine pity. “Wot is it yer want ’ere? Don’ stand there, Dottie! Fetch the girl a cup o’ tea!” She looked back at Gracie. “Sit down.” She pointed to a hard-backed kitchen chair on the other side of the table.
Dottie went to the stove and pushed the kettle over onto the heat. It began to whistle almost immediately.
Mrs. Culpepper did not miss a beat with her wooden spoon. “Now then, missy …” She had already forgotten Gracie’s name. “Wot is it yer want ’ere? ’Oo’s this message for, then?”
There was no more time for prevarication. Gracie watched Mrs. Culpepper’s face intently. Expression might tell her more than words. “Martin Garvie,” she replied. “ ’E’s ’er brother. She’s got nob’dy else. Their ma an’ pa died years back.”
Mrs. Culpepper’s face was unreadable, the slight sadness remained exactly the same, and her hand did not hesitate in the beating of the batter.
“Oh …”
she said without looking up. “Well, that’s a pity, ’cos ’e in’t ’ere no more, an’ I dunno where ’e’s gorn.”
Gracie knew there was a lie in that somewhere, or at least less than the truth, but she had the strong feeling that it was unhappiness rather than guilt which prompted it. Suddenly very real, sharp fear gripped her and the warm, sweet-smelling kitchen with its hot ovens and steaming pans swam around her. She closed her eyes to stop it swaying.
When she opened them Mrs. Culpepper was staring at her and Dottie was standing on the other side of the table with a cup of tea in her hand.
“ ’Ead between yer knees,” the cook said practically.
“I in’t gonna faint!” Gracie was defensive, partly because she was not absolutely sure it was true. They were being kind. There was nothing to fight, and she did not know where to direct her emotions. “If ’e in’t ’ere, where’s ’e gorn?” She could not say that he had told no one, because Tilda was supposed to be too ill to know. She hoped fervently that when Tilda had called here asking for Martin herself, she had looked sufficiently distraught to appear on the edge of serious illness.
“We dunno,” Dottie answered before Mrs. Culpepper had weighed her own reply. The cook shot her a sharp glance of warning, but whether it was to guard a secret or to keep from unnecessary hurt, there was no way to tell.
“An’ why should yer know, girl!” Mrs. Culpepper found her tongue. “In’t nuffink ter do wif yer where the master sends ’is staff, now is it?”
Dottie put the tea down in front of Gracie. “You drink that,” she ordered. “O’ course it in’t, Mrs. Culpepper,” she agreed obediently. “But yer’d think as Bella’d know, all the same.” She turned to Gracie again. “Bella’s our parlor maid, and she kinda liked Martin. Nice, ’e were, too. I liked ’im meself … in a friendly sort o’ way,” she added quickly.
“Yer got too busy a tongue in yer ’ead!” Mrs. Culpepper said critically. “If Bella knows where ’e’s gorn, wot’s it she should tell you, eh?”
