Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [53]
He had arranged to take Alicia on an errand she had some little distance away, and he had taken a carriage for the occasion. He called for her at a quarter-past ten, and she was ready, waiting for him, although of course she did not allow it to be obvious, in fact, might even have imagined he did not see it. Possibly she forgot he had been married and was acquainted with at least some of women’s habits.
She was dressed in black and looked particularly fine, her hair bright and her skin flawless, with the delicacy of alabaster. Everything about her was impeccably clean. It was impossible to equate her in any way with the woman in the workhouse.
She had been talking to him, and he was not listening. “Dominic?” she said again. “Are you unwell?”
He needed to share the turmoil inside him; indeed, he could not keep his mind upon anything else. “I met your friend Carlisle yesterday,” he said harshly.
She looked surprised, surely at his tone rather than the information. “Somerset? How was he?”
“We had luncheon together; then he tricked me into going with him into the most awful place I have ever seen in my life! I have never imagined anything so wretched—”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was full of concern. “Were you hurt? Are you sure you are well now? I can easily put off this call; it is not urgent.”
“No, I wasn’t hurt!” His voice was uglier than he meant it to be, but it would not stay in his control. Confusion and anger were boiling up inside him. He wanted someone to explain it away, to give back the ignorance that had been so much easier.
She obviously did not understand. She had never seen a workhouse in her life. She had never been permitted to read newspapers, and she did not handle money. The housekeeper kept the accounts, and her husband had paid the bills. The nearest she had ever come to poverty was a restriction in her dress allowance when her father had suffered a reverse in his investments.
He wanted to explain what he had seen and, above all, how he felt about it; but the only words for it were unseemly, and anyway, they described things that were completely beyond anything she could imagine. He gave it up and sank into silence.
After they returned from the visit he dropped her off at Gadstone Park, and then, feeling miserable and dissatisfied, he sent the carriage away and sat in front of his own fire for an hour. Finally he got up again and called a hansom.
Charlotte had put the matter of the corpses from her mind. Indeed, she had far too much of her own to do to interest herself in most of Pitt’s cases, and the identity of a corpse that had, so far as anyone knew, died quite naturally was not of concern to her. Jemima had sat in a puddle and required a complete change of clothing. She was now busy with a larger laundry then usual, and ironing was not quite one of her favorite chores.
She was startled when the doorbell rang because she was not expecting anyone. People seldom called in the middle of the day; they all had their own duties and meals to prepare. She was even more surprised when she saw Dominic standing on the step.
“May I come in?” he asked before she had time to speak.
She opened the door wider.
“Yes, of course. What’s wrong? You look—” She wanted to say “miserable” but decided “unwell” would be more tactful.
He passed her into the hall, and she closed the door and led the way to the kitchen again. Jemima was building bricks in her playpen in the corner. Dominic sat down on the wooden chair in front of the table. The room was warm, and the washed wood smelled good. There were sheets hanging from the airing rail on the ceiling, and he looked with curiosity at the rope and pulleys for hauling it up and down. The flatiron was warming on the stove.
“I’ve interrupted you,” he said without moving.
“No, you haven’t.” She smiled and picked up the iron to continue. “What’s the matter?”
He was irritated with himself for being so transparent. She was treating him like a child, but at the moment he wanted the reassurance enough to shelve