“I changed me mind.” She glanced at Charlotte maliciously, and then back at the grocer. “I’m feelin’ rich this mornin; I’ll ’ave an ’ole pound.”
“Yes, Mrs. Robertson. O’ course.” The grocer weighed another half pound carefully and gave it to her.
The door opened and the bell rang as another woman entered and took her place behind Charlotte.
“An’ I’ll ’ave some Pears’ soap,” Mrs. Robertson added. “Fer the complexion. It’s very good, in’t it, Mrs. Pitt? Is that wot you use? Not that yer’ll be able ter afford it now! Come down in yer ideas a bit, won’t yer?”
“Possibly. But it takes more than a bar of soap to make a beauty, Mrs. Robertson,” Charlotte said coldly. “Did you ever find your umbrella?”
“No I didn’t!” Mrs. Robertson said angrily. “There’s a lot o’ people round ’ere in’t as honest as they makes out. I reckon as somebody stole it!”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Call a policeman,” she said with a smile.
The woman glared at her, and this time it was the other woman who sniggered under her breath.
But the verbal victory was brief and gave her no pleasure, and at the baker’s it was worse, no jibes, only silence, until she was leaving, when there were whispers behind hands and a nodding of heads. She was asked for cash, and it was counted carefully before being put into the till with a snap. If things became hard, there would be no credit for her, she knew without asking—no allowances, and probably from now on no deliveries. The greengrocer made some excuse about being short of help, even though there was a boy standing idle over the sack of potatoes, obviously waiting for something to do, and Charlotte had to carry her heavy bags home herself. A boy of about nine or ten ran past her yelling, “Haya! Rozzer’s in the Steel! They’ll ’ang ’im fer sure! Dingle dangle, see ’im dance!” and did a little skip in and out of the gutter.
She tried to ignore him, but the words struck black terror in her, and by the time she got home, soaking wet, her arms aching, shoulders dragging with the weight of her purchases, she was close to despair.
She was barely inside and had just taken off her wet boots and was setting them near the stove in the kitchen when she heard the front doorbell. Gracie looked at her and without being asked went to open it. She came back a moment later, her feet light along the passage, her skirt swishing round the door.
“Ma’am! Ma’am, it’s your mama, Mrs. Ellison. Shall I bring ’er through ’ere? It’s terrible cold in the parlor. I’ll make yer a cup o’ tea, then I’ll go upstairs an’ get on wiv the bedrooms.”
Charlotte felt little of Gracie’s trust; she was much less certain of what Caroline would have to say. She stood up quickly.
“Yes—yes, you’d better.” There was no alternative: she could not ask anyone to sit in the freezing parlor, nor could she bear to herself. Her wet feet were still numb, and the edges of her skirts were steaming as the kitchen’s warmth reached them. “I’ll make the tea,” she added. It would give her something to do. And it would allow her an excuse to turn her back.
“Yes ma’am.” Gracie disappeared, her feet tip-tapping lightly on the linoleum.
Caroline came in, having already divested herself of her coat, and since she had naturally come in a carriage, she was not wet except for the soles of her neat high-button boots.
“Oh, my dear!” She held her arms open. Perfunctorily, because there was nothing else to do, Charlotte responded, holding her for only a moment before stepping back. “I’ll make us a cup of tea,” she said quickly. “I’ve only just come in myself and I’m perished, and wet.”
“Charlotte, my dear, you must come home.” Caroline sat down a little gingerly on one of the kitchen chairs.
“No thank you,” Charlotte said instantly. She reached for the kettle and filled it, setting it on the hob.
“But you can’t stay here!” Caroline argued, her voice ringing with reason. “The newspapers are full of the story! I don’t think you realize—”
“I realize perfectly!” Charlotte contradicted her. “If I hadn’t before I went to the shops, I certainly do now. And I am not running away.”
“Darling, it’s not running away!” Caroline stood up and came over as if to touch her again, then sensed her daughter’s resentment. “You must face reality, Charlotte. You have made a mistake which has turned out tragically for you. If you come home now, take your maiden name again, I can—”
Charlotte froze. “I will not! How dare you suggest such a thing! You’re speaking as if you imagined Thomas were guilty!” She turned round slowly, cups and saucers in her hands. “For the children’s sake you can take them, if you will. If you won’t, then they’ll have to stay here as any ordinary man’s would have to. I’m not ashamed of Thomas—I’m ashamed of you for wanting me to run away and deny him instead of fighting! I am going to find out who killed that woman, and prove it, just as I did for Emily when they thought she murdered George—for which she had far more reason!”
Caroline sighed and kept her patience, which made it worse. “My dear, that was quite different,” she began.
“Oh? Why? Because she is ‘one of us’ and Thomas isn’t?”
Caroline’s face tightened. “If you insist on putting it that way—yes.”
“Well, you’ve been glad enough to have him ‘one of us’ when you needed him!” Charlotte could feel herself close to losing control, and it made her furious, both with herself and with Caroline.
“You must be realistic,” Caroline began again.
“You mean desert him quickly, so people can see I have nothing to do with it?” Charlotte demanded. “How honorable you are, Mama! How brave!”
“Charlotte, I’m only thinking of you!”
“Are you?” Charlotte’s disbelief was strident, because she thought what Caroline said was probably honest. It was what other people would think too, and it terrified her. She did not care if she was being unjust, she wanted to hurt. “Are you sure you aren’t thinking of the neighbors, and what your friends will say about you?” she went on, mimicking their voices savagely. “ ‘You know that nice Mrs. Ellison, well you’ll never believe it, but her daughter
