She was still sitting at the kitchen table when Gracie came in, also in her dressing gown, her hair down over her shoulders. She looked like a child. Charlotte had never noticed how threadbare her nightclothes were before. She must get her new ones-if she could ever afford it again. She wished she had done it sooner.
Gracie stood still, eyes wide, afraid to speak and uncertain what to say. But her gaze was perfectly steady and hot with loyalty. She longed to ask Charlotte if she was all right but did not dare, in case it seemed impertinent.
“Have a cup of tea before we begin,” Charlotte offered. “The kettle’s still just about boiling.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Gracie accepted with some awe; she had never in her life before sat at the kitchen table taking tea in her nightgown.
But from then on the day got worse. The baker’s boy did not call but passed on down the street. The fishmonger’s boy, on the contrary, rang loudly, presented the account up to date, and demanded payment in full, with the warning that should madam be buying fish in future-which he appeared to doubt-all transactions would be strictly for payment in cash and on delivery. Gracie told him to be about his business and all but boxed his ears on the doorstep, but she was sniffing fiercely and her eyes were red when she came back to the kitchen.
Charlotte thought of sending her for bread, then realized how unfair that would be, and perhaps rash; obviously her loyalty was intense and she would retaliate against any jibes, even if only overheard. Charlotte was older and surely could learn to keep the peace. She should not hide behind a girl.
The experience was worse than she expected. She had never been more than civil to most of her neighbors. They knew from her speech, her manner, the quality of her clothes-though cut down from previous years-even the sight of Emily’s carriage now and then, that Charlotte was not of their background or stock. On the surface they were civil, even friendly from time to time, but resentment lay close under the surface, fear of the different, envy of privilege; though most of it was long in the past now, it was not forgiven.
She walked down the pavement with the wind pulling at her coat and the rain soaking her skirts. She was glad to reach the corner and the shelter of the grocer’s shop. As she went in the door the few women inside stopped talking and stared at her. One of them had a son who was a petty thief, serving six months in the Scrubs. She hated all police, and now was her chance to gain a little revenge with impunity. No one could blame her for it, nor defend the wife of a man who imprisoned other men, and then murdered a prostitute himself. She glared at Charlotte, hitched her basket onto her hip, and walked out of the shop, passing her so roughly that Charlotte was nearly knocked off balance, bruising her and leaving her startled by the suddenness as much as the pain. The other women tittered with amusement.
“Good mornin’, Mrs. Pitt, I’m sure!” one of them said loudly. “An’ ’ow are we today, then? Not so ’igh an’ mighty? Take our turn with the rest, will we?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Robertson,” Charlotte replied coldly. “I am quite well, thank you. Is your mother better? I heard she caught a chill in the rain.”
“She’s poorly,” the woman said, taken aback that Charlotte had not retaliated more in kind. “What’s it ter you?”
“Nothing at all, Mrs. Robertson, except good manners,” Charlotte answered. “Have you finished your purchases?”
“No I ’aven’t! You wait yer turn!” And she moved to stand square in front of the counter again, her eyes roving slowly over the shelves, deliberately taking as long as she could. There was nothing for Charlotte to do but contain her temper and wait.
The grocer shifted from one foot to the other, weighing where his profit lay, and chose the obvious. He ignored Charlotte and smiled toothily at Mrs. Robertson.
“I’ll ’ave ’alf a pound o’ sugar,” she said with satisfaction, tasting power like a sweet in her mouth. “Hif you please, Mr. Wilson.”
The grocer dipped into his sack and put half a pound little by little into the scales, then emptied it into a blue paper bag and gave it to her.
“I changed me mind.” She glanced at Charlotte maliciously, and then back at the grocer. “I’m feelin’ rich this mornin; I’ll ’ave an ’ole pound.”
“Yes, Mrs. Robertson. O’ course.” The grocer weighed another half pound carefully and gave it to her.
The door opened and the bell rang as another woman entered and took her place behind Charlotte.
“An’ I’ll ’ave some Pears’ soap,” Mrs. Robertson added. “Fer the complexion. It’s very good, in’t it, Mrs. Pitt? Is that wot you use? Not that yer’ll be able ter afford it now! Come down in yer ideas a bit, won’t yer?”
“Possibly. But it takes more than a bar of soap to make a beauty, Mrs. Robertson,” Charlotte said coldly. “Did you ever find your umbrella?”
“No I didn’t!” Mrs. Robertson said angrily. “There’s a lot o’ people round ’ere in’t as honest as they makes out. I reckon as somebody stole it!”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Call a policeman,” she said with a smile.
The woman glared at her, and this time it was the other woman who sniggered under her breath.
But the verbal victory was brief and gave her no pleasure, and at the baker’s it was worse, no jibes, only silence, until she was leaving, when there were whispers behind hands and a nodding of heads. She was asked for cash, and it was counted carefully before being put into the till with a snap. If things became hard, there would be no credit for her, she knew without asking-no allowances, and probably from now on no deliveries. The greengrocer made some excuse about being short of help, even though there was a boy standing idle over the sack of potatoes, obviously waiting for something to do, and Charlotte had to carry her heavy bags home herself. A boy of about nine or ten ran past her yelling, “Haya! Rozzer’s in the Steel! They’ll ’ang ’im fer sure! Dingle dangle, see ’im dance!” and did a little skip in and out of the gutter.
She tried to ignore him, but the words struck black terror in her, and by the time she got home, soaking wet, her arms aching, shoulders dragging with the weight of her purchases, she was close to despair.
She was barely inside and had just taken off her wet boots and was setting them near the stove in the kitchen when she heard the front doorbell. Gracie looked at her and without being asked went to open it. She came back a moment later, her feet light along the passage, her skirt swishing round the door.
“Ma’am! Ma’am, it’s your mama, Mrs. Ellison. Shall I bring ’er through ’ere? It’s terrible cold in the parlor. I’ll make yer a cup o’ tea, then I’ll go upstairs an’ get on wiv the bedrooms.”
Charlotte felt little of Gracie’s trust; she was much less certain of what Caroline would have to say. She stood up quickly.
“Yes-yes, you’d better.” There was no alternative: she could not ask anyone to sit in the freezing parlor, nor could she bear to herself. Her wet feet were still numb, and the edges of her skirts were steaming as the kitchen’s warmth reached them. “I’ll make the tea,” she added. It would give her something to do. And it would allow her an excuse to turn her back.
“Yes ma’am.” Gracie disappeared, her feet tip-tapping lightly on the linoleum.
Caroline came in, having already divested herself of her coat, and since she had naturally come in a carriage, she was not wet except for the soles of her neat high-button boots.
“Oh, my dear!” She held her arms open. Perfunctorily, because there was nothing else to do, Charlotte responded, holding her for only a moment before stepping back. “I’ll make us a cup of tea,” she said quickly. “I’ve only just come in myself and I’m perished, and wet.”
“Charlotte, my dear, you must come home.” Caroline sat down a little gingerly on one of the kitchen chairs.
“No thank you,” Charlotte said instantly. She reached for the kettle and filled it, setting it on the hob.
“But you can’t stay here!” Caroline argued, her voice ringing with reason. “The newspapers are full of the story! I don’t think you realize-”
“I realize perfectly!” Charlotte contradicted her. “If I hadn’t before I went to the shops, I certainly do now. And I am not running away.”
“Darling, it’s not running away!” Caroline stood up and came over as if to touch her again, then sensed her daughter’s resentment. “You must face reality, Charlotte. You have made a mistake which has turned out tragically for you. If you come home now, take your maiden name again, I can-”
Charlotte froze. “I will not! How dare you suggest such a thing! You’re speaking as if you imagined Thomas were guilty!” She turned round slowly, cups and saucers in her hands. “For the children’s sake you can take them, if you will. If you won’t, then they’ll have to stay here as any ordinary man’s would have to. I’m not ashamed of
