Callander Square - Anne Perry [49]
He hesitated, weighing his decision.
“Will you give me your promise you will not ask questions?” he said finally.
She wondered whether she could keep it. She plunged.
“Yes. I’ll only listen. I give you my word,” she reached up and kissed him, but he still regarded her carefully, assuring himself that she indeed intended her promise.
It was a promise that was increasingly difficult for Charlotte to keep, as the very next day presented her with boundless opportunities to ask questions, discreetly and without seeming anything more than normally sympathetic. And of course she had her promise to Emily to keep as well. The chance to do something about the latter arose at luncheon when the lady’s maid was harassed beyond endurance by a multitude of tasks and Charlotte offered to take up Christina’s tray, to save the poor woman from at least one small chore.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that, miss,” but the girl’s face brightened hopefully.
“Nonsense,” Charlotte swooped in and took the tray from under her nose. “It will be no trouble, and my luncheon is too hot to eat at the minute.”
“Oh, thank you, miss. Don’t let her ladyship catch you!”
“Don’t fear,” the bootboy said cheerfully, “She’s at luncheon ’erself. Won’t leave the table, till the general ’as eaten ’is pudding ’ot. Gives ’im indigestion wicked it does, if ’e eats it cold, then ’is temper’s something awful.”
Charlotte thanked him and hastened upstairs before anything could dissuade them, and had to stop a tweeny on the landing to ask her where Christina’s bedroom was.
She knocked on Christina’s door, and a moment later was inside. It was not so very unlike what her own room at Cater Street had been; a little larger, a little more expensively furnished perhaps. For a moment her girlhood came back to her; it was a sweet memory, but she was content that it was only a memory. She had a happiness now quite different from anything she had dreamed of then, but also it was deeper, with dimensions she had not guessed. She looked at Christina sitting up in the bed, her dark hair piled round her shoulders, her pretty little face now wide with surprise. What kind of happiness did she dream of, and with whom? A girl’s dreams could be so innocent, and so ignorant.
“Who are you?” Christina said a little petulantly.
“Charlotte Ellison,” she only just remembered the “Ellison” in time. “I’m helping General Balantyne with some clerical work, and as your lady’s maid was trying to do three jobs at once, I brought your luncheon for you. I do hope you are feeling better.” She looked at her as she said it, trying to disguise the careful assessment in her eyes as simple courtesy. Christina looked perfectly well, to all outward appearances. Certainly she had a fine color, her eyes were clear, and there was no puffiness in her nose and cheeks, such as one gets with a chill.
“Yes, thank you,” Christina replied coolly, then recollected herself and her situation. “I feel better today, but unfortunately it comes and goes.”
“I am sorry,” Charlotte set the tray down gently. “I daresay it is the weather.”
“I daresay. It was good of you to bring the tray up. There is nothing more I need, thank you, you may leave.”
Charlotte felt her face tighten; to be patronized had always woken her temper faster than anything else. She had to make a considerable effort to control herself.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I do hope you will be recovered soon. It is wretched to be in bed, one misses so much. It is quite distressing in society how quickly one gets left behind!” And with the satisfaction of