anyway. She might crack it.”
“Jemima! That is rude, and most unkind,” Charlotte said sharply. “But true,” she added. “I did not ask her to leave. It is actually very inconvenient indeed …”
Daniel appeared at the top of the stairs, considered sliding down the banister, saw his mother at the bottom, and changed his mind. He came down the steps in a self-consciously dignified manner, as if that had always been his intention.
“Is Mrs. Waterman going?” he asked hopefully.
“She’s already gone,” Charlotte answered.
“Oh good. Is Gracie coming back?”
“No, of course she isn’t,” Jemima put in. “She’s married. She’s got to stay at home and look after her husband. We’ll get someone else, won’t we, Mama?”
“Yes. As soon as we’ve had breakfast and you’ve gone to school, I shall begin looking.”
“Where do you look?” Daniel asked curiously as he followed her down the passage to the kitchen. It was shining clean after last night’s dinner. Mrs. Waterman had left it immaculate, but not a thing was started for breakfast. Not even the stove was lit. It was still full of yesterday’s ashes and barely warm to the touch. It would take some time to rake it out and lay it, light it, and wait for it to heat—too long for a hot breakfast of any sort before school. Even tea and toast required the use of the stove.
Charlotte controlled her temper with difficulty. If she could have been granted one wish, other than Pitt being home, it would have been to have Gracie back. Just her cheerful spirit, her frankness, her refusal ever to give in, would have made things easier.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Daniel and Jemima, “but we’ll have to wait until tonight for something hot. It’ll be bread and jam for us all this morning, and a glass of milk.” She went to the pantry to fetch the milk, butter, and jam without waiting for their response. She was already trying to find words to tell them that she had to leave and go to Ireland. Except that she couldn’t, if she didn’t find someone totally trustworthy to care for them, and how could she do that in half a day? As an absolutely final resort she knew she could take them to Emily’s home for the servants to look after.
She came back with the milk, butter, and jam, and put them on the table. Jemima was setting out the knives and spoons; Daniel was putting the glasses out one at a time. She felt a sudden tightening in her chest. How could she have contemplated leaving them with the disapproving Mrs. Waterman? Blast Emily for being away now, when she was so badly needed!
She turned and opened the bread bin, took out the loaf, and set it on the board with the knife.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the last glass. “I know it’s a little early, but we had better begin. I knew Mrs. Waterman was going. I should have been up sooner and lit the stove. I didn’t even think of it. I’m sorry.” She cut three slices of bread and offered them. They each took one, buttered it, and chose the jam they liked best: gooseberry for Jemima, blackcurrant for Daniel—like his father—and apricot for Charlotte. She poured the milk.
“Why did she go, Mama?” Daniel asked.
For once Charlotte did not bother to tell him not to speak with his mouth full. His question deserved an honest answer, but how much would he understand? He was looking at her now with solemn gray eyes exactly like his father’s. Jemima waited with the bread halfway to her mouth. Perhaps the whole truth, briefly and without fear, was the only way to avoid having to lie later, as more and more emerged. If they ever found her lying to them, even if they understood the reason, their trust would be broken.
“Mr. Narraway, your father’s superior, called a few evenings ago to tell me that your father had to go to France, without being able to let us know. He didn’t want us to worry when he didn’t come home …”
“You told us,” Jemima interrupted. “Why did Mrs. Waterman go?”
“Mr. Narraway came again yesterday evening, quite late. He stayed for a little while, because something very bad had happened to him. He has been blamed for something he didn’t do, and he is no longer your father’s superior. That matters rather a lot, so he had to let me know.”
Jemima frowned. “I don’t understand. Why did Mrs. Waterman go? Can’t we pay her anymore?”
“Yes, certainly we can,” Charlotte said quickly, although that might not always be true. “She went because she didn’t approve of Mr. Narraway coming here and telling me in the evening.”
“Why not?” Daniel put his bread down and stared at her. “Shouldn’t he have told you? And how does she know? Is she in the police as well?”
Pitt had not explained to his children the differences between the police, detecting any type of crime, and Special Branch, a force created originally to deal with violence, sometimes treason, or any other threat to the safety of the country. This was not the time to address it.
“No,” she said. “It is not her concern at all. She thought I should not have received any man after dark when your father was not here. She said it wasn’t decent, and she couldn’t remain in a house where the mistress did not behave with proper decorum. I tried to explain to her that it was an emergency, but she did not believe me.” If she did not have more urgent problems, that would still have rankled.
Daniel still looked puzzled, but it was clear that Jemima understood.
“If she hadn’t left anyway, then you should have thrown her out,” she said angrily. “That’s impertinent.” She was immediately defensive of her mother, and
“Yes it was,” Charlotte agreed. She had been going to tell them about her need to go to Ireland, but changed her mind. “But since she did leave of her own will, it doesn’t matter. May I have the butter, please, Daniel?”
He passed it to her. “What’s going to happen to Mr. Narraway? Is Papa going to help him?”
“He can’t,” Jemima pointed out. “He’s in France.” She looked questioningly at Charlotte to support her, if she was right.
“Well, who is, then?” Daniel persisted.
