“That doesn’t alter it though, does it?” she said bleakly.
“No.”
“Tell me about some of the things that are funny. I think I need to know.”
He leaned back, taking his hand away. She felt a coldness from the move. She would have expected to find his touch offensive; it surprised her that she did not.
He smiled a little wryly. “You met Willie at the police station?”
Involuntarily she smiled also. She recalled the thin face, the friendly mixture of interest and contempt for her ignorance.
“Yes; yes, I imagine he could tell a few colourful stories.”
“Hundreds, some of them even true. I remember one he told me about a costermonger family, and a long and picturesque revenge against a shofulman-”
“A what?”
“A passer of forged money. And Belle-I was going to say you would like Belle, but she’s a prostitute-”
“I might still be capable of liking her,” Charlotte replied, then wondered if she had committed herself too rashly. “Perhaps. . ”
His face softened in amusement. “Belle came from Bournemouth. Her parents were respectable but extremely poor, in service in a middle-class house. Belle was seduced-I understand with more force than charm-by the son of the house, and as a result turned out. She was henceforth marked as soiled. Naturally it was never considered that he should marry her. She came to London and discovered she was pregnant. To begin with she worked as a seamstress, sewing shirts-collars and wristbands stitched, six buttonholes, four rows of stitching down the front, for two and a half pence each. Do you sew, Charlotte? Do you know how long it takes to make a shirt? Do you do household accounts? Do you know what two and a half pence will buy?
“She tried the workhouse, but was turned away because she did not have an official admittance order. At that point she was propositioned by a gentleman not old enough to be rich enough to make an advantageous marriage, but with plenty of natural appetite. It earned her enough to feed her child and buy him a blanket to sleep in.
“And it opened a whole new world to her. She wrote to her parents every week; she still does, and sends them money. They think she earns it dressmaking. And what good would it serve to let them discover otherwise? They don’t know what dressmakers earn in London.
“She found a landlord who protected her, but then he started taking more and more of her money. But this time she had friends-of many sorts, not just customers. She’s a handsome girl, shrewd, but not unkind, and I’ve seldom seen her when she couldn’t smile about something.”
“What did she do?” Charlotte cared.
“She had a steady lover who was a screever, a writer of letters, a forger of certificates, false testimonials and so forth. He had an uncle who was a kidsman. He organized all his little proteges to plague the landlord every time he went out of the door. His watch was stolen, his seals, his money. But worse than that, they jeered at him, pinned notes to him, and made him a laughingstock.”
“If he was robbed, why didn’t he call the police?” she felt compelled to ask. “Especially if he saw who did it, and it continued?”
“Oh he did! That’s how I came to know of it.”
“You arrested them?” she was horrified and angry.
He smiled at her, meeting her eyes squarely.
“Unfortunately I had a stiff leg that day, and I was unable to run fast enough to catch any of them. Sergeant Flack got something in his eye, was obliged to stop and get it out, and by the time he could see again, they had gone.”
She felt a wave of relief. “And Belle?”
“She got a reasonable rent, and kept the rest of the earnings.”
“And did she continue-as-as a prostitute?”
“What else? Go back to stitching shirts at two and a half pence each?”
“No, of course not. I suppose it was a silly question. It makes me realize a little how lucky I am to be born as I was. I always used to think it was unjust, that saying about the sins of the fathers being visited on the children to the third and fourth generations. But it isn’t, is it? It’s just a fact of life. We reap what our parents have sown.”
She looked up and found Pitt’s eyes on her. The softness in them embarrassed her, and she turned away.
“What about the hangman? Do you think he-can’t help it?”
“I think it’s possible he doesn’t even entirely know it. Which is perhaps why even those closest to him don’t know it either,” he answered.
The black tie came back to her mind with cold horror. For a while she had forgotten it, forgotten Pitt as a threat and thought of him only as-no, that was ridiculous!
She stood up a little stiffly. “Thank you for coming to tell me about Lord Ashworth. It was extremely courteous of you, and has set my mind at rest, at least from the worst fear.”
He stood up also, accepting the dismissal, but there was disappointment in his face. She was sorry for it; he did not deserve it. But she was too afraid of him to let him stay. He had an ability to anticipate her, to understand her thoughts too well. His quick sympathy, his intelligence, would lead her into betraying herself, and Dominic.
He was still looking at her, damn him!
Oh God! Had she dismissed him so hastily he sensed her fear? Had she dismissed him so soon after their mention of the hangman and his possible ignorance of his own actions, that he guessed she knew something? She must make amends.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pitt. I did not mean to appear rude. I have not even offered you any refreshment.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. She smiled, her face stiff. She must look ghastly. “May I ring for something for you?”
“No, thank you.” he walked to the door, then turned, frowning a little. “Charlotte, what are you afraid of?”
She drew a deep breath, her throat tight. A moment passed before she could make any sound come.
“Why, the hangman, of course. Isn’t everyone?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Possibly even the hangman himself.”
The room swung round her. An earthquake must feel like this. It was ridiculous. She must not faint. Dominic might be weak, give way to his appetites, but then one must accept that all gentlemen were like that. But Dominic could have had nothing to do with murder, wires round choking white necks in the street! She must have been insane, weak, and treacherous to have let such suspicions come into her mind.
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed. “I imagine so. But you must catch him all the same, for everyone’s sake.” She deliberately put a lift into her voice, a positive sound as if it were all only peripherally to do with her, a social concern and not a personal one.
His mouth curled a little at the corner and with a tiny gesture like a bow, he turned and went out of the room. She heard Maddock opening and closing the front door for him.
Her knees gave way and she collapsed onto the sofa, tears running down her face.
When Dominic returned in the evening she could not meet his eyes. Sarah also sat through dinner in silence. Emily was out with George Ashworth and a group of his friends. Grandmama delivered a monologue on the decline of social manners. Edward and Caroline maintained the rudiments of a conversation that no one else listened to.
Afterwards Sarah said a little stiffly that she had a headache, and retired to bed. Mama accompanied Grandmama up to her sitting room to read to her for an hour or so, and Papa went into the study to smoke and write some letters.
Dominic and Charlotte were left alone in the withdrawing room. It was a situation Charlotte had dreaded, and yet it was almost a relief to face it. The reality might not be as bad as her fears had become.
She waited for a few minutes after the others had gone; then she looked up, afraid that if she did not speak soon, he might also leave.
“Dominic?”
He turned to face her.
She was alone with him; she had his entire attention. The dark eyes were fully on her, a little worried. It
