However, when she arrived, Vespasia’s maid, who knew her well, told her with much regret that Lady Vespasia had decided in such clement weather to take the carriage to the park and go for a walk.
Charlotte was surprised how sharply disappointed she was. London was full of parks, but when society referred to “the Park” it only ever meant Hyde Park, so there was nothing to do but find another hansom and direct the driver to take her there.
Earlier in the year, during the season, she might have found a hundred carriages in or near the park, and looking for an individual would have been a waste of time, but now in the sharper autumn sunshine of late September, with a very decided chill in the breeze, there were not more than a dozen carriages at the nearer end of Rotten Row, and perhaps the same at the farther. Footmen and coachmen stood around gossiping with each other in the dappled shade, and keeping a weather eye open not to be caught by a returning master or mistress. Horses stood idly, moving only now and then with a clink of harness, brasses gleaming in the sun.
Charlotte was perfectly prepared to find Vespasia and join her, even if it meant interrupting almost anyone, short of the Princess of Wales. But since the Princess was seriously deaf, it was most unlikely Vespasia would be engaged in conversation with her, although they were friends, and had been so for years. If Vespasia was speaking with a duchess or countess, Charlotte would be unlikely to recognize the fact. She realized with a sharp intake of breath that she had better behave with the utmost circumspection, even if the lady in question should turn out to be of no social consequence whatever. Vespasia was perfectly capable of talking to an actress or a courtesan, if the person interested her.
It was nearly half an hour of walking at a breathless pace, moving from one group to another and wearing a blister on her left heel, before Charlotte finally caught up with Vespasia. She was actually walking alone, her head high, her steel-gray hat with its sweeping brim adorned with a magnificent silver ostrich plume. Her gown was a paler shade of gray, and there was a white ruffle at her throat of such superb lace as to look as if it were breaking foam in the sunlight.
She turned as she heard Charlotte’s footsteps crunch on the grit behind her. “You look out of breath, my dear,” she said, her eyebrows raised. “No doubt it is something of the utmost importance to bring you in such haste.” She looked down at Charlotte’s dusty hem and the slightly lopsided way she was standing, due to the blister. “Would you care to sit down for a little while?” She could already see from Charlotte’s face that it was not a matter of emotional distress.
“Thank you,” Charlotte accepted, suddenly feeling the blister even more profoundly. She did her best to walk more or less uprightly until they reached the next seat, then sank into it with gratitude. In a moment or two she would unbutton the boot and see what could be done to ease the pain.
Vespasia looked at her with wry amusement. “I am consumed with curiosity,” she said with a smile. “What has brought you out to an unaccustomed place, alone, and in what appears to be some difficulty?”
“The need to know,” Charlotte answered, wincing as she moved her foot experimentally. She smoothed her skirt and sat a little more upright, aware that passersby were looking at her, very discreetly, of course, and almost certainly because she was with Vespasia. No doubt they would be asking one another who on earth she was. Were Vespasia sensitive about her reputation, it would have embarrassed her, but she did not care in the slightest, let the world think what it wished.
“More about Saville Ryerson?” Vespasia said quietly. “I am not certain that I can help you. I wish I could.”
“Actually, about Mr. Ferdinand Garrick,” Charlotte corrected her.
Vespasia’s eyes widened. “Ferdinand Garrick? Don’t tell me that he has a connection with the Eden Lodge affair. That is absurd. So much so that it is about the only thing which could possibly redeem it from absolute tragedy. It would then become farce.”
Charlotte stared at her, uncertain how serious Vespasia was. She had a sharp and highly individual sense of humor which was no respecter of persons.
“Why?” she asked.
The expression on Vespasia’s face was sad, wry, and of slight distaste mixed with memory. “Ferdinand Garrick is what some people refer to as a ’muscular Christian,’ my dear,” she replied, and saw the answering comprehension in Charlotte’s face. “A man of ebullient and officious virtue,” she continued. “He eats healthily, exercises too much, enjoys being too cold, and makes everyone else in his establishment equally uncomfortable. He denies himself and everybody else, imagines himself closer to God for it. Like castor oil, he may on some occasions be right, but he is extremely difficult to like.”
Charlotte hid a smile.
“Actually, it has nothing to do with Mr. Ryerson,” she replied. “Thomas has gone to Alexandria to find out more about Ayesha Zakhari.”
Vespasia sat absolutely motionless. A couple of gentlemen strolled past, and both of them tipped their hats to her. She appeared not even to have seen them.
“Alexandria?” she murmured. “Good heavens! I presume Victor Narraway sent him? He could not possibly have gone otherwise. No, I apologize. That was a ridiculous question.” She breathed out very slowly. “So he is taking it all the way, after all. I am glad to hear it. When did he leave?”
“Four days ago,” Charlotte replied, surprised how much longer it seemed. Even though he was away from the house all day, the nights were horribly empty without him, as if she had forgotten to light the fires. The warmth and the heart of the home were gone. Did he miss her as much on the rare occasions she was away? She hoped fiercely that he did. “He should be there by now,” she added.
“Indeed he should,” Vespasia agreed. “He will find it extraordinarily interesting. I imagine it will not have changed a great deal, not at heart.” Her mouth pulled a little twistedly. “Although I have not been there since Mr. Gladstone saw fit to bombard it. That cannot have increased their affection for us. Not that that usually worries us overmuch. But Alexandria does not bear grudges. It simply absorbs whatever is sent there, like food, and transmutes it into another part of itself. It has done so to the Arabs, the Greeks, the Romans, the Armenians, the Jews, and the French-why not the British as well? We have something to offer, and it accepts everything. Its taste is magnificently eclectic. That is its genius.”
Charlotte would gladly have asked questions and listened to the answers all day, but with difficulty she forced her attention back to the only part of anything going on that she could possibly affect for good.
“I need to know something about Ferdinand Garrick because a friend of Gracie’s has a brother who has gone missing,” she explained.
“Gracie?” Vespasia’s interest was immediate. “That little maid of yours, the one with enough spirit for two girls twice her size? From where has the young man gone missing, and why does it concern Ferdinand Garrick, of all people? If he has dismissed a servant he will believe himself to have had an excellent reason, and there will be no arguing with him. He has irredeemably absolute ideas about virtue-and justice is a great deal higher in his estimation than mercy.”
“He hasn’t dismissed him, as far as we know,” Charlotte replied, although she felt a chill as she saw the anxiety in Vespasia’s eyes. She was still speaking with a lightness in her voice, but her words about mercy were carefully chosen and Charlotte knew it. “Actually, Martin worked for Garrick’s son, Stephen. He was his valet.” She shook her head in impatience with herself. “I don’t know why I say was. As far as we know he still is. It is just that he has not been in touch with Tilda, who is his only relative in the world, for nearly three weeks now, and that is something that has never happened before. And when Gracie went to the Garrick house to make discreet enquiries, the staff did not appear to know where he was. And for that matter, Stephen himself does not appear to be at home. At first they assumed he was confined to his room, which apparently happens every so often. But there has been no food sent up, and no laundry came down.”
“Gracie went to the house?” Vespasia said with a lift of admiration in her voice. “I should very much like to have seen that! What did she learn, other than that neither man is at home and the staff knew nothing as to where they were? Or at least will say nothing,” she amended.
“That Stephen Garrick is an unhappy man with a violent temper, which he indulges freely, that he drinks too much, and that no one can manage his moods, or his times of despair, except Martin,” Charlotte said succinctly. “So it would make little sense to dismiss Martin, because they would have a terrible difficulty replacing him.”
Vespasia sat still for a few moments, apparently watching the occasional parade of ladies in their finest gowns on the arms of gentlemen in dark morning suits or bright military splendor.
“Unless he was unfortunate enough to witness a particularly unpleasant episode,” she said at length, her voice low and sad. “And unwise enough to ask for extra remuneration as a result. Then he might be viewed as more cost
