thirteen or fourteen years her junior? Of course it was only a superficial feeling, but still capable of causing hurt.
“Oh, I see,” Gracie said cheerfully. She had heard how gentlemen felt about the Jersey Lily, and some of the music hall queens. “Like as she’d go to the stage door, if she was a man.” She began to sieve the flour to remove the lumps. She would leave the grating of the orange peel and nutmeg to Charlotte. That required a certain amount of judgment. “Well, maybe it weren’t ’im.”
“I don’t think it was the judge’s wife,” Charlotte said slowly.
“What are you going to do about it, ma’am?” Gracie said with no hesitation at all, no possibility in her mind that Charlotte would do nothing.
Charlotte thought for several minutes, her mind racing over the snatches she had pieced together in the theater, and the little Pitt had told her. Why did she not think it was Juniper? And was her judgment of any value? She had been wrong before, several times.
Gracie sieved the flour a second time.
“I suppose we should solve the murder in Farriers’ Lane,” Charlotte said expansively at last.
Gracie did not for an instant question her mistress’s competence to do such a thing. Her loyalty was absolute.
“That’s a good idea,” she approved. “Then they couldn’t say it were ’im. Wot ’appened?”
Charlotte summarized it concisely and not entirely accurately. “A young gentleman, who was married, was paying court to the actress Tamar Macaulay. After a performance someone followed him and murdered him in Farriers’ Lane, and nailed him up to a door, like a crucifixion. They said it was her brother, because he thought the young gentleman was betraying her. They hanged him, but she has always believed he was innocent.”
Gracie was too interested to look for any other job. She sieved the flour yet again, her eyes wide and never leaving Charlotte’s face.
“ ’Oo does she think as did it?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte admitted with surprise. “I don’t know if anyone asked her.”
“Does she think it was this—wot’s ’is name?”
“Joshua Fielding? No—no, they are great friends.”
“Then I’ll wager ’e didn’t,” Gracie said firmly. “We got to show ’em as ’e’s innocent, ma’am.”
Charlotte heard the “we,” and smiled inside herself, but said nothing aloud.
“A good idea. I’ll have to think where to begin.”
“Well, Mrs. Radley can’t ’elp us this time,” Gracie said thoughtfully. “Seein’ as she’s orf in the country.”
It was true. Emily, Charlotte’s sister and usual companion in such matters, was in the later stages of expecting her second child, and she and her husband, Jack, had taken a holiday in the west country away from the social bustle of London until after the birth. Charlotte received letters regularly and wrote back less often. Emily had so much more time, and was finding the hours heavy on her hands. She had more than ample means, inherited from her first husband, whereas Charlotte had extensive housework and the care of her own two children to keep her busy. Of course there was Gracie’s help all the time, and a woman to do the heavy scrubbing three days a week, and the heavy linen was sent out; but Emily had a full staff of at least twenty servants, indoor and out.
“Well,” Gracie went on cheerfully, “seein’ as she can’t, maybe your mam’d like to? Since she’s smitten like, she’d care—wouldn’t she?”
Charlotte tried to be tactful, not something at which she was naturally gifted.
“I don’t think so. She doesn’t approve, you know?”
“But if she likes ’im?” Gracie was puzzled.
“Will you pass me the fruit and open the damper in the oven?” Charlotte requested, beginning to mix her ingredients at last in the large yellow earthenware bowl.
Gracie obeyed, ignoring the oven cloth and using her apron as usual.
For a quarter of an hour they worked diligently till the cake was in tins and beginning to bake. Gracie put on the kettle and they were about to make tea when there was a ring at the front doorbell.
“If that’s that greengrocer’s boy come to the front again,” Gracie said tartly, “I’ll give ’im a flea in ’is ear ’e’ll not forget in an ’urry!” And so saying she tightened her apron, patted her hair and then scampered along the corridor to answer the bell.
She was back in less than a minute.
“It’s yer mam. I mean it’s Mrs. Ellison.”
And indeed Caroline was only a step behind her, dressed in a jacket of swirling green with fur at the collar, a beautifully swathed skirt, and a glorious hat dipped over her left brow and laden with feathers. Her cheeks were flushed, but there was anxiety in her eyes. She seemed oblivious of Charlotte’s old blue stuff dress with sleeves rolled up, and a white apron hiding the front. She also ignored the kitchen, the sink full of bowls and spoons, and even the delicious smell of cooking coming from the oven.
“Mama!” Charlotte greeted her with pleasure and surprise. “You look wonderful! How are you? What brings you here at this hour?”
“Oh—” Charlotte waved a gloved hand airily. “Ah—well—” Then her face creased with concern and she abandoned the effort. “I wondered—” She stopped again.
Without being asked Gracie reached down the tea caddy and started to lay out the cups.
Charlotte waited. She knew from Caroline’s search for words that it was nothing to do with Emily. Had there been a family illness or difficulty of any sort she would have looked troubled, but there would have been no
