“Do you enjoy it?” Jemima asked as if she expected an affirmative answer.
“Oh yes, I do. It is most interesting, especially the old letters. The letters from the soldiers are so different. We can hardly imagine! But the letters from wives and sweethearts-how little we have changed, all the same concerns, loves, illnesses, children, a little scandal.” She was stretching the truth a little, but she wanted to get back to Callander Square, and she felt that Jemima was not one to gossip easily.
“I suppose scandal doesn’t change,” Jemima said thoughtfully, looking down at the tea swirling gently in her cup where she had stirred it. “It is always speculation about someone else’s follies, or misdemeanors.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to press the point, to say something about Callander Square, and found she did not wish to. Jemima had framed her own thoughts; it was all other people’s sins and misfortunes perpetuated, exaggerated, and relished.
She said as much, and saw the quick sympathy in the other girl’s eyes, and felt a warmth toward her. She found herself smiling back.
“How many children do you teach?” she asked instead.
“Most of the time, just the three girls here, but three times a week Victoria and Mary Campbell come over. Do you know the Campbells? They live over on the other corner of the square.” She pulled a little face with wry humor. “I don’t care for Mr. Campbell very much. He’s very witty sometimes, but there always seems to be a sort of hopelessness underneath it, as if he is only pretending to be amused and he knows the whole thing is futile in the end. I find it depressing, and a little frightening,” she looked at Charlotte to see if she understood.
“Cynicism frightens me too,” Charlotte agreed. “One can fight against so many things, but one cannot argue people into hope. What about Mrs. Campbell, is she like that also?”
“Oh no, she is quite different: quiet and competent. Actually she is about the best mother I have worked for, she neither spoils the children nor is she indifferent or overly strict. I think she is a very strong woman.” This last opinion was given with some thought.
They spoke for a few more minutes about other people in the square, a little about the Balantynes and Charlotte’s work. Charlotte discovered that Jemima had met young Brandon Balantyne on two or three occasions, and from the very delicate color in her fair skin, gathered that she found him attractive, although of course she would not say so. It was not for governesses to have opinions about the sons of generals and the grandsons of dukes.
They had finished their tea when the door burst open and quite the handsomest parlormaid Charlotte had seen came in, her face bright with anger, her uniform disarrayed.
“One day I’m going to slap him good and proper, so help me I am!” she said furiously. “I shall forget myself, I swear!” Then she realized Charlotte was not of the household. “Oh, I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t see you there. Beg your pardon.”
“That’s quite all right,” Charlotte said easily. She forgot her promise to Pitt. “Has someone been taking liberties?”
“Liberties! I should say.”
“Mary Ann,” Jemima broke the slight awkwardness. “This is Miss Ellison, who is helping General Balantyne next door with his papers.”
Mary Ann inclined her head politely; as an employee Charlotte did not rate a curtsey. “I suppose you’ve had your tea,” she said with a glance at the pot. “I expect they’ll have some in the kitchen,” she went out again, twitching her skirt behind her, still not satisfied with its replacement.
“Perhaps it would be a good idea if she did slap him, nice and hard,” Charlotte said when the door was closed again. “One cannot make one’s position too clear.”
“Slap him?” Jemima laughed, turning down the corners of her mouth with a little gesture. “Mr. Southeron is very good-natured, but he would not take kindly to a parlormaid who slapped his face.”
“Mr. Southeron!” Charlotte tried to hide her surprise, and triumph. Now she had really pertinent news to tell Emily, and she had asked no questions; at least only one, and that had been accidental.
She could see that Jemima regretted having spoken so freely.
“I should not have said that,” she was a little abashed. “I only surmise, from what I have overheard. I should not leap to conclusions. Perhaps Mary Ann is exaggerating?”
“She is certainly angry about something,” Charlotte said carefully. “But perhaps we should not speculate too far as to what it might be. I trust you have never been-?” she left it hanging delicately.
To her surprise Jemima suppressed a laugh.
“Well, once or twice I’ve thought he was about to, but I moved out of the way. He did look a bit annoyed. But once you allow any familiarity, you cannot go back, you have abandoned your position, so to speak.” She lifted her eyebrows slightly, to question Charlotte if she understood what she meant.
“Oh yes,” Charlotte agreed; and although she was only guessing, she felt a sharp sympathy with this girl who was obliged to work and to live in other people’s houses, and dare not risk offending them.
She remained a little longer, and then excused herself and returned to General Balantyne, who surprised her by pacing the library floor waiting for her. At first she thought he was going to berate her for her absence, but his temper evaporated and he seemed content to resume work with no more than a short complaint.
Pitt was late home that evening and Charlotte had no chance to tell him what she had learned, and the following morning he was out early. She arrived at Callander Square ready for her duties. Again an opportunity presented itself for an errand elsewhere in the square, and she seized it eagerly. Thus at quarter to two she found herself standing in the Dorans’ crowded withdrawing room with a bunch of dry winter flowers in her hand, facing Miss Georgiana.
Georgiana was swathed in smoke-gray chiffon and artificial flowers. She lay on the chaise longue with one arm resting on the back. She was so bony and pale that, but for the brilliant eyes, she would have reminded Charlotte of an artistic corpse laid out in shroud and flowers, the Lady of Shallott, perhaps, twenty years after! The thought made her want to giggle, and she maintained her composure only with the greatest effort. She could feel the laughter boiling up inside her: her sense of the ludicrous had always been unreliable.
Georgiana looked at her narrowly.
”Who did you say you were?”
“Charlotte Ellison, Mrs. Duff. Lady Augusta wished me to bring you these. I believe they are said to be excellent for the house, a very delicate perfume,” she proffered them to the clawlike little hand, winking with jewels.
“Nonsense,” Georgiana put them to her nose. “They smell like dust. Still, it was civil of Augusta to send them; no doubt she thinks they will suit Laetitia, and I daresay she is right.”
Charlotte could not help glancing at the velvet and plush roses that decorated the couch, the cushions, and Georgiana herself.
Georgiana’s diamond-sharp little eyes caught her.
“Quite different,” she said simply. “I love beauty. I am very sensitive. I suffer, you know, and it helps to have flowers.”
“I’m sure it must,” Charlotte could think of nothing sensible to say to such a remark. She stood awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure whether to remain, or to excuse herself.
Georgiana was regarding her with curiosity.
“You don’t look like a maid. What did you say you were?”
“I am helping General Balantyne with his war memoirs.”
“Disgusting. What does a young woman like you want with war memoirs? Money, I suppose?”
“I find them very interesting,” Charlotte did not feel obliged to prevaricate or hide her feelings. “I think it becomes us all to know the history of our country, and the nature of the sacrifices that have been made.”
Georgiana’s eyes narrowed.
“What a quaint creature you are. Please either take your leave, or sit down. You are tall, and peering up at you makes my neck ache. I am very delicate.”