Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [68]
Her legs felt weak, as if her knees had no bones in them. She stood on the pavement, knowing the footman and the coachman were both looking at her.
“Please wait,” she said breathlessly, and picked up her skirts and walked up to the front door. She did not even have a calling card to present! There was nothing in the world she could do about it now.
The door opened and a parlormaid in black appeared, too well trained to show her surprise.
“Yes ma’am?”
There was nothing to do but plunge ahead.
“Good afternoon. My name is Charlotte Ellison,” she said—they might know or remember the name Pitt. “I hope I do not intrude, but I had such an admiration for Sir Lockwood that I wished to call in person to express my condolences to Lady Hamilton, rather than merely to write, which seems so slight a thing to do.” She glanced at the silver tray the parlormaid held out, waiting for a card, and felt the color rise in her cheeks. “I am so sorry, I have been abroad and unpacked in such a hurry.” She forced a smile. “Would you be kind enough to tell Lady Hamilton that Miss Charlotte Ellison wishes a few moments of her time to express the thoughts of many people who admired Sir Lockwood for his courtesy and compassion, and the wisdom with which he counseled us during our struggle to bring to pass certain reforms in the poor laws and regarding the education of pauper children.” That would do; she knew something of that from her desperate struggle with Great-aunt Vespasia and Somerset Carlisle for such a bill when there had been the murders in Resurrection Row. She smiled most charmingly at the maid, and stood her ground.
“Of course, ma’am.” The maid put the empty tray down on the hall table and turned away, closing the door. “If you would care to wait in the morning room, I will see if Lady Hamilton is free to receive you.”
In the morning room Charlotte looked round hastily to make some judgment of the woman whose house this was. It was elegant, individual, not overcrowded. Nor did she see the struggle of two personalities, two tastes, any sign that a second wife had taken over from a first. There was nothing discordant, no jarring memories. The only thing she guessed to come from the past was a painting of a cottage garden, faded, a little oversweet, out of character with the cooler watercolors on the other walls, but not displeasing, a sentimental gesture rather than an intrusion.
The door opened and a woman in black came in. She was tall and slender, perhaps in her mid or late forties, with dark hair winged with gray. Her face had known sadness long before this latest blow, but in it there was no anger, no rage at life, and certainly no self-pity.
“I am Amethyst Hamilton,” she said politely. “My maid tells me you are Charlotte Ellison, and that you have come to express your condolences for my husband’s death. I confess he did not mention your name, but it is very considerate of you to have come in person. Naturally at the moment I am not making or receiving calls, other than those of sympathy, so I shall be taking tea alone. If you care to join me, you are welcome.” The briefest of smiles crossed her face and vanished. “Very few people find themselves comfortable in the houses of those in mourning. I should find your company welcome. But of course I understand if you have other calls to make.”
Charlotte was assailed with guilt. She knew the terrible isolation of mourning: she had seen Emily’s loneliness after George’s death the previous year, which, like this woman’s, was compounded by the horror of murder, the burdens of a police investigation, and the scandal, and ultimately the terrible fear and suspicion of people one likes and loves intruding into the mind, smearing every memory, touching everything with doubt. And here she was telling lies, using the mask of sympathy to try and learn the secrets of this poor woman’s family, learn facts and emotions normally guarded in the presence of the police, all because Charlotte thought her own judgment keener, better able to penetrate the vulnerabilities