should a child be ill, or there be some other domestic crisis such as a blocked drain, a broken tap, or if the coal ran out, the chimney was on fire, and so on?
Gracie had risen to all such occasions, at one time or another.
Charlotte stood up, washed her hands in water that was almost cold, and took off her apron. She would ask Gracie’s advice. It was something of a desperate step to disturb her new-found happiness so soon, but it was a desperate situation. Please heaven, Gracie was at home!
It was an omnibus ride, but not a very long one, to the small red-brick house where Gracie and Tellman lived. They had the whole of the ground floor to themselves, including the front garden. This was quite an achievement for a couple so young, but then Tellman was twelve years older than Gracie, and had worked extremely hard to gain promotion to sergeant in the Metropolitan Police. Pitt still missed working with him.
Charlotte walked up to the front door and knocked briskly, holding her breath in anticipation. If Gracie were not in, she had no idea where she could turn next.
But the door opened and Gracie stood just inside, five foot tall with her smart boots on, and wearing a dress that, for once, was nobody else’s cast-off altered to fit her. There was no need to ask if she was happy; it radiated from her face like heat from a stove.
‘Mrs Pitt! Yer come ter see me! Samuel in’t ’ere now,’e’s gorn already, but come in an ’ave a cup o’ tea.’ She pulled the door open even wider and stepped back.
Charlotte accepted, forcing herself to think of Gracie’s new house, her pride and happiness, before she said anything of her own need. She followed Gracie inside along a linoleum-floored passage, polished to a gleaming finish, and into the small kitchen at the back. It too was immaculately clean and smelled of lemon and soap, even this early in the morning. The stove was lit and there was well-kneaded bread sitting in pans on the sill, rising gently. It would soon be ready to bake.
Gracie pulled the kettle over onto the hob and set out teapot and cups ready, then opened the pantry cupboard to get milk.
‘I got cake, if yer like?’ she offered. ‘But mebbe yer’d sooner ’ave toast an’ jam?’
‘Actually, I’d rather like cake, if you can spare it,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I haven’t had good cake for a while. Mrs Waterman didn’t approve of it, and the disfavour came through her hands. Heavy as lead.’
Gracie turned round from the cupboard where she had been getting the cake. Plates were on the dresser. Charlotte noted with a smile that it was set out exactly like the one in her own kitchen, which Gracie had kept for so long: cups hanging from the rings, small plates on the top shelf, then bowls, dinner plates lowest.
‘She gorn then?’ Gracie said anxiously.
‘Mrs Waterman? Yes, I’m afraid so. She gave notice and left all at the same time, yesterday evening. Or to be exact, she gave notice late yesterday evening, and was in the hall with her case when I came down this morning.’
Gracie was astounded. She put the cake — which was rich and full of fruit — on the table, then stared at Charlotte in dismay. ‘Wot she done? Yer din’t never throw’er out fer nothin’!’
‘I didn’t throw her out at all,’ Charlotte answered. ‘She really gave notice, just like that. .’
‘Yer can’t do that!’ Gracie waved her hands to dismiss the idea. ‘Yer won’t never get another place, not a decent one.’
‘A lot has happened,’ Charlotte said quietly.
Gracie sat down sharply in the chair opposite and leaned a little across the small wooden table, her face pale. ‘It in’t Mr Pitt. .?’ Her voice was husky with sudden fear.
‘No,’ Charlotte assured her hastily. She should not have let her think it even for an instant. ‘But he is in France on business and cannot come home until it is complete, and Mr Narraway has been thrown out of his job.’ There was no use, and no honour, in concealing the truth from Gracie. After all, it was Victor Narraway who had placed her as a maid in Buckingham Palace when Pitt so desperately needed help in that case. The triumph had been almost as much Gracie’s as his. Narraway himself had praised her.
Gracie was appalled. ‘That’s wicked!’
‘He thinks it is an old enemy, perhaps hand in glove with a new one, possibly someone after his job,’ Charlotte told her. ‘Mr Pitt doesn’t know, and is trusting Mr Narraway to support him in his pursuit now, and do what he can to help from here. He doesn’t know he will be relying on someone else, who may not believe in him as Mr Narraway does.’
‘Wot are we goin’ ter do?’ Gracie said instantly.
Charlotte was so overwhelmed with gratitude, and with emotion at Gracie’s passionate and unquestioning loyalty, that she felt the warmth rise up in her and the tears prickle her eyes. This was absurd, and certainly no time for such self-indulgence.
‘Mr Narraway believes that the cause of the problem lies in an old case that happened twenty years ago in Ireland. He is going back there to find his enemy and try to prove his own innocence.’
‘But Mr Pitt won’t be there to ’elp ’im,’ Gracie pointed out. ‘’Ow can ’e do that by ’isself? Don’t this enemy know ’im, never mind that ’e’ll expect ’im ter do it?’ She looked suddenly quite pale, all the happy flush gone from her face. ‘That’s just daft. Yer gotter tell ’im ter think’afore ’e leaps in, yer really ’ave!’
‘I must help him, Gracie. Mr Narraway’s enemies in Special Branch are Mr Pitt’s as well. For all our sakes, we must win.’
‘Yer goin’ ter Ireland? Yer goin’ ter ’elp ’im. .?’ She reached out her hand, almost as if to touch Charlotte’s where it lay on the table, then snatched it back self-consciously. She was no longer an employee, but it was a liberty too far, for all the years they had known each other. She took a deep breath. ‘Yer ’ave gotta!’
‘I know. I mean to,’ Charlotte assured her. ‘But since Mrs Waterman has walked out — in disgust and outraged morality, because Mr Narraway was alone in the parlour with me after dark — I have to find someone to replace her before I can leave.’
A succession of emotions passed across Gracie’s face: anger, indignation, impatience and a degree of amusement. ‘Stupid ol’ ’ap’orth,’ she said with disgust. ‘Got minds like cesspits, some o’ them ol’ vinegar virgins. Not that Mr Narraway don’t ’ave a soft spot for yer, an’ all.’ The smile lit her eyes for an instant, then was gone again. She might not have dared say that when she worked for Charlotte, but she was a respectable married woman now, and in her own kitchen, in her own house. She wouldn’t have changed places with the Queen — and she had met the Queen, which was more than most could say.
‘Gracie, Emily is away and so is my mother,’ Charlotte told her gravely. ‘I can’t go and leave Jemima and Daniel until I find someone to look after them, someone I can trust completely. Where do I look? Who can recommend someone without any doubt or hesitation at all?’
Gracie was silent for so long that Charlotte realised she had asked an impossible question.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘That was unfair.’
The kettle was boiling and began to whistle. Gracie stood up, picked up the cloth to protect her hands, and pulled it away from the heat. She swilled a little of the steaming water around the teapot to warm it, emptied it down the sink, and then made the tea. She carried the pot carefully over to the table and set it on a metal trivet to protect the wood. Then she sat down again.
‘I can,’ she said.
Charlotte blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I can recommend someone,’ Gracie said. ‘Minnie Maude Mudway. I knowed ’er since before I ever met you, or come to yer ’ouse. She lived near where I used ter, in Spitalfields, just round the corner, couple o’ streets along. ‘Er uncle were killed. I ’elped ’er find ’oo done it, ’member?’
Charlotte was confused, trying to find the memory, and failing.
‘You were riding the donkey, for Christmas,’ Gracie urged. ‘Minnie Maude were eight then, but she’s growed up now. Yer can trust ’er, ’cos she don’t never, ever give up. I’ll find ’er for yer. An’ I’ll go ter Keppel Street meself an’ check on them every day.’
Charlotte looked at Gracie’s small, earnest face, the gently steaming teapot and the home-made cake with its rich sultanas, the whole lovingly immaculate kitchen.
‘Thank you,’ she said softly. ‘That would be excellent. If you call in every day then I shan’t worry.’
Gracie smiled widely. ‘Yer like a piece o’ cake?’
‘Yes, please,’ Charlotte accepted.
