“That sounds like self-pity,” she said tartly. “I have not criticized you, and that is not out of either good manners or sympathy—neither of which we can afford just at the moment, if they disguise the truth. We can’t live without trusting someone. It is an offense to betray, not to be betrayed.”
“As I said, it is a good thing you did not marry into Society,” he retorted. “You would not have survived. Or on the other hand, perhaps Society would not have, and that might not have been so bad. A little shake-up now and then is good for the constitution.”
Now she was not sure if he was laughing at her or defending himself. Or possibly it was both.
“So you accepted my assistance because you believe I can do what you require?” she concluded.
“Not at all. I accepted it because you gave me no alternative. Also, since Stoker is the only other person I trust, and he did not offer, nor has he the ability, I had no alternative in any case.”
“Touché,” she said quietly.
They did not speak again for quite some time, and when they did it was about the differences between Society in London and Dublin. He described the city and surrounding countryside with such vividness that she began to look forward to seeing it herself. He even spoke of the festivals, saints’ days, and other occasions people celebrated.
When the train drew into Holyhead they went straight to the boat. After a brief meal, they returned to their cabins for the crossing. They would arrive in Dublin before morning, but were not required to disembark until well after daylight.
DUBLIN WAS UTTERLY DIFFERENT from London, but at least to begin with Charlotte was too occupied with getting ashore at Dun Laoghaire to have time to stare about her. Then there was the ride into the city itself, which was just waking up to the new day; the rain-washed streets were clean and filling with people about their business. She saw plenty of horse traffic—mostly trade at this hour; the carriages and broughams would come later. The few women were laundresses, maids going shopping, or factory workers wearing thick skirts and with heavy shawls wrapped around them.
Narraway hailed a cab, and they set out to look for accommodation. He seemed to know exactly where he was going and gave very precise directions to the driver, but he did not explain them to her. They rode in silence. He stared out the window and she watched his face, the harsh early-morning light showing even the smallest lines around his eyes and mouth. It made him seem older, far less sure of himself.
She thought of Daniel and Jemima, and hoped Minnie Maude was settling in. They had seemed to like her, and surely anyone Gracie vouched for would be good. She could not resent Gracie’s happiness, but she missed her painfully at times like this.
That was absurd. There had never been another time like this, when a case took her out of London and away from her children. Here she was in a foreign country, with Victor Narraway, riding around the streets looking for lodgings. Little wonder Mrs. Waterman was scandalized. Perhaps she was right to be.
And Pitt was in France pursuing someone who thought nothing of slitting a man’s throat in the street and leaving him to die as if he were no more than a sack of rubbish. Pitt didn’t even have a clean shirt, socks, or personal linen. Narraway had sent him money, but he would need more. He would need help, information, probably the assistance of the French police. Would Narraway’s replacement provide all this? Was he loyal? Was he even competent?
And worse than any of that, if he was Narraway’s enemy, then he was almost certainly Pitt’s enemy as well, only Pitt would not know that. He would go on communicating as if it were Narraway at the other end.
She turned away and looked out the window on her own side. They were passing handsome Georgian houses and every now and then public buildings and churches of classical elegance. There were glimpses of the river, which she thought did not seem to curve and wind as much as the Thames. She saw several horse-drawn trams, not unlike those in London, and—in the quieter streets—children playing with spinning tops, or jumping rope.
Twice she drew in breath to ask Narraway where they were going, but each time she looked at the tense concentration on his face, she changed her mind.
Finally they stopped outside a house in Molesworth Street in the southeastern part of the city.
“Stay here.” Narraway came suddenly to attention. “I shall be back in a few moments.” Without waiting for her acknowledgment he got out, strode across the footpath, and rapped sharply on the door of the nearest house. After less than a minute it was opened by a middle-aged woman in a white apron, her hair tied in a knot on top of her head. Narraway spoke to her and she invited him in, closing the door again behind him.
Charlotte sat and waited, suddenly cold now and aware of how tired she was. She had slept poorly in the night, aware of the rather cramped cabin and the constant movement of the boat. But far more than anything physical, it was the rashness of what she was doing that kept her awake. Now alone, waiting, she wished she were anywhere but here. Pitt would be furious. What if he had returned home to find the children alone with a maid he had never seen before? They would tell him Charlotte had gone off to Ireland with Narraway, and of course they would not even be able to tell him why!
She was shivering when Narraway came out again and spoke to the driver, then at last to her.
“There are rooms here. It is clean and quiet and we shall not be noticed, but it is perfectly respectable. As soon as we are settled I shall go to make contact with the people I can still trust.” He looked at her face carefully. She was aware that she must look rumpled and tired, and probably ill-tempered into the bargain. A smile would help, she knew, but in the circumstances it would also be idiotic.
“Please wait for me,” he went on. “Rest if you like. We may be busy this evening. We have no time to waste.”
He held out his arm to assist her down, meeting her eyes earnestly, questioningly, before letting go. He was clearly concerned for her, but she was glad that he did not say anything more. Though they would both feel terrible doubt and strain in the days to come, she should not forget that, after all, it was his career that was ruined, not hers. It was he who would in the end have to bear it alone; he was the one accused of theft and betrayal. No one would blame her for any of this.
But of course there was every likelihood that they would blame Pitt.
“Thank you,” she said with a quick smile, then turned away to look at the house. “It seems very pleasant.”
He hesitated, then with more confidence he went ahead of her to the front door. When the landlady opened it for them, he introduced Charlotte as Mrs. Pitt, his half sister, who had come to Ireland to meet with relatives on her mother’s side.
“How do you do, ma’am,” Mrs. Hogan said cheerfully. “Welcome to Dublin, then. A fine city it is.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hogan. I look forward to it very much,” Charlotte replied.
NARRAWAY WENT OUT ALMOST immediately. Charlotte began by unpacking her case and shaking the creases out of the few clothes she had brought. There was only one dress suitable for any sort of formal occasion, but she had some time ago decided to copy the noted actress Lillie Langtry and add different effects to it each time: two lace shawls, one white, one black; special gloves; a necklace of hematite and rock crystals; earrings; anything that would draw the attention from the fact that it was the same gown. At least it fit remarkably well. Women might be perfectly aware that it was the same one each time she wore it, but with luck men would notice only that it became her.
As she hung it up in the wardrobe along with a good costume with two skirts, and a lighter-weight dress, she remembered the days when Pitt had still been in the police, and she and Emily had tried their own hands at helping with detection. Of course that had been particularly when the victims had been from high Society, to which they had access, and Pitt could observe them only as a police officer, when behavior was unnatural and everyone very much on their guard.