Betrayal at Lisson Grove (11 page)

It would be no use whatever to Pitt having the Queen appreciate him for a few minutes if the Prince of Wales were his enemy for years.

That Pitt had been Narraway’s man from the beginning, his protégé, had bred envy, and in some cases fear. With Narraway gone it would be only a matter of time before Pitt too was dismissed or – worse than that – met with an accident.

Then another thought occurred to her, ugly and even more imperative. If Narraway were innocent, as he claimed, then someone had deliberately reorganised evidence to make him look guilty. They could do the same to Pitt. In fact it was quite possible that if Pitt had had anything whatever to do with the case, then he might already be implicated. As soon as he was home from France he would walk straight into the trap. Only a fool would allow him time to mount a defence, still less to find proof of his innocence, and at the same time, presumably their guilt.

But why? Was it really an old vengeance against Narraway? Or did Narraway know something that his enemy could not afford to have him pursue? Whatever it was, whatever Narraway had done, or not done, she must protect Pitt. Narraway could not be guilty, that was the only thing of which she had no doubt.

Now she must find someone to look after Jemima and Daniel while she was away. Oh, damn Mrs Waterman! The stupid creature!

 

Charlotte was tired enough to sleep quite well, but when she woke in the morning, the previous evening all flooded back to her. She remembered that not only had she to make breakfast herself – not an unfamiliar task, since in the early days of her marriage she had done it always – but then she had to see Mrs Waterman on her way, and explain to Daniel and Jemima at least something of what had happened. It might be easier to Jemima, but how would Daniel, at ten, grasp enough of the idea at least to believe her? She must make sure he did not imagine it was in any way his fault.

Then she must tackle the real task of the day: finding someone trustworthy with whom to leave her children, and do it instantly. Put in such simple words, the thought overwhelmed her. She stood in her nightgown in the centre of the bedroom floor, cold with failure.

And yet she must go. She must fight for a future better than Pitt going from place to place trying to find a job for which he was suited, and for which someone would hire him. It would humiliate him. He had commanded men in Bow Street, required all manner of people to answer his questions, gone into great houses through the front door, not at the back like a beggar.

Standing here shivering would achieve nothing. She might as well get dressed while she weighed it up. A white blouse and a plain brown skirt would be fine. She was going to do chores, after all.

When Charlotte went downstairs, Mrs Waterman was waiting in the hall, her one suitcase by the door. Charlotte was tempted to be sorry for her, but the moment passed. There was too much to do for her to relent, even if Mrs Waterman wanted her to. This was an inconvenience. There were disasters on the horizon.

‘Good morning, Mrs Waterman,’ she said politely. ‘I am sorry you feel it necessary to go, but perhaps in the circumstances it is better. You will forgive me if I do not draw this out. I have to find someone to replace you by this evening. I hope you find yourself suited very soon. Good day to you.’

‘I’m sure I will, ma’am,’ Mrs Waterman replied, and with such conviction that it flashed across Charlotte’s mind to wonder if perhaps she already had. Sometimes domestic staff, especially cooks, found a cause to give notice in order to avail themselves of a position they preferred, or thought more advantageous for themselves.

‘Yes, I imagine you will land on your feet,’ Charlotte said a trifle brusquely.

Mrs Waterman gave her a cold look, drew breath to respond, then changed her mind and opened the front door. With some difficulty she dragged her case outside, then went to the kerb to hail a cab.

Charlotte closed the door as Jemima came down the stairs. She would be Charlotte’s height by the time she was a woman, and – from the softer lines of her body and the air of confidence as she walked – that was not far away.

‘Where’s Mrs Waterman going?’ she asked. ‘It’s breakfast time.’

There was no point in evasion. ‘She is leaving us,’ Charlotte replied quietly.

‘At this time in the morning?’ Jemima’s eyebrows rose. They were elegant, slightly winged, exactly like Charlotte’s own.

‘It was that, or last night,’ Charlotte answered.

‘Did she steal something?’ Jemima reached the bottom stair. ‘Are you sure? She’s so terribly good I can’t believe she’d do that. She’d never be able to face herself in the glass. Come to think of it, perhaps she doesn’t anyway. She might crack it.’

‘Jemima! That is rude, and most unkind,’ Charlotte said sharply. ‘But true,’ she added. ‘I did not ask her to leave. It is actually very inconvenient indeed . . .’

Daniel appeared at the top of the stairs, considered sliding down the banister, saw his mother at the bottom, and changed his mind. He came down the steps in a self-consciously dignified manner, as if that had always been his intention.

‘Is Mrs Waterman going?’ he asked hopefully.

‘She’s already gone,’ Charlotte answered.

‘Oh, good. Is Gracie coming back?’

‘No, of course she isn’t,’ Jemima put in. ‘She’s married. She’s got to stay at home and look after her husband. We’ll get someone else, won’t we, Mama?’

‘Yes. As soon as we’ve had breakfast and you’ve gone to school, I shall begin looking.’

‘Where do you look?’ Daniel asked curiously as he followed her down the passage to the kitchen. It was shining clean after last night’s dinner. Mrs Waterman had left it immaculate, but not a thing was started for breakfast. Not even the stove was lit. It was still full of yesterday’s ashes and barely warm to the touch. It would take some time to rake it out and lay it, light it and wait for it to heat – too long for a hot breakfast of any sort before school. Even tea and toast required the use of the stove.

Charlotte controlled her temper with difficulty. If she could have been granted one wish, other than Pitt being home, it would have been to have Gracie back. Just her cheerful spirit, her frankness, her refusal ever to give in, would have made it easier.

But she wasn’t, and Charlotte could never be anything but happy for her that at last she had achieved the dreams that had once seemed impossible to her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Daniel and Jemima, ‘but we’ll have to wait until tonight for something hot. It’ll be bread and jam for us all this morning, and a glass of milk.’ She went to the pantry to fetch the milk, butter and jam without waiting for their response. She was already trying to find words to tell them that she had to leave and go to Ireland. Except that she couldn’t, if she didn’t find someone totally trustworthy, and how could she do that in half a day? It would have to be a matter of thinking of someone they could stay with. As an absolutely final resort she could take them to Emily’s home for the servants to look after, until Charlotte could get back from Ireland, or Pitt from France – or even Emily herself from Paris.

She came back with the milk, butter and jam, and put them on the table. Jemima was setting out the knives, and spoons for the jam; Daniel was putting the glasses out one at a time. Charlotte felt a sudden tightening in her chest. How could she have contemplated leaving them with the disapproving Mrs Waterman? Blast Emily for being away now, when she was so badly needed!

She turned and opened the bread bin, took out the loaf and set it on the board with the knife.

‘Thank you,’ she accepted the last glass. ‘I know it’s a little early, but we had better begin. I knew Mrs Waterman was going. I should have been up sooner and lit the stove. I didn’t even think of it. I’m sorry.’ She cut three slices of bread and offered them. They each took one, buttered it and chose the jam they liked best: gooseberry for Jemima, blackcurrant for Daniel – like his father – and apricot for Charlotte. She poured the milk.

‘Why did she go, Mama?’ Daniel asked.

For once Charlotte did not bother to tell him not to speak with his mouth full. His question deserved an honest answer, but how much would he understand? He was looking at her now with solemn grey eyes exactly like his father’s. Jemima waited with the bread halfway to her mouth. Perhaps the whole truth, briefly and without fear, was the only way to avoid having to lie later, as more and more emerged. If they ever found her lying to them, even if they understood the reason, their trust would be broken.

‘Mr Narraway, your father’s superior, called a few evenings ago to tell me that your father had to go to France, without being able to let us know. He didn’t want us to worry when he didn’t come home—’

‘You told us,’ Jemima interrupted. ‘Why did Mrs Waterman go?’

‘Mr Narraway came again yesterday evening, quite late. He stayed for a little while, because something very bad had happened to him. He has been blamed for something he didn’t do, and he is no longer your father’s superior. That matters rather a lot, so he had to let me know.’

Jemima frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Why did Mrs Waterman go? Can’t we pay her any more?’

‘Yes, certainly we can,’ Charlotte said quickly, although that might not always be true. ‘She went because she didn’t approve of Mr Narraway coming here and telling me in the evening.’

‘Why not?’ Daniel put his bread down and stared at her. ‘Shouldn’t he have told you? And how does she know? Is she in the police as well?’

Pitt had not explained to his children the differences between the police, detecting any type of crime, and Special Branch, a force created originally to deal with violence, sometimes treason, or any other threat to the safety of the country. But this was not the time to address that.

‘No,’ Charlotte said. ‘It is not her concern at all. She thought I should not have received any man after dark when your father was not here. She said it wasn’t decent, and she couldn’t remain in a house where the mistress did not behave with proper decorum. I tried to explain to her that it was an emergency, but she did not believe me.’ If she did not have more urgent problems, that would still have rankled.

Daniel still looked puzzled, but it was clear that Jemima understood.

‘If she hadn’t left anyway, then you should have thrown her out,’ she said angrily. ‘That’s impertinent.’ She was immediately defensive of her mother, and ‘impertinent’ was her new favourite word of condemnation.

‘Yes it was,’ Charlotte agreed. She had been going to tell them about her need to go to Ireland, but changed her mind. Perhaps this was sufficient to deal with at one time. And there was no need to alarm them before she had worked out some way of keeping them safe and cared for. ‘But since she did leave of her own will, it doesn’t matter. May I have the butter, please, Daniel?’

He passed it to her. ‘What’s going to happen to Mr Narraway? Is Papa going to help him?’

‘He can’t,’ Jemima pointed out. ‘He’s in France.’ She looked questioningly at Charlotte to support her, if she was right.

‘Well, who is, then?’ Daniel persisted.

There was no escape, except lies. Charlotte took a deep breath. ‘I am, if I can think of a way. Now please finish your breakfast so I can get you on your way to school, and begin looking for someone to replace Mrs Waterman.’

 

But when she put on an apron and knelt to clear the ashes out of the grate in the stove, then laid a new fire ready to light when she returned, finding a new maid did not seem nearly as simple a thing to accomplish as she had implied to Daniel and Jemima. It was not merely a woman to cook and clean that she required. It was someone who would be completely reliable, kind, and – if any emergency arose – who would know what to do, who to contact, and would do so.

If she were in Ireland, who would they ask for help? Was she even right to go? Which was the greater emergency? Should she ask any new maid, if she could find one, to call Great-aunt Vespasia, if she needed help? Vespasia was close to seventy, although she might not look it, and certainly had not retired from any part of life. Her passion, courage and energy would put to shame many a thirty-year-old, and she had always been a leader in the highest society. Her great beauty had changed, but not dimmed. But was she the person to make decisions should a child be ill, or there be some other domestic crisis such as a blocked drain, a broken tap, or if the coal ran out, the chimney was on fire, and so on?

Gracie had risen to all such occasions, at one time or another.

Charlotte stood up, washed her hands in water that was almost cold, and took off her apron. She would ask Gracie’s advice. It was something of a desperate step to disturb her new-found happiness so soon, but it was a desperate situation. Please heaven, Gracie was at home!

It was an omnibus ride, but not a very long one, to the small red-brick house where Gracie and Tellman lived. They had the whole of the ground floor to themselves, including the front garden. This was quite an achievement for a couple so young, but then Tellman was twelve years older than Gracie, and had worked extremely hard to gain promotion to sergeant in the Metropolitan Police. Pitt still missed working with him.

Charlotte walked up to the front door and knocked briskly, holding her breath in anticipation. If Gracie were not in, she had no idea where she could turn next.

But the door opened and Gracie stood just inside, five foot tall with her smart boots on, and wearing a dress that, for once, was nobody else’s cast-off altered to fit her. There was no need to ask if she was happy; it radiated from her face like heat from a stove.

‘Mrs Pitt! Yer come ter see me! Samuel in’t ’ere now,’e’s gorn already, but come in an ’ave a cup o’ tea.’ She pulled the door open even wider and stepped back.

Charlotte accepted, forcing herself to think of Gracie’s new house, her pride and happiness, before she said anything of her own need. She followed Gracie inside along a linoleum-floored passage, polished to a gleaming finish, and into the small kitchen at the back. It too was immaculately clean and smelled of lemon and soap, even this early in the morning. The stove was lit and there was well-kneaded bread sitting in pans on the sill, rising gently. It would soon be ready to bake.