A Study In Scarlet Women (3 page)

Mrs. Gladwell was the widow of Sir Henry's cousin, a stylish, vivacious woman in her late thirties. She lived twenty miles away and occasionally called on the Holmes household. Mrs. Holmes didn't care for her. She sniffed whenever Mrs. Gladwell's name was brought up and deemed her “common.” “Vulgar,” even, sometimes. Sir Henry, however, always insisted that Mrs. Gladwell be made to feel welcome, since she was family.

Mrs. Gladwell spent part of the year in Torquay, a balmy seaside resort. Upon her return she would call upon the Holmes girls, gifts in tow. For that reason, even Henrietta, otherwise a reliable ally for Lady Holmes, couldn't disapprove of Mrs. Gladwell with any kind of sincerity.

In the course of that particular visit, Henrietta, who loved her wardrobe, received a chic new straw boater. To Livia, who wrote copiously in her diary, Mrs. Gladwell gave a handsome journal with
an image of the Devon Coast on the cover and a bottle of novelty ink that was a beautiful lilac. And Charlotte, whose one true love was food, but whose diet Lady Holmes carefully watched for fear she would balloon to an unacceptable size, got a scrapbook of preserved seaweed, with dozens of delicate feather-like specimens ranging from pale green to robust maroon.

That evening, the girls were home alone with their governess, Sir Henry and Lady Holmes having gone out to dine at Squire Holyoke's. While Miss Lawton was supervising Bernadine at her bath—Bernadine suffered from occasional seizures and could not be left alone in a tub of water—Charlotte had taken Livia by the hand and pulled her into Sir Henry's study.

“We're not supposed to be here!” Livia had whispered, her heart thudding. She liked a minor dose of the forbidden as much as the next girl, but Henrietta was home and Henrietta lived to snitch.

“Henrietta is changing,” said Charlotte.

“I guess that's all right then.” Henrietta, at sixteen, dined with their parents when the latter were home and otherwise alone at the big table. She loved the ritual of changing into her dinner gown and could be counted on to spend forever coiffing her hair and trying on different petticoats until she found one that best complemented the shape of the dress. “But why are we here? What do you want to show me?”

Charlotte lifted a paperweight from Sir Henry's desk and held it out toward Livia.

“I've seen it.” Livia, too, sometimes snooped around Sir Henry's study. “He got it from that place he went to in Norfolk on the trip with his classmates.”

Twice a year Sir Henry went on a gentlemen-only excursion with old boys from Harrow. He'd returned from the latest one three days ago and Livia had peeked in on the paperweight when it was still sitting in a box that declared
A gift for you from Cromer is within
.

“Look closer,” said Charlotte.

Charlotte was no longer the mute she'd once been, but still she didn't utter much beyond what was required, the “Morning, Vicar” variety and the occasional “How do you do?” to people she was meeting for the first time. So when she did speak, Livia paid attention.

She gazed down to the photographic image at the bottom of the glass paperweight, which depicted a large building, several stories tall. “Isn't this the hotel he stayed at when he was in Cromer?”

Charlotte pulled out a postcard from the pocket of her blue frock. “I found this in the book of preserved seaweeds.”

On the postcard was a near replica of the image in the paperweight.
The Imperial Hotel, Torquay
, said the caption. Livia sucked in a breath. That Mrs. Gladwell had such a postcard was hardly surprising, since that was where she'd holidayed. But for Sir Henry to have come back from his trip with a keepsake smacking of Devon, when he should have been several hundred miles away on the coast of the North Sea . . .

“How did he get a souvenir from Torquay?”

“Either he was given one by someone who had been there or he was there himself.”

“Why did he put it in a box that said it was from Cromer?”

“Why does Henrietta lie about finding a length of ribbon in her trunk when she bought it?”

Livia's stomach rolled over: It was because Henrietta knew she was doing something she wasn't supposed to.

“But what was Papa doing in Torquay? And why didn't he take us there with him?” Insight burst into Livia's head with the force of an explosion. “Good gracious! He was there with Mrs. Gladwell.”

Charlotte didn't appear in the least surprised. Livia realized that her sister had already come to that conclusion and that was why she had wanted to show Livia the evidence.

“You mustn't tell Mamma, Charlotte. You understand?”

“I won't say anything, but I think Mamma knows. Or suspects, at least. You know she rifles through Papa's study, too, when he's not home.”

Livia stared at Charlotte's round, pink-cheeked face, cherubic as ever. Was this why Lady Holmes so disliked Mrs. Gladwell? And dear God, did Sir Henry mean to leave this paperweight where Lady Holmes was sure to see it, and then have a postcard bearing the exact same image come into the house—something the girl who found it would probably display in her room—thereby rubbing his seaside holiday with his mistress in his wife's face?

Was
that
what Charlotte had wanted to tell Livia?

“Do you think he's in love with Mrs. Gladwell?”

Livia couldn't decide which would be worse, that their father loved someone else or that he was unfaithful to their mother with a woman he didn't even love.

“No,” said Charlotte decisively. “Come here.”

There was a box inside the bottom drawer of Sir Henry's desk, a box secured with a dark bronze, strange-looking lock, which Livia guessed to be some sort of Chinese antique. Its shape was a barrel formed by five rotating disks, which bore Chinese characters that had once been painted with gold lacquer but had now faded almost to the point of illegibility.

Livia knew about the box. She'd understood instinctively that the lock would open if she lined up the correct characters. But when she'd tried on a previous occasion, with their parents out of the house, she'd become frustrated after dozens of unsuccessful attempts.

Charlotte, however, peered at the lock and turned the disks one by one with great confidence.

“You tried enough times to find out the correct combination?” Livia marveled.

“No. Papa doesn't read Chinese any more than we do. If you look at the lock in strong light, you can see smudges of pencil marks around some of the characters. And when you line those up—”

Charlotte drew back the pin, set the lock aside, and held out the now open box to Livia.

The first thing Livia saw was a newspaper clipping, which announced Sir Henry's engagement to someone named Lady Amelia Drummond.

Next came a wedding invitation. “But this can't be right. The wedding was on—that's the day of Mamma and Papa's wedding. You don't suppose Mamma is secretly Lady Amelia Drummond?”

Charlotte shook her head and gestured Livia to lift the invitation. At the very bottom of the box lay a small photograph, of a young Sir Henry and a handsome and very superior-looking young lady who was most certainly not Lady Holmes.

Livia stared at the picture. “Did this Lady Amelia jilt Papa? And did he marry someone else on the original wedding day to spite her?”

Charlotte locked the box again and put it back carefully. Then she went to the door, peered out, and beckoned Livia to follow her. Once they had ascended the stairs to their room, Livia sat on the bed, her head in her hands, and tried to cope with the day's revelations.

“Do you think Mamma found out that he married her on the day he was supposed to marry Lady Amelia?”

“Yes.”

“Before or after?”

Charlotte thought for a minute. “After.”

That made sense. Lady Holmes's parents had been respectable but short on funds; without the means to afford a Season for their daughter, they might not have kept up with the flood of matrimonial news coming out of London.

Not to mention, Lady Holmes wouldn't be so disillusioned if she'd known what she was getting into in the first place.

“I wonder why Mamma doesn't have the equivalent of a Mrs. Gladwell. Do you think she wants to?”

At Charlotte's placid question, Livia bolted upright. “Have an affair? I've no idea if she wants to, but I'm sure Papa would be extremely cross if she were to.”

“Why? He does it. And he doesn't seem at all ashamed about it.”

“I can't explain it. I just know he'd be angry.”

Charlotte considered this, her face as serene as that of an angel on a Christmas card. “That's not fair, is it?”

“Of course it's unfair but that's how it is.”

“I don't like it.”

“Neither do I. I hate it. But we have to live with it.”

Charlotte was silent. Down the passage Henrietta's door opened. The heels of her evening slippers clicked forcefully as she descended to dinner.

“Must we?” asked Charlotte.

This question, somehow, shocked Livia more than the ones that preceded it. She tossed the postcard into the grate and set it on fire. “Yes, we must. There's nothing else to do but to live with it.”

The matter of Sir Henry's romantic liaisons and their effect on Lady Holmes wasn't mentioned again until two years later, when Henrietta, at eighteen, became engaged before the end of her first Season.

Shortly afterward Livia and Charlotte met Mr. Cumberland, her fiancé. With every last ounce of her self-control, Livia managed not to roll her eyes during the encounter—Mr. Cumberland wasn't nearly as insufferable as Henrietta, but good gracious that man was dumb as a post.

“That poor idiot,” she said to Charlotte as soon as they were alone.

Charlotte opened the drawer of her nightstand and took out her contraband, a large piece of plum pound cake that she'd smuggled out of the kitchen. “I agree.”

Livia huffed. “Anybody willing to marry Henrietta has to be an idiot.”

Charlotte nodded absently, her attention on the cake. Lady Holmes was unhappy that for all the restrictions placed on Charlotte's diet, the latter had not become any less tubby. Livia used to delight in the trafficking of buns and puddings for Charlotte, as much to defy her mother as to savor Charlotte's inexpressible joy as she sank her teeth into forbidden fruits. But lately Livia was beginning to be remorseful about her role as Charlotte's abettor and procurer: The prevailing fashion was unforgiving and Charlotte was going to be awfully uncomfortable in those whale-boned, steel-ribbed corsets the only purpose of which was to manhandle a woman's body into a wasp-waisted figure.

Well, provided that someday Charlotte could be persuaded to abandon her dedication to her blue broadcloth frock, the only dress she had worn for years, remade every eighteen months or so to accommodate for her growing height.

“Well, don't just assault your cake,” Livia went on. “Tell me why
you
think Mr. Cumberland is an idiot.”

It was possible to hold a minor conversation with Charlotte these days, if one was willing to prompt her at every turn. Charlotte didn't seem to mind being asked to speak, though she often volunteered to take Henrietta's shift with Bernadine: One didn't need to say anything, sitting with Bernadine. In fact, the opposite was true—the less one tried to talk to Bernadine, the less frustrating those sessions were.

“He doesn't lack for money,” said Charlotte, “but the fit of his clothes is terrible—he clearly doesn't know how to choose a tailor. And he thinks one showy knot of the necktie makes up for bad shoes
and trousers that are too short. Besides, his valet is robbing him blind.”

“What?”

“The diamond on his stickpin is paste. Since he wouldn't have bought a paste stickpin, his valet probably sold the original and put in a cheap replica.”

Livia had been half reclining on their bed. She leaped to the floor. “Shouldn't we tell Henrietta that he employs a thief?”

“Henrietta was the one who showed me how to tell a real diamond from paste,” Charlotte said, as placid as she always was when she dropped these bombshell observations. “She knows. She'll make sure the valet's gone soon.”

“But to knowingly accept a proposal from this moron—I almost feel sorry for Henrietta.”

“Don't. He's exactly what she's been looking for. Henrietta isn't stupid. She isn't going to marry someone like Papa. She wants someone she can control and now she has one.”

Livia grimaced. “Are we sure that he does have sufficient funds? Not like us—all appearances.”

Charlotte had first pointed out, a year earlier, that Cook wasn't putting the correct amount of butter in her pound cake anymore, which led to the discovery that the allowance Cook had for purchasing ingredients had been significantly reduced. But it was Livia who took the audacious step of steaming open a letter for Sir Henry from his bank, and that was how they found out that the house was heavily mortgaged and their parents deep in debt.