“No,” she 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 favorite 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. “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, would know what to do.
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 faucet, a shortage of coal, a chimney 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 newfound happiness so soon, but it was a desperate situation.
It was an omnibus ride, but not a very long one, to the small redbrick 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 was not in, she had no idea where she could turn next.
But the door opened and Gracie stood just inside, five feet tall with her smart boots on, and wearing a dress that for once was nobody else’s cast-off taken up and in 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 the 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.
Gracie pulled the kettle over onto the hob and set out a teapot and cups, then opened the pantry cupboard to get milk.
“I got cake, if yer like?” she offered. “But mebbe yer’d sooner ’ave toast an’ jam?”
“Actually, I’d rather like cake, if you can spare it,” Charlotte replied. “I haven’t had good cake for a while. Mrs. Waterman didn’t approve of it, and the disfavor came through her hands. Heavy as lead.”
Gracie turned around from the cupboard where she had been getting the cake. Plates were on the dresser. Charlotte noted with a smile that it was set out exactly like the one in her own kitchen, which Gracie had kept for so long: cups hanging from the rings, small plates on the top shelf, then bowls, dinner plates lowest.
“She gorn, then?” Gracie said anxiously.
“Mrs. Waterman? Yes, I’m afraid so. She gave notice and left all at the same time, yesterday evening. Or to be exact, she gave notice late yesterday evening, and was in the hall with her case when I came down this morning.”
Gracie was astounded. She put the cake—which was rich and full of fruit—on the table, then stared at Charlotte in dismay. “Wot she done? Yer din’t never throw ’er out fer nothin’!”
“I didn’t throw her out at all,” Charlotte answered. “She really gave notice, just like that—”
“Yer can’t do that!” Gracie waved her hands to dismiss the idea. “Yer won’t never get another place, not a decent one.”
“A lot has happened,” Charlotte said quietly.
Gracie sat down sharply in the chair opposite and leaned a little across the small wooden table, her face pale. “It in’t Mr. Pitt …”
“No,” Charlotte assured her hastily. “But he is in France on business and cannot come home until it is complete, and Mr. Narraway has been thrown out of his job.” There was no use, and no honor, in concealing the truth from Gracie. After all, it was Victor Narraway who had placed her as a maid in Buckingham Palace when Pitt so desperately needed help in that case. The triumph had been almost as much Gracie’s as his. Narraway himself had praised her.
Gracie was appalled. “That’s wicked!”
“He thinks it is an old enemy, perhaps hand in glove with a new one, possibly someone after his job,” Charlotte told her. “Mr. Pitt doesn’t know, and is trusting Mr. Narraway to support him in his pursuit now and do what he can to help from here. He doesn’t know he will be relying on someone else, who may not believe in him as Mr. Narraway does.”
“Wot are we goin’ ter do?” Gracie said instantly.
Charlotte was so overwhelmed with gratitude, and with emotion at Gracie’s passionate and unquestioning loyalty, that she felt the warmth rise up in her and the tears prickle her eyes.
“Mr. Narraway believes that the cause of the problem lies in an old case that happened twenty years ago in Ireland. He is going back there to find his enemy and try to prove his own innocence.”
“But Mr. Pitt won’t be there to ’elp ’im,” Gracie pointed out. “ ’Ow can ’e do that by ’isself? Don’t this enemy know ’im, never mind that ’e’ll expect ’im ter do it?” She looked suddenly quite pale, all the happy flush gone from her face. “That’s just daft. Yer gotter tell ’im ter think afore ’e leaps in, yer really ’ave!”
“I must help him, Gracie. Mr. Narraway’s enemies in Special Branch are Mr. Pitt’s as well. For all our sakes, we must win.”
“Yer goin’ ter Ireland? Yer goin’ ter ’elp ’im …” She reached out her hand, almost as if to touch Charlotte’s where it lay on the table, then snatched it back self-consciously. She was no longer an employee, but it was a liberty too far, for all the years they had known each other. She took a deep breath. “Yer ’ave gotta!”