Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [88]
“Course it was,” Gracie agreed. The coldness inside her was now a hard, icy anger, like a stone in her stomach. “ ’Ow long ago were it?”
“Three years. But it doesn’t hurt any less.”
That was some small relief. At least it was not so very recent. If she had been going to kill him in revenge, she had already had three years and not done it.
“ ’Oo else knows about it?”
“No one.”
“Not Mrs. Greville or the cook? Cooks can be awful observant.” She nearly added “so I hear,” then realized that would give away that Charlotte had no cook.
“No,” Doll answered.
“They must ’a thought summink. Yer must ’a looked like yer’d broke yer ’eart. Yer still do.”
Doll gave a sigh that ended in a sob, and Gracie held her tighter.
“They just thought I’d fallen in love,” Doll said with a fierce sniff. “I wish I had. It couldn’t hurt this much.”
“I dunno,” Gracie said softly. “But if you din’t kill ’im, ’oo did?”
“I don’t know, I swear. One of the Irishmen.”
“Well, if I were Mrs. Greville, an’ I knew wot yer just told me, I would ’ave killed ’im, no trouble,” Gracie said candidly.
Doll moved back and sat up. Her eyes were red, her face tear-stained.
“She didn’t know!” she said vehemently. “She didn’t, Gracie! She’d never ’ave been able to hide it. I know. I was with her every day.”
Gracie said nothing. Doll was right.
“Come on,” Doll urged, her face full of urgency now, her own fear temporarily forgotten. “You’re a lady’s maid. You know everything in your house, don’t you? Everything about your mistress. You know her better than anyone, better than her husband or her mother!”
Gracie did not want to argue that point. Her house was not like Doll’s, and Charlotte was certainly nothing like Eudora Greville.
“I suppose,” she said with a sigh.
“You won’t tell no one.” Doll gripped her arm. “You won’t!”
“ ’Oo’d I tell?” Gracie shook her head a little. “Could ’appen ter anyone, if they was pretty enough.”
But it ate at Gracie all day and she could not get her pity or her anger at it out of her mind. And more than that, Doll’s trust in her tore at her loyalty to Pitt. She had made up her mind that she could say nothing. She really did believe that Doll had not killed him, and Doll would surely know if Eudora knew of Greville’s treatment of her. How could any woman hide the knowledge that her husband had behaved that way and hide it from the victim, of all people? If Charlotte had had such a terrible secret, Gracie would have known.
Pitt came back after dark, his clothes grimy after the long train journey. He was still horribly stiff from his horseback ride across country, and now he was so tired he looked as if he would rather go to bed than change and go downstairs again to the dining room with the effort of civility that would entail. He had to watch what was said all the time, the emotional tension. He looked defeated, and Gracie could only guess at what they had said to him up in London.
Charlotte had already dressed in the blue silk and gone down for dinner, looking wonderful. She felt it was best if she watched and listened as much as possible, just in case she observed something, but it left her no time to do more than welcome him home and ask anxiously what Cornwallis had said.
Only Gracie knew what an effort it had cost her. She was so tensed up it was a hard job to lace up her straps tight enough, her back hurt, and she had the kind of headache no amount of lavender oil or feverfew would lift for long. Half an hour after you thought you got rid of it, it was back again. But Charlotte did not mention it.
Gracie stood in the dressing room doorway and watched Pitt fiddle to put the studs in his shirt. That Tellman was useless. He should have been doing it.
“I’ll do that for yer, sir,” she offered, coming forward.
“Thank you.” Pitt handed the shirt to her, and she picked up the studs and threaded them through, her fingers quick and supple.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Gracie?” He swiveled to face her, his attention complete.
She had not been going to tell him, but she found herself doing so.