The Cater Street Hangman - Anne Perry [1]
Her mother came in a few moments later, so quietly Charlotte did not hear her.
“Charlotte.”
It was too late to hide what she was doing. She lowered the paper and looked into her mother’s brown eyes.
“Yes, Mama.” It was an admission.
“You know how your father feels about your looking at those things.” She glanced at the folded paper in Charlotte’s hand. “I can’t imagine why you want to; there’s very little in them that’s pleasant, and your father will read those things out to us. But if you must look at it for yourself, at least do it discreetly, in Maddock’s pantry, or get Dominic to tell you.”
Charlotte felt the colour flood her face. She looked away. She had had no idea her mother knew about Maddock’s pantry, even less about Dominic! Had Dominic told her? Why should that thought hurt, like a betrayal? That was ridiculous. She could have no secrets with Dominic. What had she let herself imagine?
“Yes, of course, Mama. I’m sorry.” She dropped the paper behind her onto the table. “I shan’t let Papa catch me.”
“If you want to read, why don’t you read books? There’s something of Mr. Dickens’ in the bookcase over there, and I’m sure you haven’t read Mr. Disraeli’s Coningsby yet?”
Funny how people always say they are sure when they mean they are not sure.
“Mr. Disraeli died yesterday,” Charlotte replied. “I wouldn’t enjoy it. Not just at the moment.”
“Mr. Disraeli? Oh dear, I am sorry. I never cared for Mr. Gladstone, but don’t tell your father. He always reminds me of the vicar.”
Charlotte felt disposed to giggle.
“Don’t you like the vicar, Mama?”
Her mother composed herself immediately.
“Yes, of course I do. Now please go and prepare yourself for tea. Have you forgotten Aunt Susannah is coming to call on us this afternoon?”
“But not for an hour and a half, at the soonest,” Charlotte protested.
“Then do some embroidery, or add some more to that painting you were working on yesterday.”
“It didn’t go right—”
“Grammar, Charlotte. It didn’t go well. I’m sorry. Perhaps you had better finish the comforters so you can take them to the vicar’s wife tomorrow. I promised we would deliver them.”
“Do you suppose they really comfort the poor?” It was a sincere question.
“I’ve no idea.” Her mother’s face relaxed slightly as the thought occurred to her, obviously for the first time. “I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone really poor. But the vicar assures us they do, and we must presume he knows.”
“Even if we don’t like him very much.”
“Charlotte, please don’t be impertinent.” But there was nothing harsh in her voice. She had been caught in an unintentional truth and she did not resent it. She was annoyed with herself, perhaps, but not with Charlotte.
Obediently, Charlotte left the room to go upstairs. She might as well finish the comforters; it would have to be done sometime.
Tea was served by Dora, the kitchen maid, in the withdrawing room. Tea was the most erratic affair. It was always at four o’clock, and always (when they were home) in this room with its pale green furniture and the big windows onto the lawn, closed now, even though the clear spring sun was slanting onto the grass and the last of the daffodils. It was a small garden, only a few yards of lawn, a patch of flowers, and the single delicate birch tree against the wall. Climbing the old brickwork were the roses Charlotte loved best. The whole summer from June till November was glorious with them, old roses, rambling undisciplined in showers and fronds, shedding carpets of petals.
It was the company that was erratic. Either they called on someone, perching on unfamiliar chairs in some other withdrawing room and making self-conscious conversation, or one of them received callers here. Sarah had young married friends whose conversations were indescribably boring to Charlotte. Emily’s friends were little better; all romantic speculation, fashion, who was, or was about to be, courting whom. Most of Mama’s friends were