Gracie did not deny it.
“You stupid child!” Charlotte exploded. “Don’t you realize what could have happened to you?”
“They’re goin’ ter throw the book at the master if ’e don’t catch the ’Eadsman.” Gracie still did not look up.
Charlotte felt a stab of alarm, if what Gracie said were true, and then of guilt for her own so frequent absences.
“I could beat you myself for taking such a risk,” she said furiously, swallowing hard. “And I will do, I swear, if you ever do anything like it again! And how on earth am I going to tell the master what you know without telling him how you found out? Can you answer me that?”
Gracie shook her head.
“I shall have to think of something very clever indeed.” Gracie nodded.
“Don’t just stand there waggling your head. You’d better try to think as well. And get those grease stains out of his sleeve while you’re doing it. We’d better at least have his clothes clean for him.”
“Yes ma’am!” Gracie lifted her head and gave her a tiny smile.
Charlotte smiled back. She intended it to be tiny also, but it ended up being a wide, conspiratorial grin.
Charlotte spent the afternoon in the new house. Every day it seemed to be some new disaster had been discovered or some major decision must be made. The builder wore a permanent expression of anxiety and shook his head in doubt, biting his lip, before she had even finished framing her questions to him.
However, with the purchase of an excellent catalog from Young & Marten, Builders Merchants and Suppliers, she was able to counter most of his arguments quite specifically, and very slowly was earning his exceedingly grudging respect.
The principal problem was that she was racing against time. The Bloomsbury house was sold, and they must leave it within four weeks, and the new house was very far from ready to move into. Most of the major work was accomplished. Aunt Vespasia’s instructions had been followed to the letter, and there was now an immaculate plaster cornice where the old one had been. There was even a flawless new ceiling rose as well. But it was all innocent of paint or paper, and the whole question of carpets was not even touched upon. Decisions crowded in from every quarter.
When talking to Emily about it she had thought she knew precisely what color she wished for each room, but when it came to the details of purchasing paper and paint, she was not at all certain. And if she were honest, her attention was not totally upon the matter. She could not help but be aware of the newspaper headlines and the tone of the articles beneath them criticizing the police in general—and the man in charge of the Hyde Park case in particular. It was grossly unfair. Pitt was reaping the whirlwind sown by the Whitechapel murders and the Fenian outrages and a dozen other things. There was also the general unrest in terms of political change, teeming poverty, ideas of anarchy come over from Europe as well as native-bred dissension, the instability of the throne with an old, sour queen shut away in perpetual mourning, and an heir who squandered his time and money on cards, racehorses and women. Headless corpses in Hyde Park were simply the focus for the anger and the fear.
It ought to be some ease of conscience to know that, but it was no use whatsoever as a defense. Thomas was so new in his promotion. Micah Drummond would have understood it; he was a gentleman, a member of the Inner Circle, until he broke from them with all the risk that that entailed, and a personal friend of many of his equals and superiors. Thomas was none of these things, and would never be. He would have to earn every step of his way— and prove himself again and again.
She stared around the room, her mind refusing to concentrate. Would it really be a good idea to have it green? Or would it be too cold after all? Whose opinion could she ask? Caroline was busy with Joshua, and anyway Charlotte did not want to see her and be reminded of that particular problem.
Emily was busy with Jack and the political battle that was now so close.
Pitt was working so hard she hardly ever saw him for more than a few moments when he came home at night, hungry and exhausted. Although tonight she would have to make an exception, no matter what the circumstances, to pass on Gracie’s news, when she had decided how to. But he certainly did not need to be troubled with domestic decisions—even if he had had the faintest idea what color a room was. So far in their married life he had either liked a room or disliked it, beyond that he had never expressed any observation at all.
Then a snatch of conversation came back to her from the memorial service for Oakley Winthrop. She had discussed interiors with the widow, Mina. She had not really intended to, but it had seemed something in which she took pleasure and, to judge from her remarks, had some talent. She would ask Mina’s opinion. It would serve two purposes, the relatively insignificant one of deciding whether to paper the room green or not, and the far larger, and more urgent, one of perhaps helping Thomas. With Gracie’s discovery it had become ever more pressing that they learn a little more about the captain, and if possible his habits.
There was no need to consider the decision. It was made. She was hardly dressed for calling, but it would be a waste of time to go back to Bloomsbury and change, and then have to take the omnibus back to Curzon Street. It would be extravagant to call a hansom. She did at least wash her face and make some rapid repairs to her hair before going outside into the sun and walking briskly to the nearest omnibus stop.
She did not seriously consider the impertinence of what she was doing until she stood on the doorstop of the late Captain Winthrop’s house, saw the drawn blinds and the dark wreath on the door, and wondered what on earth she would say.
“Yes ma’am?” the maid said in little more than a whisper.
“Good afternoon,” Charlotte replied, aware that her face was suddenly very pink. “Mrs. Winthrop was kind enough to give me some most excellent advice a few days ago. I am now sorely in need of some more, and I wondered if she would spare me a few moments of her time. I shall surely understand if it is not convenient. I am abashed at having called without informing her first. Her kindness quite made me forget my manners.”
“I’ll ask ’er, ma’am,” the maid said doubtfully. “But I’m sure as I can’t say if she will, the Ouse bein’ in mournin’ like.”
“Of course,” Charlotte agreed.
“ ’O? shall I say ’as called, ma’am?”
“Oh—Mrs. Pitt. We met at Captain Winthrop’s memorial service. I was with Lady Vespasia Cumming- Gould.”
