then she changed the subject.
Charlotte alighted at Walnut Tree Walk and went straight up to the door. There was no point on this call in being anything but perfectly frank. She had not asked but she presumed Zenobia Gunne had told her niece that she would do all she
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could to help; why else would her niece have confided in her?
The door was opened by a maid, not in uniform but in a plain blue dress with a white apron and no cap.
'Yes, ma'am?'
'Good afternoon. I apologize for calling so late,' Charlotte said with great aplomb. 'But it is most important that I speak with Miss Africa Dowell. My name is Charlotte Ellison, and I have come from her aunt, Miss Gunne, on a matter of some urgency.''
The maid stepped back and invited her in, and as soon as Charlotte came into the hallway she liked the house. It was full of bamboo and polished wood, with plenty of light. Spring bulbs and flowers bloomed in green earthenware pots, and she could see chintz curtains in the dining room through the open door.
It was only a moment before the maid returned and showed her into a large sitting room, which seemed to be the one room in the house designed for receiving guests. The far wall was entirely taken up by windows and French doors, the seats were covered in flowered cushions, and on the bamboo-legged occasional table were bowls of flowers. However, Charlotte was aware of a hollowness in it, something she would not have expected from what she already knew of these women's lives. It took her only a moment to realize what had given her the feeling: there were no photographs anywhere, even though there was plenty of space on the mantelshelf, the windowsill, the table and the top of the cabinet. Most especially, there were no pictures of the child, such as Charlotte herself had of both Jemima and Daniel. There were no mementos at all.
And though it was a woman's room, there was no needlework in progress, no wool, no sewing basket, no embroidery. A sidelong glance at the bookshelf disclosed the heaviest of material, philosophy and political history, no humor, no romance, and certainly nothing a child would read.
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It was as if they had expunged all trace of painful memory and of the desire to create the heart of a home. It was pitiful; she could understand it with a part of her mind, and yet it was also chilling.
The woman who stood in the center of the room was angular, even bony, and at the same time she had a kind of perverse grace. Her plain muslin dress was oddly becoming. Frills would have been absurd with that striking face, the very wide-set eyes, the dominant nose, and the mouth etched by lines of pain. She looked to be about thirty-five, and Charlotte knew she must be Florence Ivory. Her heart sank lower. A woman with a face like this could assuredly have both loved and hated enough to do anything!
Beyond her, sitting on the window seat, a younger woman with a face straight from Rosetti stared back at Charlotte watchfully, prepared to defend what she loved, both the woman and the ideal. It was a dreamer's face, the face of one who would follow her vision, and die for it.
'How do you do,' Charlotte said after a moment's hesitation. 'I have spent some part of the morning in the company of Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, and your aunt, Miss Gunne. They invited me to take luncheon with them because they are deeply concerned about your welfare, and the possibility that you may be wrongly accused of a crime.'
'Indeed?' Florence Ivory looked bitterly amused. 'And how does that involve you, Miss Ellison? You cannot possibly call upon every woman in London who faces some injustice!'
Charlotte felt a prickle of irritation. 'I should not wish to, Mrs. Ivory, and certainly not upon all those who thought they had!' she answered equally tartly. 'I call upon you because Miss Gunne has taken it upon herself to try to prevent this particular injustice which she fears, and has asked my Great-aunt Vespasia's help, who has in turn asked me.'
'I fail to see what you can do.' Florence spoke from bitterness, but also from despair.
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'Of course you fail to,' Charlotte snapped. 'If you could see it you could probably do it yourself! You are not unintelligent.' Her mind flashed back to that public meeting and the intensity of determination. 'And I have few resources that are not open to you or anyone else. I simply have some experience, some common sense and some courage.' She had not spoken so abruptly, or so arrogantly, to anyone as far back as she could remember! But there was an abrasive-ness and an anger in this woman which she at once understood, knowing her story, and found unnecessary and self-defeating.
Africa Dowell stood up and went to Florence Ivory. She was taller
