CHARLOTTE SAT BY THE fire in the parlor alone in her armchair opposite Pitt’s. It was early evening. The children were in bed. There was no sound except now and then the settling of ashes as the wood burned through. Occasionally she picked up a piece of the mending that was waiting to be done—a couple of pillowcases, a pinafore of Jemima’s. More often she simply stared at the fire. She missed Thomas, but she understood the necessity of his having pursued whoever it was to France. She also missed Gracie, the maid who had lived with them since she was thirteen and now, in her twenties, had finally married the police sergeant who had courted her so diligently for years.
Charlotte picked up the pinafore and began stitching up the hem where it had fallen, doing it almost as much by feel as by sight. The needle clicked with a light, quick sound against her thimble. Jemima was thirteen and growing tall very quickly. One could see the young woman that she would shortly become. Daniel was nearly three years younger, and desperate to catch up.
Charlotte smiled as she thought of Gracie, so proud in her white wedding gown, walking down the aisle on Pitt’s arm as he gave her away. Tellman had been desperately nervous waiting at the altar, then so happy he couldn’t control the smile on his face. He must have thought that day would never come.
But Charlotte missed Gracie’s cheerfulness, her optimism, her candor, and her courage. Gracie never admitted to being beaten in anything. Her replacement, Mrs. Waterman, was middle-aged and dour as a walk in the sleet. She was a decent woman, honest as the day, kept everything immaculately clean, but she seemed to be content only if she was miserable. Perhaps in time she would gain confidence and feel better. It was sincerely to be hoped.
Charlotte did not hear the doorbell ring and was startled when Mrs. Waterman knocked on the parlor door. The older woman immediately came in, her face pinched with displeasure.
“There’s a gentleman caller, ma’am. Shall I tell him that Mr. Pitt is not at home?”
Charlotte was startled, and her first thought was to agree to the polite fiction. Then her curiosity intruded. Surely at this hour it must be someone she knew?
“Who is it, Mrs. Waterman?”
“A very dark gentleman, ma’am. Says his name is Narraway,” Mrs. Waterman replied, lowering her voice, although Charlotte could not tell if it were in disgust or confidentiality. She thought the former.
“Show him in,” she said quickly, putting the mending out of sight on a chair behind the couch. Without thinking, she straightened her skirt and made sure she had no badly straying hairs poking out of her rather loose coiffure. Her hair was a rich dark mahogany color, but it slithered very easily out of control. As the pins dug into her head during the day, she was apt to remove them, with predictable results.
Mrs. Waterman hesitated.
“Show him in, please,” Charlotte repeated, a trifle more briskly.
“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” Mrs. Waterman said with a slight twist of her mouth that was definitely not a smile. She withdrew, and a moment later Narraway came in. When Charlotte had seen him a few days ago he had looked tired and a little concerned, but that was not unusual. This evening he was haggard, his lean face hollow-eyed, his skin almost without color.
Charlotte felt a terrible fear paralyze her, robbing her of breath. He had come to tell her terrible news of Pitt; even in her own mind she could not think the words.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late,” he said. His voice was almost normal, but she heard in its slight tremor the effort that it cost him. He stood in front of her. She could see from his eyes that he was hurt; there was an emptiness inside him that had not been there before.
He must have read her fear. How could he not? It filled the room.
He smiled thinly. “I have not heard from Thomas, but there is no reason to believe he is other than in excellent health, and probably having better weather than we have,” he said gently. “Although I daresay he finds it tedious hanging about the streets watching people while trying to look as if he is on holiday.”
She swallowed, her mouth dry, relief making her dizzy. “Then what is it?”
“Oh dear. Am I so obvious?”
It was more candid than he had ever been with her, yet it did not feel unnatural.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I’m afraid you look dreadful. Can I get you something? Tea, or whiskey? That is, if we have any. Now that I’ve offered it, I’m not sure we do. The best of it might have gone at Gracie’s wedding.”
“Oh yes, Gracie.” This time he did smile, and there was real warmth in it, changing his face. “I shall miss seeing her here. She was magnificent, all five feet of her.”
“Four feet eleven, if we are honest,” Charlotte corrected him with answering warmth. “Believe me, you could not possibly miss her as much as I do.”
“You do not care for Mrs.… Lemon?”
“Waterman,” she corrected him. “But Lemon would suit her. I don’t think she approves of me. Perhaps we shall become accustomed to each other one day. She does cook well, and you could eat off the floors when she has scrubbed them.”
“Thank you, but the table will do well enough,” Narraway observed.
She sat down on the sofa. Standing so close to him in front of the fire was becoming uncomfortable. “You did not come to inquire after my domestic arrangements. And even if you had known Mrs. Waterman, she is not sufficient to cause the gravity I see in your face. What has happened?” She was holding her hands in her lap, and realized that she was gripping them together hard enough to hurt. She forced herself to let go.
There was a moment or two with no sound in the room but the flickering of the fire.
Narraway drew in his breath, then changed his mind.
“I have been relieved of my position in Special Branch. They say that it is temporary, but they will make it permanent if they can.” He swallowed as if his throat hurt, and turned his head to look at her. “The thing concerning
