A Study In Scarlet Women (8 page)

She watched Charlotte with Bernadine, but for only a moment. It always made her both dejected and angry—at God himself, perhaps—to see the futility of anyone trying to interact with Bernadine. Charlotte was less bothered by Bernadine's condition and spoke to her softly and calmly, an adult to another adult.

Livia waited in the passage until Charlotte was done. Then she accompanied her sister to the carriage—and climbed in first. “If you think I'll limit myself to saying good-bye here—”

“I never thought that.”

During the ride Charlotte told Livia about the registries and societies that helped women find employment, lodging, and companionship, which was somewhat heartening—Livia had no idea there were so many resources available. But all too soon they came to a stop before the hotel where Charlotte would spend the night.

Panic assailed Livia. She gripped Charlotte's wrists. “Are you sure, Charlotte? Are you sure you can do this?”

Charlotte nodded. In the light from the carriage lanterns, she seemed to be made of granite, all cool, solid strength.

Livia pressed a small pouch into her hand. “Take this.”

In the pouch were a crumpled pound note, several shillings, and three pairs of gold earrings. “This is all the money I brought with me to London. I have more in my bank account. If you're in trouble, let me know. I'll funnel you funds.”

Charlotte blinked several times in rapid succession—and looked
as if she wanted to say something. But in the end she only embraced Livia. “I'll be absolutely fine. You'll see.”

So rushed, their good-byes. So complete, the silence and emptiness of the carriage. Livia stared at the sidewalks, crowded with wide-eyed tourists and insouciant young men in evening attire, strolling toward their next venue of diversion.

Her mind was sinking into a dark place. Sister, companion, refuge, hope—Charlotte was everything Livia had in life. Now she was gone, and Livia had nothing.

Nothing at all.

The carriage took a turn—a few more minutes and she would be back at the house her parents had hired for the Season, where there would be more silence and greater emptiness.

She would be alone. She would be alone for the rest of eternity.

Before she knew it, she'd yanked hard on the bell pull.

“Yes, miss?” came Mott's voice through the speaking slot.

“I'm not going home,” she said. “I have a different destination in mind.”

T
he pain behind Livia's forehead corroded the backs of her eyes. Her tongue felt as if she'd used it to clean the grate. And when she tried to move, it became clear that a maniacal sprite was drilling holes into her temples.

It was morning and she'd spent the night in the guest room—in order to be able to lie more convincingly about not knowing when Charlotte had escaped.

She kept dreaming of Charlotte's sweet, sad face. And for some reason, Charlotte's features insisted on turning into Lady Shrewsbury's, all pinched lips and jutting cheekbones. Livia had screamed at the hateful woman for ruining Charlotte's life.

For ruining all their lives.

Groaning, Livia staggered out of bed: She needed to go down and delay her parents' discovery of Charlotte's absence for as long as possible.

She barely made it to the top of the stairs when Lady Holmes stomped up, a wild expression on her face. “You will never guess what happened!”

Her voice scratched across Livia's skull. A wave of nausea pounded her. “Wh—what happened?”

Had Lady Holmes already found out that Charlotte was gone?

“Lady Shrewsbury is
dead
.”

Livia braced a hand on the newel post, her incredulity shot through with an incipient dread. “How can that be?”

“They found her expired early this morning. The doctor's already been and declared it an aneurysm of the brain. But
I
think it's divine justice. The way she came and shoved all the blame on us, when it was her own son who was the cad and the bounder? She deserved it.”

Livia shuddered at her mother's callousness. “I don't believe the Almighty strikes anyone dead solely for being petty, or even hypocritical.”

“I happen to be convinced that sometimes He does.” Lady Holmes's tone was triumphant. “And maybe this is the year He smites those who have been thorns in my side.”

It took Livia a moment to realize that Lady Holmes was referring to Lady Amelia Drummond. That name had never been brought up in the Holmes household, certainly not in Livia's hearing. But Lady Amelia's abrupt death—she'd been in perfect health and vigor only the day before—had been quite the topic of gossip for the past fortnight.

Lady Holmes shoved past Livia.

“Wait. Is that all you know? Are there no other details?”

Lady Holmes stopped and thought for a moment. Then she snorted. “Mrs. Neeley said Roger Shrewsbury is devastated. Said he is sure his disgrace sent his mother into an early grave. How typical of a man, to think the world revolves around him.”

“Wait. Is—”

Lady Holmes marched on in the direction of Livia and Charlotte's room. “When will you learn to be quiet, Olivia? I have other things to do than standing there and answering your questions—especially today.”

The silence, as Lady Holmes threw open the door, was thunderous.

Her question, when it came at last, deafened. “
Where
is Charlotte?”

Charlotte had been everywhere in London this day, or at least it felt that way to her throbbing feet.

By midmorning she—or rather, Miss Caroline Holmes from Tunbridge, typist—had secured a room at Mrs. Wallace's boardinghouse, a very respectable place at a very respectable location near Cavendish Square.

The rest of her first day of freedom was spent whittling away at her scant funds. She was obliged to acquire a tea kettle, a chipped tea service, a spirit lamp on which to heat water, silverware and flatware, tooth powder, towels, and bed linens—plus a number of other miscellany that a young woman accustomed to living at her parents' house never needed to worry about.

She tried to think of her purchases as an investment for the future, for when she and Livia—and Bernadine, too—would have a place of their own and direction over their collective existence.

But that dream was taking its last labored breaths, wasn't it, all alone in a ditch somewhere?

Bernadine might not care much one way or the other, but Livia, Livia who was so proud, so fragile, and so constantly doubtful of herself . . .

Livia who mistrusted humanity yet feared being alone.

Charlotte had been Livia's companion; she listened when Livia wanted to talk and remained quiet when Livia wanted to hear herself think. And Charlotte, too, had been a target of Lady Holmes's wrath, with her refusal of proposal after proposal. But now Livia was unsupported and unshielded. Now she was all alone before both a scornful Society and a pair of livid parents with no other outlet for their anger.

Charlotte passed Cavendish Square, the trees and shrubs of which were dingy with soot. The air in London had always been terrible, but far more so for a woman who must walk all day long than one who had a carriage at her disposal. By midday, as she stood before the mirror in her new room at Mrs. Wallace's, the top of her ruffled collar was already marked by a ring of grime on the inside. She didn't want to think of its advanced state of soil after several more hours out and about.

Turning onto Wimpole Street, she made a stop at Atwell & Dewsbury, Pharmaceutical Chemists. Mrs. Wallace had recommended the place for the purchase of incidentals. Charlotte had visited the shop earlier in the day to buy bathing soap and matches—and to take a look at the selection of books that customers could borrow for a penny apiece.

But of course she hadn't thought of everything. This time Mr. Atwell kindly sold her some stationery. And a package of one hundred perforated pieces of tissue for the water closet, wrapped in brown paper and without either of them ever mentioning it by name.

As she stepped out of the shop, a dapper older gentleman sauntered past on the opposite side of the street. He looked so much like Sir Henry she came to a dead halt.

Had she been angrier at him or herself? The latter, most likely. Livia had warned her repeatedly not to trust their father's promises. But she had been deaf to those warnings—willfully deaf. Not that she thought Sir Henry the kind of paragon he most emphatically wasn't, but because she believed that her good opinion and good will meant something to him.

They probably did, but not enough, in the end, to make any difference.

Mrs. Wallace's place was around the corner. When Charlotte walked in, most of the boarders were milling about in the common room, socializing before supper.

“I'll bet the girl's mum is having a right laugh this minute,” said a vivacious brunette. “Goodness knows I would, if the old woman what caught my daughter and acted so hoity-toity about it is found dead the next morning.”

Charlotte's ears heated as if a curling iron had been held too close.

“You don't think the girl's family had something to do with it?” said another woman. She was no more than twenty-one and looked excitable.

“Which old woman?” asked Charlotte.

The brunette turned toward her. “You must be the new girl. Miss Holmes, is it?” she asked, her demeanor friendly.

“Yes. Nice to meet you, Miss . . .”

“Whitbread. Nan Whitbread, and this is Miss Spooner.”

They all shook hands.

“I didn't mean to interrupt, but what you were talking about sounded fascinating.”

“Oh, it is. My cousin works at one of the fancy dressmakers on Regent Street,” said Miss Whitbread. “And she kept hearing about it all day from the clients. They weren't talking to her, of course, but among themselves, about the lady what caught her married son having a go at this young lady, hung the young lady out to dry, and then woke up dead the next morning.”

Lady Shrewsbury
was
dead?
Dead?

“Oh, my,” Charlotte mumbled. “Just like that?”

“That's what they say. Can't remember the name for it, the condition what makes you bleed in the head.”

“An aneurysm of the brain?” Charlotte supplied.

“Sounds about right. First-rate story, ain't it? Oh, I mean, isn't it?” Miss Whitbread lowered her voice. “Mrs. Wallace don't like us using ‘ain't' around here. Says it isn't ladylike.”

“And if you got a young man who's sweet on you, don't ever mention it to her—or Miss Turner,” added Miss Spooner. “We aren't supposed to have any gentlemen friends at all.”

“'Specially not a young man like Miss Spooner's. He takes her out to tea shops and feeds her suppers,” said Miss Whitbread with a wink.

“Shh,” warned Miss Spooner, laughter and alarm alike dancing in her eyes. “Speak of the devil.”

Mrs. Wallace came into the common room. She was in her mid-thirties, a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a clear look of authority. Behind her followed a thin, short woman who must be at least five years older but was obviously a lieutenant, rather than the captain. Miss Turner then.

Mrs. Wallace greeted her boarders and introduced Charlotte. The company duly proceeded to the dining room, where Miss Turner said grace, and the women helped themselves to a supper of boiled bacon cheek and vegetable marrow.

Charlotte's meals were very important to her. But this evening she noticed nothing of the food she put in her mouth. With half an ear she listened to Miss Whitbread tell her about the rules and customs of the house. The only question she asked was, “Do you think I'd be allowed to go out and buy a newspaper?”

“Oh, you don't need to. Mrs. Wallace don't like any of us going out after supper so she has the evening paper delivered.”

When Charlotte reached the common room after supper, Miss Turner already had the evening paper in hand. She read aloud from its pages as the other women knitted, mended hose, wrote letters, or played games of draughts.

“Now listen to this advert, ladies.
Seeking, sincerely and urgently, girl infant left behind on the doorsteps of Westminster Cathedral, on the night of the twenty-third of November, 1861.
” Miss Turner peered over the top of the paper at the other occupants of the room. “This is why you must always be careful and not be led astray, or the same could happen to you—become a sorry woman looking for her child twenty-five years too late.”

The date sounded familiar. Charlotte searched her memory and recalled that there had been an awful pea-souper on that day in 1861. She sincerely doubted anyone would choose to venture out in such weather to abandon a baby, of all things, but she didn't say anything.

At precisely nine o'clock Miss Turner laid aside the paper. All the other women rose and prepared to vacate the room.

Charlotte took the paper.

“Miss Holmes, lights-out is at half nine,” said Miss Turner officiously. “You should not read past that.”

“I won't,” Charlotte promised.

In her room, a small but faultlessly clean space, she quickly found the death notice for Lady Shrewsbury. So Lady Shrewsbury truly was dead. When she'd been energetic and vigorous only the day before.

Lady Shrewsbury had seemed a great deal more upset at Charlotte than at her own son. But could she have been furious about him, rather than merely peeved? Could that fury have led to her perishing in her slumber?