Bethlehem Road (8 page)

Behind them, helped discreetly by a footman, came Caroline’s mother-in-law, well into her eighties, making the most of every twinge and infirmity, her bright black eyes taking in everything, and her ears with their pendulous jet earrings highly selectively deaf.

“Good morning, Mama,” Charlotte kissed Caroline carefully, so as not to disarrange either of their hats. “Good morning, Grandmama.”

“Think you’re the bride?” the old lady said sharply, looking her up and down. “Never seen such a bustle in all my life! And you’ve too much color—but you always had!”

“At least I can wear yellow,” Charlotte replied, looking at her grandmother’s sallow skin and dark gold gown and smiling charmingly.

“Yes you can,” the old lady agreed with a glare. “And it’s a pity you didn’t—instead of that! What do you call it? No color I ever saw before. Well, if you spill raspberry fool on it no one will ever know!”

“How comforting,” Charlotte said sarcastically. “You always did know the right thing to say to make a person feel comfortable.”

The old woman bent her head. “What? What did you say? I don’t hear as well as I used to!” She picked up her ear trumpet and placed it ostentatiously near her hand so it would be ready for instant use to draw attention to her infirmity.

“And you were always deaf when you chose to be,” Charlotte replied.

“What? Why can’t you stop mumbling, child!”

“I said I would call it rose.” Charlotte looked straight at her.

“No you didn’t!” the old lady snapped. “You’ve got above yourself since you married that tom-fool policeman. Where is he, anyway? Didn’t care to bring him into society, eh? Very wise—probably blow his nose on the table napkins and not know which fork to use!”

Charlotte remembered again how intensely she disliked her grandmother. Widowhood and loneliness had made the old woman spiteful; she commanded attention either by complaining or by attempting to hurt those around her.

Charlotte ceased looking for an adequately cutting reply. “He’s working on a case, Grandmama,” she said instead. “It is a murder, and Thomas is in charge of the investigation. But he will be here for the ceremony if he can.”

The old lady sniffed fiercely. “Murders! Don’t know what the world’s coming to—riots in the streets last year. ‘Bloody Sunday’ indeed! Even housemaids don’t know how to behave themselves these days; lazy, uppity, and full of impertinence. You live in sad times, Charlotte; people don’t know their place anymore. And you haven’t helped—marrying a policeman, indeed! Can’t imagine what you were thinking of! Or your mother either! Know what I’d have said if my son had wanted to marry the parlormaid!”

“So do I!” said Charlotte, finally letting go of her temper. “You’d have said, ‘Lie with her by all means, as long as you’re discreet about it, but marry someone of your own social class, or above—especially if she has money!’ ”

The old lady picked up her cane as if she would have rapped Charlotte across the legs with it; then, realizing her granddaughter would barely feel it through the weight of her skirts, she tried to think of a verbal equivalent—and failed.

“What did you say?” she snapped in defeat. “You mumble dreadfully, girl! Have you artificial teeth or something?”

It was so ludicrous Charlotte burst into laughter and put her arm round the old lady, astonishing her into silence.

They had just got inside the church and were being ushered to their seats when Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould arrived. She was Charlotte’s height, but slender now to the point of gauntness, and stood ramrod stiff, dressed in ecru-colored lace over coffee satin, with a hat of such rakish elegance that even Caroline gasped. She was over eighty; she had stood at the top of the stairs as a girl and peeped through the banisters as the guests arrived in her father’s house to dance the night away after the news of the victory of Waterloo. She had been the most startling beauty of her day, and her face, although imprinted with time and tragedy, still held the grace and proportion of loveliness that nothing would mar.

She had been the favorite aunt of Emily’s late husband, and both Emily and Charlotte loved her deeply. It was an affection which she returned, even defying convention enough to include Pitt, not caring in the slightest what other people thought of her for receiving a policeman in her withdrawing room as if he had been a social entity, and not one of the less desirable tradesmen. She had always had both the rank and the beauty to disregard opinion, and as she got older she used it shamelessly. She was a keen reformer of laws and customs of which she did not approve, and she was not averse to meddling in detection whenever Charlotte and Emily provided her with the opportunity.

Church was not the place for greetings; she merely inclined her head minutely in Charlotte’s direction and took her seat at the end of the pew, waiting while the other guests arrived.

The groom, Jack Radley, was already at the altar, and Charlotte was beginning to feel anxious when at last Pitt slipped into the pew beside her, looking surprisingly smart and holding a black silk hat in his hands.

“Where did you get that?” Charlotte whispered under her breath, in a moment of alarm as to the expense of such a thing he would never use again.

“Micah Drummond,” he answered, and she saw the appreciation in his eyes as he saw her gown. He turned and smiled at Great-aunt Vespasia, and she bent her head graciously and slowly dropped one eyelid.

There was a buzz of excitement, then a hush, and the organ changed tone and became magnificent, romantic and a little pompous. In spite of herself Charlotte turned to gaze backwards to see Emily framed by sunlight in the arch of the church doorway, walking slowly forwards on the arm of Dominic Corde, the widower of their elder sister Sarah. A host of memories came flooding back for Charlotte: Sarah’s wedding, the turmoil of her own emotions in those early years when she had imagined herself so terribly, hopelessly in love with her brother-in-law Dominic; Charlotte herself walking up the aisle on her father’s arm to stand by Pitt at the altar. She had been certain then that she was doing the right thing, despite all the mounting fears, the knowledge she would lose many friends and the security of position and money.

She was still sure it was right. There had been hardships, of course, things she would have considered drudgery eight years ago. Now her world was immeasurably wider, and she knew that even on a policeman’s pay, with a little allowance of her own from her family, she was by far one of the world’s most fortunate souls. She was seldom cold and never hungry, nor did she lack for any necessity. She had known a multitude of experiences, but never tedium, never the fear that she was wasting her life in useless pursuits, never the endless hours of embroidery no one cared about, the painting of different watercolors, the deadly calls, the dreadful tea parties full of gossip.

Emily looked marvelous. She was wearing her favorite water green silk, set against ivory and embroidered with pearls. Her hair was perfectly dressed, like a pale aureole in the sunlight, and her fair skin was flushed with excitement and happiness.

Jack Radley had no money and probably never would have, nor a title; Emily would cease to be Lady Ashworth, and it had cost her a moment’s regret. But Jack had charm, wit, and a remarkable ability for companionship. And since George’s death he had proved he had both courage and generosity of spirit. Emily not only loved him, she liked him enormously.

Charlotte slipped her hand into Pitt’s and felt his fingers tighten over hers. She watched the ceremony with happiness for Emily and no shadow of anxiety for the future.

Pitt was obliged to leave almost as soon as the formal part of the ceremony was over. He remained only long enough to congratulate Jack, kiss Emily, and greet Caroline and Grandmama, and Great-aunt Vespasia in the vestry.

“Good morning, Thomas,” Vespasia said gravely. “I am delighted you were able to come.”

Pitt clutched Micah Drummond’s hat and smiled back at her.

“I am sorry for having been so late,” he said sincerely, “and for having to leave in such haste.”

“No doubt a pressing case.” She raised her fine silver eyebrows.

“Very,” he agreed, knowing she was curious. “An unpleasant murder.”

“London is full of them,” she replied. “Is it of personal motive?”

“I doubt it.”

“Then a thankless task for you, and requiring little of your peculiar skills. No social issue, I presume?”

“None so far. It looks to be merely political, or perhaps the work of a random madman.”

“An ordinary violence, then.”

He knew she was vaguely disappointed that there was no opportunity for her to meddle, even vicariously through Charlotte or Emily; he knew also that she did not wish to admit it.

“Very pedestrian,” he agreed soberly. “If that is what it proves to be.”

“Thomas—”

“Excuse me, ma’am.” And with a little bow he smiled once more at Emily, turned, and walked briskly away, through the church gateway and down Lower Belgrave Street towards Buckingham Palace Road.

A small reception was to be given in one of the town houses in Eaton Square by a good friend of Emily’s, and after a few more moments they all walked across the street in the sun, first Emily on Jack’s arm followed by Caroline and Edward, then Charlotte and her children. Dominic offered his arm to Great-aunt Vespasia, and she accepted it graciously, although her mind was still on the retreating figure of Pitt. Grandmama was escorted, grumbling all the way, by a close friend of the groom.

It was the beginning of a new stage of life for Emily.

Then Charlotte suddenly thought of the women in the public meeting, some so outrageously complacent, so sure of their comfort, their unassailable positions, others risking derision and notoriety to fight for a cause that was surely hopeless. How many had once been brides like this, full of hope and uncertainty, dreaming of happiness, companionship, safety of the heart?

And how many had ended a few short years later like the woman Ivory they had spoken of with such disdain—fighting for redress, a byword for unhappiness?

She had barely mentioned that meeting to Pitt, there had been so much else to think of, but it was there at the back of her mind.

This was different, though. Emily was in love, the radiance of her face mirrored that—but she had never been naïve, never lost sight of the practical in all the romance.

Charlotte smiled as she recalled their girlhood, the long hours spent talking of the futures they planned, the gallant and handsome men they would find. It was Emily who never completely let go of reality, even at twelve with her hair in pigtails and a white starched pinafore over her dress. Emily always kept one toe on the ground. It was Charlotte whose dreams took flight and soared from the world!

Champagne was poured, toasts were made, there were speeches and laughter, and Charlotte joined in, happy for Emily, delighted by the glamor and the romance, the lights and glasses, the flowers with their heady perfume, the rustle of taffeta and silk.

She put a few tiny pastries on a plate and took them over to her grandmother sitting on a chair in the comer.

The old lady took them, surveyed them carefully, and picked out the largest. “Where did you say they were going?” she asked. “You told me, and I forgot.”

“Paris, and then a tour of Italy,” Charlotte replied. She tried to keep the envy from her voice. She herself had had only a long weekend at Margate, and then Pitt had had to go back on duty, and she had spent the next month moving into the first tiny house, with rooms smaller than the maids’ quarters in her family home. She had had to learn to manage for a month on money she would previously have spent on one gown, and how to cook, where she once would have instructed the kitchen staff. It did not matter, really, but she would have loved just once to sail off in a ship, to visit foreign places, dine splendidly, not so much for the food but for the romance of it! She would like to see Venice, to drift on a canal by moonlight and hear the gondoliers singing across the water; to see Florence, that city of great artists, and walk among the ruins of Rome dreaming of the grandeur and glory of great ages past.

“Very nice,” Grandmama agreed, nodding her head. “Every young girl should do it some time in her life, the earlier the better. A civilizing influence, as long as it is not taken too seriously. One should learn about foreigners, but never imitate them.”

“Yes Grandmama,” Charlotte said absently.

“Of course you wouldn’t know that!” the old lady went on. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever see Calais, never mind Venice or Rome!”

It was true, and this time Charlotte had no heart to answer.

“Told you that before,” the old woman added vindictively. “But you never listen. Never did, even as a child. But you’ve made your bed, and you must lie in it.”

Charlotte stood up and went to Emily. The formal part of the celebration was over, and she and Jack were preparing to leave. She looked so happy Charlotte felt tears in her eyes as the emotions churned inside her, joy for Emily at this moment and relief for the shadows that were past, the grief and the mourning, the terror as suspicion had hemmed her in, hope for the years ahead, envy for the adventures and the shared laughter, the new sights and the glamor.

She put her arms round Emily and hugged her.

“Write to me. Tell me of all the beautiful things you see, the buildings and the paintings, the canals in Venice. Tell me about the people, and if they’re funny or charming or odd. Tell me about the fashions and the food, the weather—everything!”

“Of course! I’ll write a letter every day and post them when I can,” Emily promised, tightening her own arms round Charlotte. “Don’t get into any adventures while I’m gone, or if you do, be careful!” She held her sister a little tighter. “I love you, Charlotte. And thank you for being there, all the time, ever since we were little.” Then she was on her way, clinging to Jack’s arm and smiling at everyone, her eyes full of tears, her gorgeous dress sweeping and rustling.

Several days passed by, with Pitt pursuing every avenue in the investigation of the murder of Sir Lockwood Hamilton. The details of his business were checked more thoroughly, but the accounts of the firm’s property purchases and sales yielded nothing more than they had at first glance. Not one of them was out of the ordinary with regard either to unfair acquisition through pressure of any kind, or to any advantage being taken of others’ misfortune, nor had any holding been sold at unreasonable profit. It appeared that it was exactly as Charles Verdun had said, a business in which Hamilton took some share of the profit but little in the conduct, and in which Verdun himself employed his time because he enjoyed it.