by Anne Perry
“Not able, Miss Ellison.” He was stiff now, full of outraged pride. “That implies mere indifference. I am better than Ashworth. I’ll prove it.”
“Oh, please. I didn’t mean to disturb your game,” she protested, still loading her voice with disbelief.
“You doubt me?”
“Do you wish me to be honest?”
“Then you leave me no option but to beat Ashworth, and oblige you to believe me!” He strode across the room towards Ashworth, who was still totally engaged with Hetty Gosfield.
“George!” he said loudly.
“Oh, please!” Emily cried plaintively, but did not follow him beyond the first few paces. She must not be seen to have instigated this, or the whole purpose would be destroyed.
It worked marvellously. Foxworthy disrupted the tete-a-tete, demanding to prove his superiority. Ashworth could not resist, and Hetty Gosfield argued at first, but as Ashworth became annoyed with her because she was being tiresome and drawing a vulgar attention to them, she sulked and went away with someone else.
After it was all over Emily found herself with Ashworth again.
“Beat him,” he said with satisfaction.
“Of course,” Emily smiled. He apparently had no idea that the exercise had nothing to do with skill at cards. “I had presumed you would.”
“I can’t bear vulgarity,” he went on aggrievedly. “Bad taste for a woman to make an exhibition of herself.”
Again Emily agreed, although privately she thought it was no worse for a woman than for a man; but that was not the way society saw it, and she knew the rules well enough to play by them, and too well to imagine one could break them and still win.
It was only when she was at home, lying in bed staring at the gaslight patterns on the ceiling, reflected from the lamps outside, that she reviewed the evening. There was no question in her mind that she still intended to marry George Ashworth, but there must be a weighing of his faults, a decision as to which might reasonably be changed, and which she would have to learn to live with, and herself change. Perhaps it was too much to require of any man of breeding and wealth that he should be faithful, but she would most certainly require that he be discreet in his liaisons. He must never make her an object of public sympathy. When the time was right, she must make that quite clear.
Again, he might gamble his own money as much as he chose, but never mortgage that which she might in good conscience regard as his provision for her-in other words their house, the wages of servants, a carriage and good horses, and a dress allowance sufficient to permit her to appear as becomes a lady.
She fell asleep, still thinking of the practicalities.
The following Thursday she went with Sarah to visit the vicar and Mrs. Prebble for tea, and to discuss the forthcoming church bazaar.
“But what if the weather is inclement?” Sarah asked, looking from one to another of them.
“We must trust in the Lord,” the vicar replied. “And September is frequently the most delightful month of the year. Even if it rains, it is unlikely to be cold. I don’t doubt our faithful parishioners will suffer it with good grace.”
Emily profoundly doubted it, and was glad that Charlotte was not there to express her opinion.
“Is it not possible to arrange some form of shelter, in case of misfortune?” she asked. “We can hardly rely upon the Lord to favour us above others.”
“Us above others, Miss Ellison?” The vicar raised his eyebrows. “I fear I have not grasped your meaning.”
“Well, perhaps others may require rain,” she explained. “Farmers?”
The vicar looked at her coolly. “We are about the Lord’s business, Miss Ellison.”
There was no courteous answer to that.
“It may be quite easy to arrange to borrow some tents,” Martha said thoughtfully. “I believe they have some at St. Peter’s. No doubt they will be happy to lend them to us.”
“It will be something of a social occasion,” Sarah observed. “People will be wearing their best clothes.”
“It is a church bazaar, Miss Ellison, to raise money for charity, not for women to disport themselves.” The vicar was cold, his disapproval obvious.
Sarah blushed in embarrassment, and Emily charged to her defence in a manner worthy of Charlotte.
“Surely to appear on the business of the Lord one would wish to wear one’s best, Vicar,” she said blandly. “We can still behave with decorum. We do at church, where you would not expect us to come higgledy-piggledy.”
A curious expression flickered across Martha’s face, something like triumph and fear at the same time, and an obscure humour also, gone before it could be recognized.
“True, Miss Ellison,” the vicar said piously. “Let us hope everyone else has the sense of duty and fitness that you do. We must set an example.”
“We must also hope that people enjoy themselves,” Martha offered. “After all, they will be little likely to part with their money if they feel miserable.”
Emily glanced at the vicar.
“We are not a public amusement,” he said icily.
Emily could think of nothing less likely to amuse the public than the vicar’s frozen face. “Surely we can be happy,” she said deliberately, “without being remotely like a public amusement?” As if Charlotte were at her elbow, she went on. “In fact, the very knowledge that we are in the service of the Lord will be a source of joy to us.”
If it ever occurred to the vicar’s mind that she was being sarcastic, there was no sign of it in his face. But she caught Martha’s eye, and wondered if perhaps Martha would like to have said the same herself?
“I’m afraid you are not wise in the ways of the world,” the vicar said, looking down at her, “as indeed it becomes a woman not to be. However, I must advise you that people are not as happy in the Lord’s work as they should be, else the world would be a far better place, instead of the vale of sin and frailty it is. Alas, how weak is the flesh, even though the spirit would have it otherwise!”
There was no answer to that either. Emily turned her attention to the practical details; these at least she was extremely good at, although they interested her not at all. But it was only fair she did not leave them all to Sarah.
On the way home they were both quiet for a long time, till they were within half a mile of their own house. Sarah pulled her wrap a little closer round her.
“It is far cooler than I expected,” she said with a little shiver. “It looked as if it would be warm.”
“You’re tired,” Emily sought the obvious explanation. “You have been working very hard on this-affair.” She decided to omit the adjective that came to her tongue.
“I can’t leave poor Mrs. Prebble to do everything. You have no idea how hard that woman works.” Sarah walked a little more quickly.
She was quite correct. Emily had very little idea of what Martha Prebble might do with her time. It had never interested her to think of it.
“Does she? At what?”
“At raising money for the church, at visiting the sick and the poor, at running the orphanage. Who do you suppose arranged the outing for them last month? Who do you think laid out old Mrs. Janner? She had no family and she was as poor as a mouse.”
Emily was surprised.
“Martha Prebble did?”
“Yes. Sometimes others help, but only when they feel like it, when it suits them, or when they think someone else is watching who will praise them for it.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Sarah pulled her shawl closer round her again.
“I think that’s why Mama sometimes puts up with her rather funny ways, and with the vicar. I must admit myself, they are a little trying at times; but one must bear in mind the work they do.”
Emily stared ahead of her. Such thoughts obliged her admiration, in spite of her profound dislike of the vicar and, by association, of Martha also. People were full of the most curious traits.
Caroline also was thinki
ng of the vicar and Martha Prebble, but less kindly. She had been aware of Martha’s work, especially with orphans, long enough for the surprise to have faded. She also understood some of the loneliness of a woman who has had no children and who is driven by both family and circumstances to labour for those who are not her own. It must frequently be an anonymous, thankless task.
But a little of their company, especially the vicar’s, was sufficient for a long time.
“A very worthy woman,” Grandmama observed. “A fine example to others of the parish. A pity there are so few who follow her. You must be pleased with Sarah. She’s turning out very well.”
Caroline thought it made her sound like a cake or a pudding, but she knew Grandmama did not appreciate levity at her expense.
“Yes,” Caroline agreed, still looking at her sewing. There seemed to be far more linen to mend than she had remembered. But it was a long time since they had been short of a maid, in fact since before Sarah was married.
“Pity you can’t do something about Charlotte,” Grandmama went on. “I really don’t know how you’re ever going to get that girl married. She doesn’t appear even to be trying!”
Caroline rethreaded her needle. She knew why Charlotte did not try, but it was none of Grandmama’s business.
“She certainly is different in her tastes from Emily,” she said noncommittally. “And in her tactics. But then there is no reason why they should be the same.”
“You ought to speak to her,” Grandmama insisted. “Point out the practicalities to her. What is going to happen to her if no one marries her? Have you considered that?”
“Yes, Grandmama, but frightening her will do no good, and even if she does not marry, she will survive. Better single than married to someone disreputable, or loose-living, or who could not provide for her satisfactorily.”
“My dear Caroline,” Grandmama said exasperatedly, “it is your duty as her mother to see that she does not! And it is also your duty to control this house in an organized fashion. When are you going to get another maid?”
“I have already made enquiries and Mrs. Dunphy has seen two, but they were not satisfactory.”
“What was the matter with them?”
“One was too young, no experience; the other had a reputation that was undesirable.”
“Perhaps if you’d checked Lily a little more closely she wouldn’t now be murdered! This sort of thing doesn’t happen in a well-ordered house.”
“It didn’t happen in the house!” Caroline was stung to sharpness at last. “It happened in Cater Street. And you are quite irresponsible to suggest, even by implication, that Lily brought it upon herself in any way, or that she was immoral. And I won’t have it said in my house.”
“Well, really!” Grandmama stood up, her hands tight, her face flushed. “No wonder Charlotte doesn’t know how to keep a civil tongue in her head, and Emily’s chasing after that ne’er-do-well just because he has a title. She’ll do nothing but make a fool of herself, and you’ll be to blame. I told Edward when he married you that he was making a mistake, but of course he was enamoured of you and didn’t listen. Now Charlotte and Emily will have to pay for it. Well, don’t say afterwards that I didn’t warn you!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Grandmama. Do you want dinner upstairs or will you be sufficiently recovered in time to come down for it?”
“I am not ill, Caroline. I am merely very disappointed, though not surprised.”
“One can recover from disappointment as well as illness,” Caroline said drily.
“You are immodest, Caroline, and unfeminine. No wonder Charlotte is a shrill. If you’d been my daughter, I would have seen to it that you grew up to be a lady.” And without giving Caroline a chance to reply to that, she went out and closed the door behind her with a sharp clack.
Caroline sighed. There was more than enough to do, enough trouble, without Grandmama aping a prima donna. Still, she ought to be used to it by now, only she resented the criticism of Charlotte. The slander against Lily was painful in a different and deeper way.
What kind of person would kill a harmless, penniless girl like Lily Mitchell? Only a madman. A madman straying from the criminal world, or a madman who looked like any of the rest of them, except at night, when he saw a young woman alone in the streets? Could it even be someone she herself had seen?
Her thoughts were interrupted by Edward coming in.
“Good evening, my dear.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Have you had a pleasant day?” He looked at the linen and frowned. “Still no replacement for Lily? I thought you were seeing one or two today.”
“I did. Nothing suitable.”
“Where are the girls? And Mama?” He sat down, stretching comfortably.
“Do you wish some refreshment before dinner?”
“No, thank you. I stopped at my club.”
“I thought you were a little late,” she said as she glanced at the clock.
“Where are they?” he repeated.
“Sarah and Dominic are dining with the Lessings-”
“The who?”
“The Lessings, the sexton and his family.”
“Oh. And the others?”
“Emily is with George Ashworth again. I wish you would speak to her, Edward. I don’t seem to make any impression.”
“I’m afraid, my dear, she will have to learn by the bitterness of experience. I doubt she will listen to anyone. I could forbid her, of course, but they would be bound to see each other at social occasions, and it would only lend an air of romance to the affair, which would strengthen it in her eyes. It would defeat its purpose in the end.”
She smiled. She had not credited him with such perception. She had made the suggestion only to safeguard herself.
“You are quite right,” she agreed. “It will probably blow past of its own accord, in time.”
“And Charlotte and Mama?”
“Charlotte is to dinner with young Uttley, and Grandmama is upstairs, in something of a temper with me, because I would not let her say that Lily was immoral.”
He sighed.
“No, we must not say so, although I fear it may well be true.”
“Why? Because she was killed? If you believe that, then what about Chloe Abernathy?”
“My dear, there are many ways of the world that you do not know, and it is better that it should be so. But it is more than possible that Chloe brought it upon herself also. Unfortunately,” he hesitated, “even well-born girls form liaisons, alliances-,” he left it hanging. “One doesn’t know-there may be-jealousies, revenges. Things it is better we do not discuss.”
And Caroline had to be content with that, although she found herself unable to believe it wholly or to dismiss it from her thoughts.
Chapter Six
It was a week later that Caroline finally succeeded in engaging a new maid to take Lily’s place. It had not been easy because although there were plenty of girls seeking a good position, many of them were unskilled, and many had reputations and references that were less than satisfactory. And, of course, since Lily’s death and the manner of it were known, it was not the most pleasing prospect for a respectable girl seeking employment.
However, Millie Simpkins seemed the best applicant they were likely to get, and the situation was becoming most awkward without someone in the position. The next thing would be that Mrs. Dunphy would find she could not cope, and use the shortage of help as an excuse to give her notice as well.
Millie was a pleasant enough girl, sixteen years old. She appeared to have an accommodating and willing nature, and was clean and passably neat. She lacked any great experience, this being only her second position, but that could be all to the good. If she had few set ways, then she could be taught, moulded into the pattern of this household. And perhaps most important of all, Mrs. Dunphy took to her immediately.
It was Wednesday morning when Millie knocked on the door of the rear sitting room.
“Come in,” Caroline replied.
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Millie came in, a coat over her arm, and dropped a funny little curtsey.
“Yes Millie, what is it?” Caroline smiled at her. Poor child was nervous.
“Please, ma’am, this coat is-rather spoiled, ma’am. I don’t rightly know how to mend it. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Caroline took it from her and held it up. It was one of Edward’s-smart, a formal jacket with velvet collar. It was a moment or two before she found the tear. It was in the sleeve, in the lower section at the back of the arm. How on earth could anyone tear themselves in such a place? She explored it with her fingers, pulling the pieces apart. It was almost as if a sharp claw had ripped it, about two inches long.
“I’m not surprised,” Caroline agreed. “Don’t worry about it, Millie. I’ll see what I can do with it, but we might well have to send it to a tailor, get a new piece set in.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Millie’s relief was almost painful.
Caroline smiled at her. “You did the right thing to bring it to me. Now you’d better go back and get on with the plain linen, and I believe there’s a petticoat of Miss Emily’s that’s torn.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She dropped another awkward little curtsey. “Thank you, ma’am.”
After she had gone Caroline looked at the coat again. She could not remember Edward’s having worn that coat for a long time, weeks in fact. Where could he have done that? Obviously he would not have worn it with such a tear. Why had he not asked her to do something about it at the time? He could not have failed to notice it. It was a coat he frequently wore to his club. In fact he had worn it-the night Lily was killed. She could remember quite clearly his coming in and being so angry with Charlotte for having sent for the police. The picture came to her mind: the gaslight on the wall hissing a little, throwing a yellowish light on the claret-coloured velvet. They had all been too busy with fear and anger to think of clothes. Perhaps that was why he had forgotten it?
It took her most of the afternoon to mend the tear. She had to pull threads from the seams to darn it invisibly, and even so she was not entirely satisfied with it. Edward was home fairly early and she mentioned it straight away, more or less in the way of an apology.