“You’ll get better,” she said cheerfully.
His face fell.
“Or on the other hand,” she went on, finishing Jemima’s hair and tying a ribbon on it. “If you really are ill, then you had better stay at home …”
“Yes!” he said with instant enthusiasm.
“In bed,” she concluded. “We’ll see if you are well enough to get up tomorrow. Gracie can make you some eel broth, and maybe a little light gruel.”
Daniel’s face filled with dismay.
“Then you can catch up with your arithmetic when you are well again,” Charlotte added heartlessly. “Jemima will help you.”
“Yes I will,” Jemima cut in. “I know how to do sums.”
“I think maybe I’ll be all right,” Daniel said slowly, giving Jemima a filthy look. “I’ll try hard.”
Charlotte gave him a radiant smile and touched his head gently, feeling the soft hair under her fingers.
“I thought you would.”
When they were gone and Gracie had finished the dishes Charlotte turned her attention to the duties of the day. There were various garments that needed special cleaning, in particular a shirt of Pitt’s which had a couple of fine bloodstains where he had nicked himself shaving and even afterwards a drop had fallen and made a mark. A little paste of starch, put on and left to dry before being brushed off, would see to that. Strong alcohol saturated in camphor would take out the oil stain on his jacket sleeve. Chloroform was better for grease. She would have to ascertain which it was.
And the black lace from the dress she had worn for the memorial service looked a little mildewed, and she must attend to that before returning it. She would use alcohol and borax. She refused to send to the butcher for bullock’s gall to put in warm water, which she had been advised was actually the best. There were also feathers to be recurled, which was a disaster done with curling tongs. It was far better to do them over an ivory knife handle. It was a tedious job, but necessary if she were to continue to borrow her relatives’ expensive and highly fashionable clothes. And of course she should not forget the black leather gloves which should be rubbed over with orange slice, then salad oil.
“Gracie,” she began, then realized that Gracie was not listening to her. “Gracie?”
“Yes, ma’am?” Gracie turned slowly from where she had been staring at the dresser, her face pink.
“What’s the matter?” Charlotte asked.
“Nothing, ma’am,” Gracie said quickly.
“Good. Then will you heat the irons and I’ll start on the lace. I think you could do the master’s shirts and attend to those little blood spots—you know how.”
“Yes, ma’am.” And Gracie began obediently to pull out the flatirons and set them on the hob.
Charlotte went upstairs to fetch the feathers, and on her return, took out an ivory-handled knife. She only had two, one a butter knife and too small, the other a cake knife and just right
“Ma’am?” Gracie started.
“Yes?”
“Uh—oh—no, it doesn’t matter.” And she splashed out a liberal helping of alcohol to begin her task.
Charlotte started very carefully curling the feathers, then realized that Gracie was putting the alcohol on the bloodstains, not the grease, and had forgotten the camphor altogether.
“Gracie! What is the matter this morning? Something is wrong. Tell me what it is before you cause a disaster!”
Gracie’s cheeks were bright pink and her eyes were full of fear, her whole face pinched with urgency. Still she could not find the words.
Charlotte felt a lurch of fear herself. She was extraordinarily fond of Gracie, perhaps she had not realized how much until this moment.
“What is it?” she said with more sharpness than she intended. “Are you ill?”
“No!” Gracie bit her lip. “I know summat about the gennelman wot goes inter the park arter girls.” She swallowed hard. “I got ter talkin’ ter one o’ them tarts in there one day.” Her eyes were brimming with misery. She was lying, at least in part, and she hated it “An’ she said as there was one gent wot liked ter beat women, beat ’em really ’ard, ’urt ’em bad. I reckon as mebbe that were Captain Winthrop. She said as ’e were big. An’ mebbe it were a pimp as done fer ’im. An’ the other gent knew it. Mebbe ’e saw it, or summat, an’ that’s why ’e got done too.”
For a moment Charlotte could think only of the likelihood of what Gracie said, and her spirits soared upwards.
“It could be,” she agreed quickly. “It could very well be!”
Gracie gave a sickly smile.
Then the further meaning struck Charlotte.
“Gracie! You’ve been out detecting again! Haven’t you?”
Gracie’s eyes lowered and she stared in silent misery at the floor, waiting for the blow to fall.
“You went to the park at night to find one of those women, didn’t you?”
