The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [84]
“Surely your builder is of assistance?” he asked, still watching her. The conversation was meaningless and they both knew it, but they had to speak of something. What thoughts were racing through his head?
She smiled. “Of course. But he leaves the matters of domestic decoration to me. Just at the moment I am torn between choosing one color because I think I care for it, and another because it may prove more practical.”
“A dilemma,” he agreed. “What is your decision?”
There was another silence between them. Ridiculous as it was, it seemed as if his question meant more than a trivial matter of color, as if he were also asking what she intended to do about the bruises—to carry the tale back, or to dismiss it.
She thought for several moments before replying. Then she met his remarkable eyes with total candor.
“I expect I shall consult my husband,” she answered at length.
His face was bare of all expression.
“I suppose I should have expected that,” he said levelly.
She was caught in a confusion of emotions, anger against Oakley Winthrop because it seemed he had been a bully, and if Gracie were correct, even a sadist; pity for Mina because she had first endured it, and now must walk in terror in case Bart had killed him, and were discovered; a fear both for Bart, and as he sat opposite her, even a twinge of fear for herself.
The silence was becoming oppressive.
“Since it is his home also, it would be only civil,” she said hollowly.
A very slight amusement touched his lips.
“Do I gather from your choice of words that you will not necessarily abide by his decision, Mrs. Pitt?”
“Yes—I think that is so.”
“You are a woman of remarkable self-will—and perhaps of courage.”
She rose to her feet, forming a smile.
“Qualities of very dubious attraction,” she said lightly. “But you have been most charming, Mr. Mitchell, and generous with your hospitality, especially in such trying circumstances. Thank you.”
He stood up in a single movement and bowed very slightly.
“Thank you for your friendship to my sister—as thoughtful and considerate as it is at this particular time.”
“I look forward to it,” she replied noncommittedly, and inclined her head in acknowledgment. He saw her to the door, which the maid opened, handing her her cape, and she walked swiftly along Curzon Street towards the omnibus stop, her mind teeming with questions.
Pitt was late home, and Charlotte found it difficult waiting for him. Gracie had gone to bed and Daniel and Jemima were long asleep. Impatience consumed her so she could not sit down and do anything useful. There was mending waiting her attention, and it lay in her sewing box untouched. There were certainly letters to write.
Instead she pottered around the kitchen, picking up this, and poking at that, half cleaning the stove, emptying things from one jar into another, dropping the tea caddy and spilling its contents all over the floor. No one was there to see her sweep it up hastily and replace it all. The floor was perfectly clean, and it would be scalded with water anyway.
When at last she did hear his key in the door she straightened her skirts for the tenth time, pushed her hair out of her eyes, and ran down the hall to meet him.
His first reaction was alarm, in case there were something wrong, then when he saw her face he was delighted and held her tightly until after a few moments she pushed him away.
“Thomas, I have discovered something really important today.”
“About the house?” He tried to sound interested, but she heard the weariness in his voice.
“No—that is not the same sort of important,” she dismissed it totally. “I went to see Mina Winthrop—actually about papering the dining room.”
“What?” He was incredulous. “What on earth do you mean? That’s nonsense!”
“About what color to choose,” she said impatiently, leading him back to the kitchen. “Not about doing it.”
He was totally confused. “How would she know what color you should use?”
“She is very gifted at that sort of thing.”
“How do you know?” He sat down at the kitchen table. “There are tea leaves on the floor