The Cater Street Hangman - Anne Perry [118]
“No, no, thank you,” Martha’s voice rose and she moved from side to side, pulling the bedclothes.
Charlotte looked at the bed; it was untidy and must be uncomfortable. The pillows had not been rearranged and were dented almost flat in the centre.
“Here,” she offered, “let me remake your bed? It must be most difficult to rest with it like that.” And without waiting for a reply, because she was anxious to do something positive, and then excuse herself and leave, she leaned forward again and began to make the bed around Martha. She eased her up to tidy the sheet under her, and to puff up the pillows, then put her arms round her and laid her gently back again. Next she moved round the bed quickly and straightened the covers and tucked them in.
“I hope that will be better,” she said surveying the bed critically. Martha looked a little flushed now. There were two spots of colour in her cheeks and her eyes were feverish. Charlotte was concerned for her.
“You don’t look at all well,” she said, screwing up her own face unconsciously. Again she put her hand on Martha’s forehead, leaning forward. “Have you any eau de cologne?” she said and looked for it as she spoke. It was on a small table by the window. She crossed to get it, and brought it back, with a handkerchief in the other hand. “Here, let me brush your hair for a little, and then perhaps you will be able to sleep. I always find if I am unwell that sleep is the most effective cure.”
Martha said nothing, and Charlotte avoided her eyes, because she could think of no conversation.
Fifteen minutes later Charlotte was in the street again, having left Martha propped up in bed, eyes cavernous, face spotted with colour and beads of sweat on her face. If she were not better tomorrow it was to be hoped the vicar would send for the doctor first thing in the morning.
It was colder outside, and the fog had already gathered quite alarmingly. Her footsteps were muffled on the wet stones and the gaslights were blurred like so many yellow moons. She shivered and drew her cloak more closely round her.
It was a wretched night. Cater Street seemed a mile long. Better to think of something happy, make the distance seem less, and the evening warmer. She smiled immediately as yesterday—and Pitt—returned to her mind. Of course, Papa would not be very pleased at the prospect of her marrying socially beneath her. But then on the other hand, he ought to be somewhat relieved that she had the offer of marrying at all! Especially if she were anything like as awkward as Grandmama believed. Anyway, whatever Papa said, she would marry Mr. Pitt; she had never been surer of anything in her life. The very thought of him lit a warmth inside her enough to dispel the fog and chill of the November dusk.
Could that be footsteps behind her?
Nonsense! And what if it were? It was early yet. There must be other people in Cater Street. She would not be the only one abroad.
Nevertheless, she hurried. It was foolish, and quite irrational to imagine the footsteps had anything to do with her. They were still a little distance behind her, and sounded more like another woman than a man.
She walked a little faster.
And what if it were a man? She knew almost every man who lived in this area; it could only be some friend or acquaintance. Perhaps they would even accompany her home.
The fog was really quite thick now, like wreaths and garlands. Now why should she think of wreaths? Natural enough; Sarah was to be buried in a few days’ time. Poor Sarah.
Oh God! Had Sarah been hurrying along the street, like this, with footsteps in the mist behind her, when suddenly—?
Don’t be foolish. There was no point in thinking like that! Would she make a fool of herself if she were to run? And what did it matter if she was a fool?
She quickened her pace yet again. The footsteps were very close now. She still had the basket in her hand. Was there anything in it she