Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [31]
Gracie was too interested to look for any other job. She sieved the flour yet again, her eyes wide and never leaving Charlotte’s face.
“ ’Oo does she think as did it?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte admitted with surprise. “I don’t know if anyone asked her.”
“Does she think it was this—wot’s ’is name?”
“Joshua Fielding? No—no, they are great friends.”
“Then I’ll wager ’e didn’t,” Gracie said firmly. “We got to show ’em as ’e’s innocent, ma’am.”
Charlotte heard the “we,” and smiled inside herself, but said nothing aloud.
“A good idea. I’ll have to think where to begin.”
“Well, Mrs. Radley can’t ’elp us this time,” Gracie said thoughtfully. “Seein’ as she’s orf in the country.”
It was true. Emily, Charlotte’s sister and usual companion in such matters, was in the later stages of expecting her second child, and she and her husband, Jack, had taken a holiday in the west country away from the social bustle of London until after the birth. Charlotte received letters regularly and wrote back less often. Emily had so much more time, and was finding the hours heavy on her hands. She had more than ample means, inherited from her first husband, whereas Charlotte had extensive housework and the care of her own two children to keep her busy. Of course there was Gracie’s help all the time, and a woman to do the heavy scrubbing three days a week, and the heavy linen was sent out; but Emily had a full staff of at least twenty servants, indoor and out.
“Well,” Gracie went on cheerfully, “seein’ as she can’t, maybe your mam’d like to? Since she’s smitten like, she’d care—wouldn’t she?”
Charlotte tried to be tactful, not something at which she was naturally gifted.
“I don’t think so. She doesn’t approve, you know?”
“But if she likes ’im?” Gracie was puzzled.
“Will you pass me the fruit and open the damper in the oven?” Charlotte requested, beginning to mix her ingredients at last in the large yellow earthenware bowl.
Gracie obeyed, ignoring the oven cloth and using her apron as usual.
For a quarter of an hour they worked diligently till the cake was in tins and beginning to bake. Gracie put on the kettle and they were about to make tea when there was a ring at the front doorbell.
“If that’s that greengrocer’s boy come to the front again,” Gracie said tartly, “I’ll give ’im a flea in ’is ear ’e’ll not forget in an ’urry!” And so saying she tightened her apron, patted her hair and then scampered along the corridor to answer the bell.
She was back in less than a minute.
“It’s yer mam. I mean it’s Mrs. Ellison.”
And indeed Caroline was only a step behind her, dressed in a jacket of swirling green with fur at the collar, a beautifully swathed skirt, and a glorious hat dipped over her left brow and laden with feathers. Her cheeks were flushed, but there was anxiety in her eyes. She seemed oblivious of Charlotte’s old blue stuff dress with sleeves rolled up, and a white apron hiding the front. She also ignored the kitchen, the sink full of bowls and spoons, and even the delicious smell of cooking coming from the oven.
“Mama!” Charlotte greeted her with pleasure and surprise. “You look wonderful! How are you? What brings you here at this hour?”
“Oh—” Charlotte waved a gloved hand airily. “Ah—well—” Then her face creased with concern and she abandoned the effort. “I wondered—” She stopped again.
Without being asked Gracie reached down the tea caddy and started to lay out the cups.
Charlotte waited. She knew from Caroline’s search for words that it was nothing to do with Emily. Had there been a family illness or difficulty of any sort she would have looked troubled, but there would have been no inarticulacy in her manner.
“Are you all right, after the tragedy in the theater?” Caroline began again. This time she looked at Charlotte, but there was no concentration