governed one way or another by women. Men might do all manner of things if they were sufficiently discreet, indulge tastes they would not acknowledge even to their fellows. But publicly and in the domestic tranquillity of their homes they would deplore such affronts to the fabric of a civilized people.
Carlisle saw the realization in her face and did not bother to explain.
“How perceptive of Mrs. Shaw,” Vespasia said quietly. “I imagine she made certain enemies?”
“There was some … apprehension,” he agreed. “But I don’t believe she had as yet succeeded well enough to cause actual anxiety.”
“Might she have, had she lived?” Charlotte asked with intense seriousness. She found herself regretting Clemency Shaw’s death not only with the impartial pity for any loss but because she could never meet her, and the more she heard, the more strongly she felt she would have liked her very much.
Carlisle considered for a moment before replying. It was not a time for empty compliments. He had known enough of political life and the power of financial interests, and had been close enough to several murders, not to dismiss the possibility that Clemency Shaw had been burned to death to keep her from continuing in a crusade, however unlikely it seemed that she would affect the course of law, or of public opinion.
Charlotte, Emily and Vespasia all waited in silence.
“Yes,” he said eventually. “She was a remarkable woman. She believed passionately in what she was doing, and that kind of honesty sometimes moves people where logic fails. There was no hypocrisy in her, no-” He frowned very slightly as he searched for precisely the words to convey the impression upon him of a woman he had met only twice, and yet who had marked him indelibly. “No sense that she was a woman seeking a cause to fight, or some worthy works to fill her time. There was nothing she wanted for herself; her whole heart was on easing the distress of those in filthy and overcrowded housing.”
He saw Vespasia wince and knew it was pity rather than distaste.
“She hated slum landlords with a contempt that could make you feel guilty for having a roof over your own head.” He smiled awkwardly, a crooked gesture very charming in his
“Yes.”
“And you intend to meddle?” The last observation was addressed to all three of them.
Vespasia sniffed a little at his choice of word, but she did not disagree in essence. “You could have expressed yourself more fortunately,” she said with a very slight lift of her shoulders.
“Yes we do.” Emily was forthright. Unlike Clemency Shaw, she was quite definitely looking for something to do, but that was no reason why she should not do it well. “I don’t yet know how.”
“Good.” He had no doubts. “If I can be of assistance, please call on me. I had a great admiration for Clemency Shaw. I should like to see whoever murdered her rot in Coldbath Fields, or some similar place.”
“They’ll hang him,” Vespasia said harshly. She knew Carlisle did not approve of the rope; it was too final, and there were too many mistakes. She did not herself, but she was a realist.
He looked at her levelly, but made no remark. The issue had been discussed before and they knew each other’s feelings. A wealth of experience lay in common, other tragedies, errors and knowledge of pain. Crime was seldom a single act, or the fault of a single person.
“That is not a reason to leave it undone.” Charlotte rose to her feet. “When I learn more I shall tell you.”
“Be careful,” Carlisle warned, going to the door ahead of her and holding it open while they went through, first Vespasia, her head high, her back very stiff, then Emily close behind, lastly Charlotte. He put his hand on her arm as she passed him. “You will be disturbing very powerful people who have a great deal at stake. If they have already murdered Clemency, they will not spare you.”
“I shall be,” she said with conviction, although she had no idea what she was going to do that would be the slightest use. “I shall merely gather information.”
He looked at her skeptically, having been involved in several of her past meddlings, but he relaxed his grip and escorted them to the door and out into the sunlit street where Emily’s carriage was waiting.
As soon as the horses began to move Emily spoke.
“I shall discover whatever I can about Mrs. Shaw and her struggles to have new laws passed to disclose who owns derelict property. I am sure if I think hard I must have some acquaintances who would know.”
“You are a new bride,” Vespasia cautioned her gently.
“Your husband may have rather different expectations of his first weeks at home from honeymoon.”
“Ah-” Emily let out her breath, but it was only a hesitation in her flight of thought. “Yes-well that will have to be got around. I shall deal with it. Charlotte, you had better be discreet about it, but discover everything you can from Thomas. We must be aware of all the facts.”
They did not wait at Vespasia’s house but wished Vespasia good-bye and watched her alight and climb the steps to the front door, which was opened before her by the waiting maid. She went in with an absentminded word of thanks, still deep in thought. There were many social evils she had fought against in the long years since her widowhood. She enjoyed battle and she was prepared to take risks and she no longer cared greatly what others thought of her, if she believed herself to be in a just cause. Which was not that the loss of friends, or their disapproval, did not hurt her.
But now it was Emily who occupied her mind. She was far more vulnerable, not only to the emotions of her new husband, who might well wish her to be more decorous in her behavior, but also to the whims of society, which loved innovations in fashion, something to marvel at and whisper about, but hated anything that threatened to disturb the underlying stability of its members’ familiar and extremely comfortable lives.
Charlotte parted from Emily at her own door after a brief hug, and heard the carriage clatter away as she went up the scrubbed steps into the hall. It smelled warm and clean; the sounds of the street were muffled almost to silence. She stood still for a moment. She could just hear Gracie chopping something on a board in the kitchen, and singing to herself. She felt an overwhelming sense of safety, and then gratitude. It was hers, all of it. She did not have to share it with anyone except her own family. No one would put up the rent or threaten her with eviction. There was running water in the kitchen, the range burned hot, and in the parlor and bedrooms there were fires. Sewage ran away unseen, and the garden was sweet with grass and flowers.
It was very easy to live here every day and forget the uncounted people who had no place warm enough, free of filth and smells, where they could be safe and have privacy enough for dignity.
Clemency Shaw must have been a most unusual woman to have cared so much for those in tenements and slums. In fact she was remarkable even to have known of their existence. Most well-bred women knew only what they were told, or read in such parts of the newspapers or periodicals as were considered suitable. Charlotte herself had not had any idea until Pitt had shown her the very edges of an utterly different world, and to begin with she had hated him for it.
Then she’d felt angry. There was a horrible irony that Clemency Shaw should be murdered by the destruction of her home, and whoever had caused it, Charlotte intended to find and expose, and their sordid and greedy motives with them. If Clemency Shaw’s life could not bring attention to the evil of slum profiteers, then Charlotte would do all in her power to see that her death did.
Emily was bent on a similar purpose, but for slightly different reasons, and in an utterly different fashion. She entered the hallway of her spacious and extremely elegant house in a swirl of skirts and petticoats and flung off her hat, rearranging her hair to look even more casually flattering, fair tendrils curling on her neck and cheeks, and composed her face into an expression of tenderness touched with grief.
Her new husband was already at home, which she knew from the identity of the footman who had opened the door for her. Had Jack been out, Arthur would have been with him.
She pushed open the withdrawing room doors and made a dramatic entrance.
He was sitting by the fire with a tea tray on the low table and his feet up on the stool. The crumpets were already gone; there was only a ring of butter on the plate.
He smiled with warmth when he heard her and stood up courteously. Then he saw the expression on her face and suddenly his pleasure turned to concern.
“Emily-what is it? Is something wrong with Charlotte? Is she ill-is it Thomas?”
“No-no.” She flew to his arms and put her head on his shoulder, partly so he would not meet her eyes. She was not entirely sure how far she could deceive Jack successfully. He was too much like her; he also had survived
