Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [47]
“Nobody knows what it is,” Angeline whispered. “She looks as healthy as a horse to me. Of course they are very nouveau riche,” she added, explaining to Caroline and Charlotte. “Working-class really, for all that money. Alfred Lutterworth made it in cotton mills in Lancashire and only came down here when he sold them. He tries to act the gentleman, but of course everyone knows.”
Charlotte was unreasonably irritated; after all, this was the world in which she had grown up, and at one time might have thought similarly herself.
“Knows what?” she inquired with an edge to her voice.
“Why, that he made his money in trade,” Angeline said with surprise. “It is really quite obvious, my dear. He has brought up his daughter to sound like a lady, but speech is not all, is it?”
“Certainly not,” Charlotte agreed dryly. “Many who sound like ladies are anything but.”
Angeline took no double meaning and settled back in her seat with satisfaction, rearranging her skirts a trifle. “More tea?” she inquired, holding up the silver pot with its ornate, swan neck spout.
They were interrupted by the parlormaid’s return to announce that the vicar and Mrs. Clitheridge had called.
Celeste glanced at Grandmama, and realized she had not the slightest intention of leaving.
“Please show them in,” Celeste instructed with a lift of one of her heavy eyebrows. She did not glance at Angeline; humor was not something they were able to share, their perceptions were too different. “And bring more tea.”
Hector Clitheridge was solid and bland, with the sort of face that in his youth had been handsome, but was now marred by constant anxiety and a nervousness which had scored lines in his cheeks and taken the ease and directness out of his eyes. He came forward now in a rush to express his condolences yet again, and then was startled to find an additional three women there whom he did not know.
His wife, on the other hand, was quite homely and probably even in her very best years could only have offered no more charms than a freshness of complexion and a good head of hair. But her back was straight, she could well have walked with a pile of books on her head without losing any, and her eye was calm, her manner composed. Her voice was unusually low and agreeable.
“My dear Celeste—Angeline. I know we have already expressed our sympathies and offered our services, but the vicar thought we should call again, merely to assure you that we are most sincere. So often people say these things as a matter of custom, and one does not care to take them up on it for precisely that reason. Some people avoid the bereaved, which is scarcely Christian.”
“Quite,” her husband agreed, relief flooding his face. “If there is anything we can do for you?” He looked from one to the other of them as if he awaited a suggestion.
Celeste introduced them to the company already present, and everyone exchanged greetings.
“How very kind,” Clitheridge said, smiling at Grandmama. His hands fiddled with his badly tied tie, making it worse. “Surely a sign of true friendship when one comes in times of grief. Have you known the Misses Worlingham long? I do not recall having seen you here before.”
“Forty years,” Grandmama said promptly.
“Oh my goodness, how very fine. You must be exceedingly fond of each other.”
“And it is thirty of them since we last saw you.” Celeste finally lost her temper. It was apparent from her face that Grandmama mildly amused her, but the vicar’s waving hands and bland words irritated her beyond bearing. “So kind of you to have come just now when we are suffering a dramatic loss.”
Charlotte heard the sarcasm in her tone, and could see in the strong, intelligent face that none of the motives or excuses had passed her by.
Grandmama sniffed indignantly. “I told you, I did not read of poor Theophilus’s death. If I had I would surely have come then. It is the least one can do.”
“And at Papa’s death too, no doubt,” Celeste said with a very slight smile. “Except perhaps you did not read of that either?