Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [127]
The writing was shaky and a little crooked on the page, and Charlotte was struck with cold shock as she realized that Aunt Vespasia was old and frailty was catching up with her.
She stood in the kitchen in the early morning holding the blue deckled paper in her hand. It seemed as if all the good and certain things in the world were fading fast; there was a chill so close to the skin no fires could dispel it.
She went to visit Pitt again, waiting in the shivering rain with other quiet, sad-faced women whose fathers, husbands, or sons rotted away in the Steel. Some were violent, some greedy, brutal by nature of circumstance, many merely inadequate to cope with life in the struggling, overcrowded streets where only the strongest endure.
Charlotte had time for pity, time to wonder and think about these other women—it was easier to ache for another’s pain than work through the realities of her own. That made it easier to face Pitt and lie, smiling as if she had confidence and smothering her fear if she occupied the storm of emotion inside herself with something else.
When at last she was permitted in she was not allowed to touch him, only to sit across the table and stare into his face, seeing the dirt and the bruises, the hollows round his eyes where shock could not be hidden by his forced smile. Never in her life had she had to live so difficult or so complete a lie. He knew her so well, she had never succeeded in deceiving him before. Now she met his eyes and lied as easily as if he had been a child instead of a man, someone to be protected and comforted with stories while she bore the truth.
“Yes, we are all perfectly well,” she said quickly. “Although of course we miss you terribly! But we have enough of everything, so I haven’t had to ask Mama or Emily for any help, although I’m sure they’ll give it if it should be necessary. No, I haven’t been back to the Yorks’. I’m leaving it to Mr. Ballarat, as you said. . . . Well, if he hasn’t sent anyone to see you yet it must be because he doesn’t need to.” She kept mastery of the conversation, permitting no time for interruptions, questions she could not answer.
“Where’s Emily? At home. They wouldn’t let her in here, she isn’t family—at least, not close enough. Sisters-in-law don’t count. Yes, Jack Radley is being very helpful. . . .”
Emily was in the laundry room doing the job she disliked most intensely: ironing the starched frills of cotton aprons, half a dozen of them. Somehow Edith had taken advantage of some absence of mind to maneuver Emily into doing her share as well. She looked up in surprise when Mary came to the door, glanced all round her, then slipped in and closed it, fingers to her lips.
“What is it?” Emily whispered.
“A man!” Mary said urgently, her voice so low her words were almost swallowed. “You got a follower!”
“I haven’t!” Emily denied fiercely. She certainly did not need that kind of trouble. And it was totally unjust; she had encouraged no one. In fact, she had given the butcher’s boy a flea in his ear when he had smiled at her, impudent creature.
“Yes you ’ave!” Mary insisted. “Scruffy, ’e is, an’ looks like ’e just bin up a chimney! But spoke awful nice an’ polite, an’ if’n ’e were washed ’e could be real nice, I reckon.”
“Well, I don’t know him!” Emily said fiercely. “Tell him to go away!”
“Won’t you even come and see—”
“No! Do you want me to lose my character?”
“ ’E’s awful keen.”
“I’ll be thrown out!” Emily exploded.
“But ’e says ’e knows you!” Mary tried once more. “C’mon, Amelia; ’e could be—Well, d’you want to stay a lady’s maid all your life?”
“It’s a lot better than being out on the street without a character!” Emily hissed back.
“Well, if you’re really sure. ’Is name is Jack suffink.”
Emily froze. “What?”
“ ’Is name is Jack