Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [48]
“Oh, Celeste. Don’t be ridiculous.” Angeline’s eyes were very wide. “Everyone heard of Papa’s passing. He was a bishop, after all, and a most distinguished one. He was respected by absolutely everybody!”
Caroline attempted to rescue Grandmama.
“I think perhaps when someone passes in the fullness of their years, it is not quite the same grief as when a younger person is cut off,” she offered.
Grandmama swung around and glared at her, and Caroline colored faintly, more with annoyance at herself than apology.
The vicar fidgeted from one foot to the other, opened his mouth to say something, then realized it was a family dispute, and retreated hastily.
Charlotte spoke at last.
“I came because I had heard of Mrs. Shaw’s magnificent work attempting to improve the housing standards of the poor,” she said into the silence. “I have several friends who held her in the very highest esteem, and feel her loss is one to the whole community. She was a very fine woman.”
There was utter silence. The vicar cleared his throat nervously. Angeline gave a little gasp, then put her handkerchief to her mouth and stifled it. Grandmama swiveled around in her seat with a crackle of taffeta and glared at Charlotte.
“I beg your pardon?” Celeste said huskily.
Charlotte realized with a hollowness, and a rush of blood up her cheeks, that obviously Clemency’s work was unknown to her family, and to her vicar. But it was impossible to retreat; she had left herself no room at all. There was nothing to do but advance and hope for the best.
“I said she was a very fine woman,” she repeated with a rather forced smile. “Her efforts to improve the living standards of the poor were greatly admired.”
“I fear you are laboring under a misapprehension, Mrs…. er—Pitt,” Celeste replied, now that she had recovered her poise. “Clemency was not concerned in any such matter. She did her ordinary duties such as any Christian woman will do. She took soup and the like, preserves and so on, to the deserving poor about the neighborhood, but so do we all. No one does as much as Angeline. She is always busy with some such thing. Indeed, I serve on several committees to assist young women who have—er—fallen into difficult circumstances and lost their character. You appear to have poor Clemency confused with someone else—I have not the slightest idea who.”
“Nor I,” Angeline added.
“It sounds a very virtuous work,” Mrs. Clitheridge put in tentatively. “And most courageous.”
“Quite unsuitable, my dear.” The vicar shook his head. “I am sure dear Clemency would not have done such a thing.”
“So am I.” Celeste finished the subject with a chilly stare at Charlotte, her rather heavy brows raised very slightly. “Nevertheless, it was gracious of you to call. I am sure your mistake was perfectly genuine.”
“Perfectly,” Charlotte assured her. “My informants were the daughter of a duke and a member of Parliament.”
Celeste was taken aback. “Indeed? You have some notable acquaintances—”
“Thank you.” Charlotte inclined her head as if accepting a compliment.
“There must be another lady by the same name,” the vicar suggested soothingly. “It seems unlikely, and yet what other explanation is there?”
“You must be right, my dear.” His wife touched his arm with approval. “It seems obvious now. Of course that is what has happened.”
“It all seems to be quite unimportant.” Grandmama reasserted her influence on the conversation. “My acquaintance is with you, and has been since our youth. I should like to pay my respects at the funeral, and should be greatly indebted if you would inform me as to when it is.”
“Oh certainly,” the vicar answered before either of the Misses Worlingham had time. “How kind of you. Yes—it is to be held in St. Anne’s, next Thursday at two o’clock in the afternoon.”
“I am obliged.” Grandmama was suddenly very gracious.
The door opened again and the parlormaid announced Mr. and Mrs. Hatch, and was followed immediately by a woman of about the same height as Angeline, and with a considerable resemblance to her in feature. The nose was a trifle more pronounced, the