not presumed it serious. Stephen paid scant regard to it. Of course”-she drew down her brows and lowered her voice confidentially-“they were not as close as they might have been, in spite of being father- and son-in-law. Theophilus disapproved of some of Stephen’s ideas.”
“We all disapprove of them,” Celeste said with asperity. “But they were social and theological matters, not upon the subject of medicine. He is a very competent doctor. Everyone says so.”
“Indeed, he has many patients,” Angeline added eagerly, her plump hands fingering the beads at her bosom. “Young Miss Lutterworth would not go to anyone else.”
“Flora Lutterworth is no better than she should be,” Celeste said darkly. “She consults him at every fit and turn, and I have my own opinions that she would be a good deal less afflicted with whatever malady it is had Stephen a wart on the end of his nose, or a squint in one eye.”
“Nobody knows what it is,” Angeline whispered. “She looks as healthy as a horse to me. Of course they are very
Charlotte was unreasonably irritated; after all, this was the world in which she had grown up, and at one time might have thought similarly herself.
“Knows what?” she inquired with an edge to her voice.
“Why, that he made his money in trade,” Angeline said with surprise. “It is really quite obvious, my dear. He has brought up his daughter to sound like a lady, but speech is not all, is it?”
“Certainly not,” Charlotte agreed dryly. “Many who sound like ladies are anything but.”
Angeline took no double meaning and settled back in her seat with satisfaction, rearranging her skirts a trifle. “More tea?” she inquired, holding up the silver pot with its ornate, swan neck spout.
They were interrupted by the parlormaid’s return to announce that the vicar and Mrs. Clitheridge had called.
Celeste glanced at Grandmama, and realized she had not the slightest intention of leaving.
“Please show them in,” Celeste instructed with a lift of one of her heavy eyebrows. She did not glance at Angeline; humor was not something they were able to share, their perceptions were too different. “And bring more tea.”
Hector Clitheridge was solid and bland, with the sort of face that in his youth had been handsome, but was now marred by constant anxiety and a nervousness which had scored lines in his cheeks and taken the ease and directness out of his eyes. He came forward now in a rush to express his condolences yet again, and then was startled to find an additional three women there whom he did not know.
His wife, on the other hand, was quite homely and probably even in her very best years could only have offered no more charms than a freshness of complexion and a good head of hair. But her back was straight, she could well have walked with a pile of books on her head without losing any, and her eye was calm, her manner composed. Her voice was unusually low and agreeable.
“My dear Celeste-Angeline. I know we have already expressed our sympathies and offered our services, but the vicar thought we should call again, merely to assure you that we are most sincere. So often people say these things as a matter of custom, and one does not care to take them up on it for precisely that reason. Some people avoid the bereaved, which is scarcely Christian.”
“Quite,” her husband agreed, relief flooding his face. “If there is anything we can do for you?” He looked from one to the other of them as if he awaited a suggestion.
Celeste introduced them to the company already present, and everyone exchanged greetings.
“How very kind,” Clitheridge said, smiling at Grandmama. His hands fiddled with his badly tied tie, making it worse. “Surely a sign of true friendship when one comes in times of grief. Have you known the Misses Worlingham long? I do not recall having seen you here before.”
“Forty years,” Grandmama said promptly.
“Oh my goodness, how very fine. You must be exceedingly fond of each other.”
“And it is thirty of them since we last saw you.” Celeste finally lost her temper. It was apparent from her face that Grandmama mildly amused her, but the vicar’s waving hands and bland words irritated her beyond bearing. “So kind of you to have come just now when we are suffering a dramatic loss.”
Charlotte heard the sarcasm in her tone, and could see in the strong, intelligent face that none of the motives or excuses had passed her by.
Grandmama sniffed indignantly. “I told you, I did not read of poor Theophilus’s death. If I had I would surely have come then. It is the least one can do.”
“And at Papa’s death too, no doubt,” Celeste said with a very slight smile. “Except perhaps you did not read of that either?”
“Oh, Celeste. Don’t be ridiculous.” Angeline’s eyes were very wide. “Everyone heard of Papa’s passing. He was a bishop, after all, and a most distinguished one. He was respected by absolutely everybody!”
Caroline attempted to rescue Grandmama.
“I think perhaps when someone passes in the fullness of their years, it is not quite the same grief as when a younger person is cut off,” she offered.
Grandmama swung around and glared at her, and Caroline colored faintly, more with annoyance at herself than apology.
The vicar fidgeted from one foot to the other, opened his mouth to say something, then realized it was a family dispute, and retreated hastily.
Charlotte spoke at last.
“I came because I had heard of Mrs. Shaw’s magnificent work attempting to improve the housing standards of the poor,” she said into the silence. “I have several friends who held her in the very highest esteem, and feel her loss is one to the whole community. She was a very fine woman.”
There was utter silence. The vicar cleared his throat nervously. Angeline gave a little gasp, then put her handkerchief to her mouth and stifled it. Grandmama swiveled around in her seat with a crackle of taffeta and glared at Charlotte.
“I beg your pardon?” Celeste said huskily.
Charlotte realized with a hollowness, and a rush of blood up her cheeks, that obviously Clemency’s work was unknown to her family, and to her vicar. But it was impossible to retreat; she had left herself no room at all. There was nothing to do but advance and hope for the best.
“I said she was a very fine woman,” she repeated with a rather forced smile. “Her efforts to improve the living standards of the poor were greatly admired.”
“I fear you are laboring under a misapprehension, Mrs…. er-Pitt,” Celeste replied, now that she had recovered her poise. “Clemency was not concerned in any such matter. She did her ordinary duties such as any Christian woman will do. She took soup and the like, preserves and so on, to the deserving poor about the neighborhood, but so do we all. No one does as much as Angeline. She is always busy with some such thing. Indeed, I serve on several committees to assist young women who have-er-fallen into difficult circumstances and lost their character. You appear to have poor Clemency confused with someone else-I have not the slightest idea who.”
“Nor I,” Angeline added.
“It sounds a very virtuous work,” Mrs. Clitheridge put in tentatively. “And most courageous.”
“Quite unsuitable, my dear.” The vicar shook his head. “I am sure dear Clemency would not have done such a thing.”
“So am I.” Celeste finished the subject with a chilly stare at Charlotte, her rather heavy brows raised very slightly. “Nevertheless, it was gracious of you to call. I am sure your mistake was perfectly genuine.”
“Perfectly,” Charlotte assured her. “My informants were the daughter of a duke and a member of Parliament.”
Celeste was taken aback. “Indeed? You have some notable acquaintances-”
“Thank you.” Charlotte inclined her head as if accepting a compliment.
“There must be another lady by the same name,” the vicar suggested soothingly. “It seems unlikely, and yet what other explanation is there?”
“You must be right, my dear.” His wife touched his arm with approval. “It seems obvious now. Of course that is what has happened.”
