and never stopped to think of Charlotte. Emily had seen it and in a moment of anger betrayed it. That was hard to forgive.
At least that part was over now. Charlotte had fallen out of love again. Could she possibly be attracted to that fearful policeman? Surely not! But if anyone were capable of such a social lunacy, it would be Charlotte!
Well, time to worry about that if it actually happened. No doubt Papa would sort it out quickly enough, although he did not seem to be doing much about Emily and that dandy Ashworth. She would have to remind him, or Emily might not only be hurt, but ruined as well. At the moment Sarah was tempted to think it would serve Emily right for her betrayal of Charlotte, but perhaps fortune would hurt her quite enough without any hand from her family.
It was two days later, when she was visiting Martha Prebble on some parish business, that Mrs. Attwood, the invalid woman whom Papa had been visiting on the night Lily was killed, was mentioned.
“Poor soul,” Martha said with a slight sigh. “She really is a trial.”
Sarah recalled what Papa had said. “I hear she is prone to exaggerating rather a lot, and gets memory confused with imagination. A little wishful thinking, perhaps?”
Martha raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know that. When I saw her she just talked unceasingly, and always of past glories, although I must confess I didn’t trouble to listen closely enough to judge whether they were true or not. I imagine the poor creature is merely lonely.”
“Does no one visit her?” Sarah asked, feeling a quick pang of pity, and at the same time a reluctance to do it herself.
“Not many people, I’m afraid. As I said, she is more than a little trying.”
“I believe she is an invalid, restricted to the house?” Sarah felt obliged to pursue it. She would feel guilty if the woman were in need, and she had ignored her-especially if in the past her husband had really done Papa some favour.
“Oh no,” Martha was quite firm. “She suffers nothing more than the usual small ailments of age.”
“Not bedridden?” Sarah frowned. Could she have misunderstood Papa? She tried to remember exactly what he had said, and could not.
“Oh no, not at all. But I’m sure she would be most grateful if you visited her, just to talk a little while.”
“Is she in any need, I mean financially?” Sarah would rather have given practical help than her time.
“My dear Sarah, how very generous you are. It is so like you to want to help, not to spare yourself but to think only of others’ needs. But she is not poor, I assure you, except in spirit. She needs friends,” she said hesitatingly, her hands tightening on Sarah’s shoulders, “and a little warmth.” Her voice was suddenly husky, as though she were labouring under some strong emotion. For an instant Sarah was embarrassed, then she recalled the icy righteousness of the vicar, and tried to put herself in Martha’s place. Oddly enough, Dominic’s recent coldness helped her. She answered Martha’s grip by reaching out and touching her in return.
“Of course,” she said quietly. “We all do. I shall call on her this afternoon. I cannot take her anything this time; I will just visit socially, while I have the opportunity of using the carriage. But I will call another time, perhaps with Charlotte or Mama, and take her something, just as a token.”
Martha was staring at her, her eyes fixed.
“Do you not think that is a good idea?” Sarah asked, looking back at the pale face. “Should I not go until I have been introduced, do you think?”
Martha’s eyes cleared. “Of course,” she said, catching her breath. “You should go, yes, go today.”
“Mrs. Prebble, are you all right?” Sarah now felt anxious for her; she looked very strained, a little overwrought. Had Sarah said something to distress her? Or was it the sudden recollection of her own emotionally barren life?
Sarah put her hands over Martha’s and gripped them hard, then as she felt the older woman’s muscles tense, she leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek, and moved to the door.
“I shall tell you asked kindly after her. I’m sure she will appreciate it. You do so much for so many people, there can hardly be a house in the parish that doesn’t think of you with kindness.” And before Martha could fumble for a reply to this, she excused herself and took her departure.
Sarah did not know precisely what she had expected, but the woman who finally opened the door to her was such a surprise to her she could only stand and stare.
“Yes?” the woman raised her eyebrows enquiringly.
Sarah swallowed and recollected herself.
“My name is Sarah Corde. I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before, but Mrs. Prebble spoke so well of you, I decided, if it would not be inconvenient to you, I would like to make your acquaintance?”
The woman’s face lightened immediately. She was a handsome creature, and perhaps twenty-five years ago she might well have been beautiful. The remnants of beauty were still there in the bones and the elegant sweep of hair, faded, but not yet thinning. There seemed nothing even remotely pathetic about her, and if she was lonely, it was not obvious.
“Please come in,” she invited, standing back so Sarah could accept the invitation.
The sitting room was small, and furnished with unusual simplicity, but Sarah had the impression that it was a matter of taste rather than poverty. She found the effect surprisingly pleasing. It was more restful than the usually crowded rooms she was accustomed to with dozens of photographs and paintings, stuffed birds, dried flower arrangements, embroidery samplers and ornaments, and furniture in almost every available space. This seemed much lighter, much less oppressive.
“Thank you.” She sat down in the offered chair. She was profoundly glad now that she had brought no gift of food; it would have seemed redundant here, perhaps even offensive.
“It was kind of Mrs. Prebble to speak well of me,” the woman said. “I’m afraid I don’t know her as well as I might. I find church functions-.” She stopped, obviously recollecting that Sarah probably attended them, and revising what she had been going to say.
Sarah found herself smiling. “Tedious,” she filled in for her.
The woman’s face relaxed. “Thank you so much for your frankness. Yes, I’m afraid so. She does a great deal of good work, but she must be a saint to persevere through all those endless idle conversations, and the gossip. And my dear, it isn’t even interesting gossip!”
“Is gossip ever interesting, except to those who are spreading it?”
“Of course! Some gossip has great wit, and of course some carries the burden of genuine scandal. Or it used to. I haven’t heard a good scandal for years. But then hardly anyone ever comes to see me these days. I have grown respectable. What a fearful epitaph.”
Sarah’s curiosity was mounting. Who, precisely, was this woman? So far she appeared nothing at all like the pathetic and wandering creature Papa had described. On the contrary, she was entertaining, and very much in command of herself.
“Isn’t an epitaph a little premature?” Sarah asked with a smile. “You are not dead yet.”
“I might as well be, sitting here in a room in Cater Street watching the world pass by outside. And I’ve no one to listen to me, even if I were able to make witty remarks! It’s a terrible thing, my dear, to have wit, and no one on whom to exercise it. May I offer you some refreshment, a dish of tea, perhaps? I have no maid, as you will have observed, but I can easily enough prepare it myself, if you will excuse me.”
“Oh no, please,” Sarah put out a hand as if to restrain her. “I have just taken tea with Mrs. Prebble.” That was a lie, but she did not want to disturb her. “Unless, of course, you wish it for yourself? In which case let me make it, and bring it to you?”
“Good heavens, child, you are anxious for good works! Very well, it would be most charming to be waited upon. You will find everything in the kitchen. If there is anything you cannot put your hand on, pray ask me.”
Fifteen minutes later Sarah returned with a large tray and tea set for two. She poured it herself, and they resumed their conversation.
“How long have you lived in Cater Street?” she asked.
The woman smiled. “Ever since my husband died, and dear Edward found me this place,” she answered.
“Edward? Is he your son?”
The woman’s graceful eyebrows arched in amused surprise. “Good heavens no! He was my lover. A long time ago now, over twenty-five years. I was forty then, and he was in his thirties.”
“You didn’t marry him?”