was silent; Paternoster Row slumbered. As we trudged up the stairs to our room, I told Anne what had happened at the opera.
“Dear Charlotte, are you sure that someone was chasing you?” Anne said skeptically.
“Quite sure,” I said.
“But even if it was the man who killed Isabel White, what could he want with you?”
“Perhaps he believes I can identify him to the police, and he wishes to stop me.”
“But you didn’t obtain a good look at his face.”
“He cannot know that,” I said.
“Why didn’t you mention the incident to Mr. Smith? There was ample time during the interval, when he could have asked someone to look for the man who chased you.”
I let out a sigh. “I was afraid he wouldn’t believe me.” I could tell from her expression that Anne didn’t believe me, either. “But it was not just my imagination. There was someone chasing me.”
Outside our room stood a table that held candles. I lit one and opened the door. Cool air rushed outward; the candle flame wavered. Entering the room, Anne and I both exclaimed in shock. Our trunk lay open, our belongings strewn about, and the dresser drawers were open. The covers had been flung off the bed, and the mattress dragged off the frame. Broken glass littered the floor under the window, where a jagged hole gaped. The curtains stirred in the breeze.
7
Sometimes a door to the future seems to open, and beyond this portal you can see a radiant blue sky, gardens blooming with flowers, and glorious sunshine. But when you draw nearer, the door is discovered to be an impenetrable wall with a bright, false vista painted upon it by your own folly. That is what happened to me the day after the opera.
Sunday afternoon lay like a golden mantle upon London. The Thames sparkled beneath a sky miraculously cleared by a freshening breeze; the city’s spires, domes, and towers glittered. Church bells tolled across the rooftops of Bayswater, a respectable suburb. Its terraced Regency-era houses basked in the sunshine, their white stucco facades and black wrought-iron fences gleaming. Children rolled hoops, and nurses wheeled perambulators under leafy trees in the square near Westbourne Place, where George Smith resided.
He and I sat in his dining room with Anne, his mother, and his sisters. The house was splendid, with Turkey carpets, polished mahogany furniture, white table linens, and fine crystal, silver, and china. Flowers masked the odor of cesspits that permeates even the best homes of London. Yet Anne and I were so bashful that we could only pick at our portions of roasted joint. Neither of us contributed much to the conversation until I described my experience at the opera and what we had found upon returning to the Chapter Coffee House.
The company expressed shock and sympathy. George Smith said, “You didn’t spend the night in your room after it was ransacked, I hope?”
“No,” I said. “The proprietor of the inn was kind enough to give us other accommodations.”
“Do I correctly understand that you believe the two incidents and the murder may be related?”
“The proprietor said a common thief must have climbed onto the roof and broken into our room. But I doubt that a murder, a chase in the theatre, and a burglary all on the same day of my life are mere coincidence.”
“Was anything taken?” inquired Mrs. Smith. She was a handsome, portly woman with rich brunette hair. She had not been told the true connection between her son and his guests, and she eyed me with curiosity.
“No, madam,” Anne murmured.
George Smith frowned, one hand clasping his chin while the other toyed with his glass. “Whether or not these experiences are connected and someone wishes you harm, I do not like this disturbance to your peace of mind.”
Gratified by his concern, I expected him to reiterate his invitation for Anne and me to stay with him. Instead he said, “Perhaps you should return home immediately.” His solicitude seemed as genuine as ever; yet I felt dismay at the suggestion that he wished me to leave.
“Last night you indicated that you would speak to the commissioner of police about investigating Isabel White’s murder,” I said. “Should I not remain available in case I am needed?”
“I shall go to the commissioner as I promised,” said George Smith, “but should it be necessary for the police to communicate with you, a letter will surely suffice.”
Mrs. Smith seconded this opinion; Anne nodded. I beheld my publisher with increasing perplexity. Yesterday he had seemed an ally in my quest for the truth about Isabel White; but now he appeared eager to dismiss me and handle matters himself. What had changed?
“I am most grateful for your assistance and concern, but I think that Anne and I should stay at least until Tuesday,” I said, spurred to assert my independence.
“As you wish,” George Smith conceded graciously, but I could tell he was displeased.
When dinner ended, the ladies retired to the parlor. The Smith sisters hurried to the piano, taking Anne with them, and Mrs. Smith joined arms with me.
“I welcome this chance for us to become better acquainted,” she said in a friendly fashion. “Come, let us sit by the window, where we can smell the roses in my garden.”
Seated beside Mrs. Smith on a divan, I nervously braced myself for questions about who I was and why I was there. I wouldn’t like to lie, yet I dared not break my pledge to Emily.
The Smith sisters began playing and singing a gay tune for Anne. Mrs. Smith said, “My dear George is often at his business all twenty-four hours of a day.” Her maternal tone was fond. “He works so hard.”
“How admirable,” I said, relieved that I was apparently not to be the subject of the discussion.
“Yet he is the most attentive son and brother anyone could wish,” Mrs. Smith said. “No matter how busy he is, he always makes time for his family.”
I had noticed the affection between my publisher and his family -particularly his mother.
“George and I have always been the closest of companions,” Mrs. Smith said, as a maid served coffee to us. “I believe I know him better than does anyone else.” Her smile was uncannily like her son’s. “And I hope you will excuse a mother’s boasting if I say that I’m tremendously proud of him?”
I nodded, trying to determine where the conversation was leading.
The Smith sisters commenced a new song. Mrs. Smith said, “Even though George is so busy, he must soon embark upon a most important phase of his life.” Her manner turned conspiratorial. “You will understand that I refer to matrimony?”
Wariness stole over me as I sensed something unpleasant coming, although I couldn’t imagine what.
“The choice of a mate is difficult for my George. Wherever he goes, the young ladies flock around him.” Mrs. Smith’s hands lifted and fell in a gesture of mock helplessness. “Ah, but you understand his appeal for the fair sex- do you not?”
Her smile persisted, but her eyes had turned hard as flints: She had noticed my admiration for her son, and her disapproval was evident. I felt mortified that I had been so transparent. I sat speechless.
Mrs. Smith laughed, and the sound had an undertone of scorn. “But I have no doubt that my dear George will make the right marriage when the time comes. His wife should be his equal in youth, beauty, charm, and fortune. After all, like deserves like, wouldn’t you agree?”
Nodding automatically, I experienced the further embarrassment of realizing that Mrs. Smith, who didn’t understand the relationship between George and myself, assumed that I wished to engage him as a suitor. She was warning me off because I was too old, too plain, too awkward, and too poor for her son! Although I had never presumed to dream of marrying him, I burned with humiliation. How I wished I could tell her that the good fortune of Smith, Elder amp; Company owed much to a famous book, of which I was the author! Instead, I lifted my cup and swallowed coffee that tasted bitter as poison. I could not reveal my secret.
“Mr. Smith has been most attentive to me,” I said instead, desiring his mother to know I had cause to believe he cared for me.
Anger replaced the self-satisfaction on the face of Mrs. Smith; she gave me a mocking smile. “My dear George bestows his kindness upon everyone. Often, people misconstrue his motive as affection when he is merely
