“I shall say nothing of you to others, good or ill. I suggest that you return that courtesy and say nothing of me. You would not come out of it well, I assure you.”
Mrs. Waterman’s eyebrows rose slightly.
Charlotte smiled with ice in her eyes. “A servant who will speak ill of one mistress will do so of another. Those of us who employ servants are well aware of that. Good night.”
Mrs. Waterman closed the door without replying.
Charlotte went to the telephone to speak to Emily and ask for her help, immediately. She was a little surprised to see her hand shaking as she reached for the receiver.
When the voice answered she gave Emily’s number.
It rang at the other end several times before the butler picked it up.
“Mr. Radley’s residence. May I help you?” he said politely.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late,” Charlotte apologized. “It is Mrs. Pitt calling. Something of an emergency has arisen. May I speak with Mrs. Radley, please?”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Pitt,” he replied with sympathy. “Mr. and Mrs. Radley have gone to Paris and I do not expect them back until next weekend. Is there something I may do to assist you?”
Charlotte felt a sort of panic. Who else could she turn to for help? Her mother was also out of the country, in Edinburgh, where she had gone with her second husband, Joshua. He was an actor, and had a play running in the theater there.
“No, no thank you,” she said a little breathlessly. “I’m sure I shall find another solution. Thank you for your trouble. Good night.” She hung up quickly.
She stood in the quiet parlor, the embers dying in the fire because she had not restoked it. She had until tomorrow evening to find someone to care for Daniel and Jemima, or she could not go with Narraway. And if she did not, then she could not help him. He would be alone in Dublin, hampered by the fact that he was known there, by friend and enemy alike.
Pitt had been Narraway’s man from the beginning, his protege and then his second in command—perhaps not officially, that was Austwick, but in practice. It had bred envy, and in some cases fear. With Narraway gone it would be only a matter of time before Pitt too was dismissed, demoted to an intolerable position, or—worse than that— met with an accident.
Then another thought occurred to her, ugly and even more imperative. If Narraway was innocent, as he claimed, then someone had deliberately reorganized evidence to make him look guilty. They could do the same to Pitt. In fact it was quite possible that if Pitt had had anything whatever to do with the case, he might already be implicated. As soon as he was home from France he would walk straight into the trap. Only a fool would allow him time to mount a defense, still less to find proof of his innocence and, at the same time, presumably their guilt.
But why? Was it really an old vengeance against Narraway? Or did Narraway know something about them that they could not afford to have him pursue? Whatever it was, whatever Narraway had done or not done, she must protect her husband. Narraway could not be guilty, that was the only thing of which she had no doubt.
Now she must find someone to look after Jemima and Daniel while she was away. Oh, damn Mrs. Waterman! The stupid creature!
CHARLOTTE WAS TIRED ENOUGH to sleep quite well, but when she woke in the morning it all flooded back to her. Not only did she have to make breakfast herself—not an unfamiliar task—but she also had to see Mrs. Waterman on her way, and explain to Daniel and Jemima at least something of what had happened. It might be easier for Jemima, since she was thirteen, but how would Daniel, at ten, grasp enough of the idea at least to believe her? She must make sure he did not imagine it was in any way his fault.
Then she must tackle the real task of the day: finding someone trustworthy with whom to leave her children. Put in such simple words, the thought overwhelmed her. She stood in her nightgown in the center of the bedroom floor, overcome with anxiety.
Still, standing here stalling would achieve nothing. She might as well get dressed while she weighed it up. A white blouse and a plain brown skirt would be fine. She was going to do chores, after all.
When she went down the stairs Mrs. Waterman was waiting in the hall, her one suitcase by the door. Charlotte was tempted to be sorry for her, but the moment passed. There was too much to do for her to relent, even if Mrs. Waterman wanted her to. This was an inconvenience. There were disasters on the horizon.
“Good morning, Mrs. Waterman,” she said politely. “I am sorry you feel it necessary to go, but perhaps in the circumstances it is better. You will forgive me if I do not draw this out. I have to find someone to replace you by this evening. I hope you find yourself suited very soon. Good day to you.”
“I’m sure I will, ma’am,” Mrs. Waterman replied, and with such conviction that it flashed across Charlotte’s mind to wonder if perhaps she already had. Sometimes domestic staff, especially cooks, found a cause to give notice in order to avail themselves of a position they preferred, or thought more advantageous for themselves.
“Yes, I imagine you will land on your feet,” Charlotte said a trifle brusquely.
Mrs. Waterman gave her a cold look, drew breath to respond, then changed her mind and opened the front door. With some difficulty she dragged her case outside, then went to the curb to hail a cab.
Charlotte closed the door as Jemima came down the stairs. She was getting tall. From the looks of it, she would grow to her mother’s height, with Charlotte’s soft lines and confident air. The day was not far off.
“Where’s Mrs. Waterman going?” she asked. “It’s breakfast time.”
There was no point in evading it. “She is leaving us,” Charlotte replied quietly.
“At this time in the morning?” Jemima’s eyebrows rose. They were elegant, slightly winged, exactly like Charlotte’s own.
“It was that, or last night,” Charlotte answered.
“Did she steal something?” Jemima reached the bottom stair. “Are you sure? She’s so terribly good I can’t believe she’d do that. She’d never be able to face herself in the glass. Come to think of it, perhaps she doesn’t
