Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [71]
“About when she will be home.” Charlotte kept her voice civil with difficulty.
“And if she had, what do you suppose that is worth, girl? Nothing! Nothing at all.”
“What was it anyway?”
“Oh—that she had gone to the milliner, and would be back in half an hour. Stuff and nonsense. She could be anywhere.”
“Thank you, Grandmama. You look very well.” And indeed she did. She was bristling with energy, her skin was pink and her black, boot button eyes sharply alive. Nothing revived her like a quarrel.
“You need spectacles,” the old lady said viciously. “I am in pain—all over. I am an old woman and need care, and a life without worry or distress.”
“You would die of boredom without something to be offended by,” Charlotte said with a candor she would not have dared a few years ago, certainly not when her father was alive.
The old lady snorted and glared at her. She only remembered to be deaf when it was too late.
“What? What did you say? Your enunciation is getting very slipshod, girl!”
Charlotte smiled, and a moment later heard her mother’s steps in the hall outside. She rose to her feet, excused herself briefly, and leaving the old lady complaining about being excluded from everything, she arrived in the hallway just as her mother was halfway up the stairs.
“Mama!”
Caroline turned, her face alight with pleasure.
“Mama.” Charlotte started up the stairs towards her. Caroline wore a very beautiful hat, its broad brim decorated with feathers and silk flowers. It was lush, extravagant, and totally feminine. Charlotte would have adored such a hat herself, but then she had nowhere to which she could wear it anyway.
“Yes?” Caroline said eagerly. “Have you heard something?”
“Not a great deal, I am afraid.” She felt guilty for raising hopes ever so little, and an intense desire to protect such an openness to pain. “But at least it is a place to begin.”
“There is something we can do?” Caroline turned on the step as if to come down already. “What have you heard? From whom—Thomas?”
“Aunt Vespasia, but it is not a great deal, really.”
“Never mind! What can we do to help?”
“Learn more about them, the people involved, in case there is some other crime, or personal secret, as you suspected, which someone feared Judge Stafford might uncover.”
“Oh, excellent,” Caroline said quickly. “Where shall we begin?”
“Perhaps with Devlin O’Neil,” Charlotte suggested.
“But what about Mrs. Stafford, and Mr. Pryce?” Caroline’s face was pinched with concern, and a certain guilt because she was wishing them into such tragedy.
“We don’t know them,” Charlotte pointed out reasonably. “Let us begin where we can. At least Miss Macaulay or Mr. Fielding may help us there.”
“Yes—yes, of course.” Caroline looked Charlotte up and down. “You are dressed very becomingly. Are you ready to leave now?”
“If you think we may go without first obtaining an invitation?”
“Oh yes, I am sure Miss Macaulay would receive us if we go this morning. They rehearse in the afternoons, and that would be inconvenient.”
“Do they?” Charlotte said with surprise and a touch of sarcasm. She had not realized Caroline was so well acquainted with the daily habits of actors and actresses. With difficulty she refrained from remarking on it.
Caroline looked away and began to make arrangements, calling to the footman to send for the carriage again, and informing the staff that she would be out for luncheon.
Several of the cast of the theater company rented a large house in Pimlico, sharing it among them. The manager, Mr. Inigo Passmore, was an elderly gentleman who had been a “star” in his day, but now preferred to take only character parts. His wife also had been an actress, but she seldom appeared on the stage these days, enjoying a place of honor and considerable power, directing the wardrobe, properties and, when it was required, music. They had the ground floor of the house, and thus the garden.
Joshua Fielding had the rooms at the front of the next floor, and a young actress of great promise, Clio Farber,