countenance. He was disappointed. Charlotte Fallon was still a little Fury, and he wished he could kiss the contempt from her lips. “Go home, Charlie. God be with you always.”
For a moment, Bay thought she would speak. Instead, she pulled the trailing fabric from her head. Bay watched it float down to the sidewalk, the paste pin twinking in its folds. She turned away, her spine stiff. He sat until her red-clad figure disappeared around a corner. Slowly pulling himself up, he picked up Charlie’s headwear and stuffed it into his pocket. He retraced his steps, stopping only to retrieve the weapons from the geraniums and layering them in tulle.
Chapter 17
The tomcat’s yowl awakened her. Soon he was joined by the female’s grating song. It was still fully dark, damp and grim with the torrents of rain that had fallen for days. The weather had matched Charlotte’s mood perfectly. Since her return home, she had been unable to appreciate her snug little cottage or the sudden profusion of flowers and vegetables in her garden. Instead she saw bare whitewashed walls and a tangle of weeds that would have to wait until the sun shone. If it ever did. Perhaps Deb had left some paintings upstairs with which she could beautify her humble house. No nudes, of course, although absolutely anything could be in the crates that Deb had shipped to her over the years. Charlotte should sit down and write to her, offer to send everything off to Arthur’s estate in Kent. Bard’s End. She knew that now.
She wondered if Deb had even returned home yet, or was still honeymooning with her new husband. Charlotte’s precipitous disappearance from Little Hyssop had been duly noted and remarked upon. When accosted in the village shops, Charlotte staunchly told the tale of her sister’s wedding, not that she had witnessed it. She discovered she had a flair for dissembling, right down to the color of her sister’s wedding gown (rose pink, she decided, mostly because it would be her own choice in the unlikely event she ever married) and choice of flowers (white lilies, for the same reason). This fictitious version of her London trip seemed to satisfy the local tabbies, who always had time for a good gossip, even if the protagonists were unknown to them. Charlotte had trudged home with her meager supplies, the brim of her old straw hat dripping rainwater, but she was not struck by a bolt of lightning for telling her lies. Despite Mr. Frazier pressing quite a lot of money into her hands, far more than she asked for, she had set it away for a rainier day and was determined to resume her quiet life on her restricted budget.
Now she really was a whore, bought and paid for, even if she didn’t intend to touch all the pound notes Mr. Frazier had conjured unless major calamity befell her. The money was sitting in a chipped ginger jar on her mantel. No self-respecting thief would be tempted to remove such pottery from the premises. She supposed if the cottage ever caught fire, she’d force herself to rescue it.
Having a bit of a financial cushion was a help. She might not be able to depend on Deb to keep herself and the cats afloat now that Arthur controlled the purse strings. And Deb had been indifferently generous anyway, depending on the gullibility of her past patrons. Months could go by before she remembered that she had a sister buried in the country. The last ten years had been a test for Charlotte to live within exceptionally modest means. The little she got for her lace had put food on the table, although it was not generally known in Little Hyssop that Mrs. Fallon supplied the ton with trimmings for their unmentionables and evening gowns.
Despite the early hour, Charlotte rose. There was no point in tossing and turning while Tom was fornicating under her bedroom window. The blasted cats had been contentious ever since she returned, punishing her for their abandonment. When they weren’t rutting, they were strutting and slinking and squalling around the kitchen door like beggars. Maybe if she tossed a few sardines into the dark, the racket would quiet down.
Charlotte opened her wardrobe and reached for her gray robe. Her hand brushed the cherry-red dress that she had unaccountably packed when she left London. She would never wear it again, of course. Little Hyssop was not the type of town that would sanction a scarlet woman. In fact, as today was Sunday, she would be on her knees in church in a few hours, praying for forgiveness. She had been foolish in the extreme-again. God must be very displeased with her, for surely she was old enough and experienced enough to know better now than to fall for the blandishments of an attractive man. She heaved a sigh. Bay was very attractive indeed.
Her little bedroom was just off the kitchen. It suited her to live all on one floor; it was cheaper also to heat just the downstairs rooms. She felt her way through the shadows, the coals a faint spark in the stove. She stuck her head out the kitchen door and was rewarded by a blast of wind and needling rain. Hard to believe that June was here when she had to race barefoot across the cold wet grass to the privy. She wasn’t about to ruin her slippers, but hoped she would not step on anything untoward in the gloom. The scent of battered roses climbing the little shed was pleasant and masked the fact that she needed to order lime the next time she went to the shops. She rationalized going outside this morning was much like a shower bath, freezing though it was. She lingered a bit on the path, letting the rain sluice down her face and throat. The cats were silent at last, probably languishing in the afterglow under the hydrangea bush. Sardines would be superfluous.
Once indoors, Charlotte stripped off her wet robe and set to stirring up and adding to the coals. She pulled a stool in front of the warming stove and brushed her hair, rebraiding it. When the flames licked up, she lit a fat tallow candle on the center of the table, filled the kettle, and made her tea. She was going to the early communion service. By all that was holy, she should not even be
As the sky lightened, Charlotte blew out the candle and toasted her forbidden bread. She ate it minus butter and jam as penance. If she cleaned her teeth thoroughly, Vicar Kemble might not realize that she had broken her fast. It wasn’t as if she weren’t going to Hell anyway. Eating breakfast was a very minor transgression. She pinned up her still-damp hair and dressed in a gray dress in the gray light. It was her turn to do the altar flowers this morning. She had been smart enough to pick them in a brief break in the rain yesterday afternoon, and pails holding drooping blooms were lined up along the edge of the carpet of her snug parlor. She fished out the flowers and laid them in a flat basket, covered her hair with her usual cap and battered hat, and marched down the lane to the church, gripping an umbrella tightly in the wind. Her skirts whipped about in the mud. Her person would win no prizes today for beauty, but her flower arrangements would speak for themselves.
Once inside the hushed, cool church. Charlotte shivered and grabbed the empty brass urns off the altar and took them to the vestry. As good as his word, the vicar had left a ewer filled with water, and she poured it carefully into each container. She heard the thud of the church door and waited for Vicar Kemble to shout out a good morning, but curiously she heard only booted footsteps on the stone aisle and the scraping of a kneeler. An early bird sinner with plenty to pray for, she thought, and continued her task. The rain spattered against the roof and pinged against the wavy glass window. The world outside was a blur of gray and green. It was good to be home, doing something familiar in a familiar place. She didn’t miss Jane Street a bit. Or Bay either.
Her cottage garden had blossomed quite happily while she was away in London. She buried her nose to inhale the rich scents and stepped back, giving the vases a critical eye. Too much yellow on the left. She ruthlessly ripped some buds from the coreopsis stalks. There. Perfect balance, a rainbow of colors and fragrance. Lifting one heavy vase she carried it to the altar.
The top of a gentleman’s head was just visible over a high-backed pew toward the rear of the church. It was too dim inside to distinguish its color-darkish, some sort of brown. She didn’t wish to disturb him in prayer, so tiptoed quietly over the flagstones to get the other urn. When both were in position, she herself slipped into her regular spot, tugged her gloves back on, and closed her eyes. Just last week she had been staring down the barrel of a gun. She was still alive. Pinching herself just to make sure, her lips moved in the silent repetition of the Lord’s Prayer. She leaned back, relaxing into the pew. A few neighbors came in and nodded to her, then Mr. Kemble, who flashed her a bright smile and disappeared to change into his cassock.
The steady rain drummed on the slate roof throughout the brief Holy Communion service. The sound was as lulling and peaceful as a prayer. Charlotte nearly dozed off through the reading, and had to pinch herself again. She needed her wits about her to instruct the children who would be coming for Sunday school. She rose to take communion, joining the few others before the altar. Mr. Kemble paused, then looked over their heads to the back of the church. After a moment, there were crisp footsteps against the stone floor. Charlotte didn’t turn out of politeness, but expected it was the same man who had come in while she was busy in the vestry. He knelt at the
