Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [23]
Charlotte parted from Emily at her own door after a brief hug, and heard the carriage clatter away as she went up the scrubbed steps into the hall. It smelled warm and clean; the sounds of the street were muffled almost to silence. She stood still for a moment. She could just hear Gracie chopping something on a board in the kitchen, and singing to herself. She felt an overwhelming sense of safety, and then gratitude. It was hers, all of it. She did not have to share it with anyone except her own family. No one would put up the rent or threaten her with eviction. There was running water in the kitchen, the range burned hot, and in the parlor and bedrooms there were fires. Sewage ran away unseen, and the garden was sweet with grass and flowers.
It was very easy to live here every day and forget the uncounted people who had no place warm enough, free of filth and smells, where they could be safe and have privacy enough for dignity.
Clemency Shaw must have been a most unusual woman to have cared so much for those in tenements and slums. In fact she was remarkable even to have known of their existence. Most well-bred women knew only what they were told, or read in such parts of the newspapers or periodicals as were considered suitable. Charlotte herself had not had any idea until Pitt had shown her the very edges of an utterly different world, and to begin with she had hated him for it.
Then she’d felt angry. There was a horrible irony that Clemency Shaw should be murdered by the destruction of her home, and whoever had caused it, Charlotte intended to find and expose, and their sordid and greedy motives with them. If Clemency Shaw’s life could not bring attention to the evil of slum profiteers, then Charlotte would do all in her power to see that her death did.
Emily was bent on a similar purpose, but for slightly different reasons, and in an utterly different fashion. She entered the hallway of her spacious and extremely elegant house in a swirl of skirts and petticoats and flung off her hat, rearranging her hair to look even more casually flattering, fair tendrils curling on her neck and cheeks, and composed her face into an expression of tenderness touched with grief.
Her new husband was already at home, which she knew from the identity of the footman who had opened the door for her. Had Jack been out, Arthur would have been with him.
She pushed open the withdrawing room doors and made a dramatic entrance.
He was sitting by the fire with a tea tray on the low table and his feet up on the stool. The crumpets were already gone; there was only a ring of butter on the plate.
He smiled with warmth when he heard her and stood up courteously. Then he saw the expression on her face and suddenly his pleasure turned to concern.
“Emily—what is it? Is something wrong with Charlotte? Is she ill—is it Thomas?”
“No—no.” She flew to his arms and put her head on his shoulder, partly so he would not meet her eyes. She was not entirely sure how far she could deceive Jack successfully. He was too much like her; he also had survived on his charm and very considerable good looks and he was aware of all the tricks and how to perform them. And it was also because she found herself still very much in love with him, and it was a most comfortable feeling. But she had better explain herself before he became alarmed. “No, Charlotte is perfectly well. But Thomas is engaged on a case which distresses her deeply—and I find I feel the same. A woman was burned to death—a brave and very good woman who was fighting to expose a vicious social evil. Great-Aunt Vespasia is most upset as well.” Now she could abandon subterfuge and face him squarely.
“Jack, I feel we should do what we can to help—”
He smoothed her hair gently, kissed her, then with wide eyes and barely the beginning of a smile, met her gaze.
“Oh yes? And how shall we do that?”
She made a rapid change of tactics. Drama was not going to win. She smiled back. “I’m not sure—” She bit her lip.
“What do you think?”
“What social evil?” he said guardedly. He