“We should probably begin by speaking with Tilda again,” she continued, reaching out and taking the powder from Gracie’s hand. She shook a little onto the damp patch and looked at it critically. “A description of Martin might be helpful.”
“We gonna look for ’im?” Gracie asked with surprise. “Where’d we start? ’E could be anywhere! ’E could ’a gorn… ’e could be…” She stopped.
Charlotte knew she had been going to say that he could be dead. It was the thought at the edge of her own mind too. “It’s difficult to ask people questions about seeing someone if we can’t say what he looks like,” she replied, using a small, stiff brush to take the powder away. The stain was a lot better. One more time and it would be clean. She smiled very slightly. “It also makes it sound as if we don’t know him,” she added. “We don’t… but the truth doesn’t sound very believable.”
“I can fetch Tilda ter tell us,” Gracie said quickly. “She does ’er errands the same time most days.”
“I’ll come with you,” Charlotte said.
Gracie’s eyes widened. It was a mark of Charlotte’s seriousness that she would come out into the street to wander around waiting for someone else’s housemaid to pass. It was extraordinary friendship. It also made it clear that she believed he could be in very real danger. Gracie looked at Pitt’s jacket, then up at Charlotte, the question in her eyes.
“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
“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.”
