Charlotte closed the door behind her. Her hair was ruffled, as if she had been in the wind, and there was a flush in her cheeks.
“I went for a walk,” she answered. “Why?”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Why?”
Emily’s temper snapped. “Greville has been murdered by God knows who, but someone in the house, Jack’s life is in danger and Thomas is sitting upstairs comforting the widow instead of looking after him, or even trying to find who murdered Greville. The Irish are all at each others’ throats while I am trying to keep some kind of peace, the servants are fainting, weeping, quarreling or hiding under the stairs—and you are out in the garden walking! And you ask me why! Where are your wits?”
Charlotte paled, then two spots of color burned up in her cheeks.
“I was thinking,” she said coldly. “Sometimes a little thought is a great deal more beneficial than simply rushing around to give the appearance of doing something—”
“I have not been rushing around!” Emily snapped back. “I thought that the past would have taught you, if the present does not, that running a house this size, with guests, takes a great deal of skill and organization. I relied on you at least to keep Kezia and Iona in a civil conversation.”
“Justine was doing that—”
“And Thomas to try to guard Jack, as much as it can be done, and he’s up there”—she jabbed her finger towards the stairs—“comforting Eudora!”
“He’s probably questioning her,” Charlotte said icily.
“For heaven’s sake, it wasn’t a domestic murder!” Emily made an effort to control her voice. “If she knew anything she’d have told him in the beginning. It’s one of these men in there.”
“We all know that,” Charlotte agreed. “But which one? Maybe Padraig Doyle, have you thought of that?”
Emily had not thought of it, she did not think it now.
“Well, at least go and talk to Kezia. She’s by herself in the morning room. Perhaps you can persuade her to stop this ridiculous rage against Fergal. It doesn’t help anyone.” And with that Emily straightened her shoulders and marched back to the baize door and the servants’ quarters, although she had forgotten what she was going for.
Gracie was also extremely busy that morning, not essentially on Charlotte’s affairs. The dresses she had brought were in little need of attention, and those which had been lent her needed only a slight press here or there with a flatiron. There was personal linen to launder, but that was all. She collected it and took it downstairs and through the corridors of the servants’ wing out to the laundry house.
She found Doll already there, looking unhappily at the dull surface of a flatiron and muttering under her breath.
“How is poor Mrs. Greville?” Gracie asked sympathetically.
Doll glanced at her. “Poor soul,” she said with a sigh. “Doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going at the moment. But I daresay it’ll get worse before it gets better. Have you seen the beeswax and bath brick?”
“What?”
“Beeswax and bath brick,” Doll repeated. “There’s plenty o’ salt right there. Need to clean this iron before I put it anywhere near a white camisole.” She held up the iron critically. The other one on the stove was getting hot.
“Mr. Pitt’s very clever,” Gracie assured her, seeking to comfort her. “’E’ll find out everythin’ there is ter know, an’ then ’e’ll work out ’oo done it, an’ take ’im in.”
Doll looked at her quickly, her eyes shadowed. Her hand was tight on the iron.
“Can’t need to know everything,” she said, beginning to move again, taking the other iron off the stove and putting it on the white petticoat and beginning to work, leaning her weight on it and swinging it gently backwards, smoothing the fabric.
“Yer’d be surprised wot ’as meanin’,” Gracie told her. “Ter someone clever enough ter see it an’ understand. ’E’ll catch ’ooever it is, don’ worry.”
Doll gave a little shiver and her eyes were far away. Her hand on the iron clenched hard and stopped moving.
“Yer don’ need ter look so scared.” Gracie moved a step towards her. “ ’E’s very fair. ’E’d never ’urt them wot don’ deserve it, nor tell tales wot don’ need ter be told.”
Doll swallowed. “Course not. I never thought …” She looked down suddenly and moved the iron. The scorch mark was brown on the linen. She took a deep breath and tears filled her eyes.
Gracie snatched the iron up and put it aside on the hearth.
“There must be a way fer takin’ that out,” she said with more assurance than she felt. “There’s a way fer everythin’, if yer jus’ know it.”
“Mr. Wheeler said as Mr. Pitt rode over to Oakfield House yesterday!” Doll stared at Gracie. “Why? What’s he want there? It was someone here who killed him.”
“I know that,” Gracie agreed. “ ’Ow do yer get scorch marks out? What’s the best way? We better do that afore it’s too late.”
“Onion juice, fuller’s earth, white soap and vinegar,” Doll replied absently. “They’re bound to have some made up. Look in that jar.” She pointed to one on the shelf next to the blue, behind Gracie’s head. It was between the bran, rice for congee, borax, soap, beeswax and ordinary tallow candle, used for removing inkspots.
Gracie took it down with two hands and passed it over. It was heavy. Scorches must be quite a common
