Anne Perry - The Angel Court Affair

Pitt stopped abruptly and faced Laurence. They were close to a streetlamp and he saw the man’s face clearly: he had regular features, and his slightly rounded, brown eyes were sharp and intelligent-and at this moment bright with suppressed laughter.

“Well, if you find any violence, Mr. Laurence, I hope you will be kind enough to let me know,” Pitt responded. “Beforehand would be good, even if it robs your story of some of its impact.”

“Ah!” Laurence said with pleasure. “I think that working with you is going to be less tedious than I had feared. Are you telling me that in your opinion there will be violence? She is a very unusual woman, isn’t she? I have always thought that the best saints, the real ones, would be troublesome. There’s nothing very holy about telling us all what we want to hear, is there? I think I could probably do that myself.”

“I thought that was what you do,” Pitt replied waspishly, and then as he saw the laughter in Laurence’s eyes he immediately regretted it. He had played into Laurence’s hands.

“No, Commander, I tell people quite often what they dread to hear. It is not displeasing them that would be the kiss of death to my career, it is boring them…or, of course, being seen as a liar. So. Is she a saint?”

“Why do you want to know?” Pitt found himself engaging with the man, in spite of his determination not to. “Are you hoping for a burning at the stake? I don’t think we break people on the wheel anymore.”

“We have become very unimaginative,” Laurence agreed. “In your opinion, is she merely an exhibitionist, Commander?”

Pitt responded with surprising depth of emotion to the idea that Sofia Delacruz was an exhibitionist. Even the use of the word offended him, but he knew perfectly well that Laurence was trying to maneuver him into saying so.

“I will not write your article for you, Mr. Laurence. You must write it yourself,” he answered.

Laurence smiled. In the lamplight his teeth were white and even.

“Well done, Commander. You are supremely careful to say nothing. I admire that. I look forward to discussing the matter with you again. I am sure we will have many chances.” He touched his hat with an airy wave and turned away. “Good night, sir.”

Charlotte knew that she must return home with Jemima, and not wait for Thomas after the meeting, but she was longing to ask him what he had thought of it all, especially of Sofia herself. After seventeen years of marriage she believed she knew him well, and herself even better. But most of the remarks the woman had made, and perhaps even more the burning conviction with which she had spoken, awoke in Charlotte many questions. Why had she never examined her own thoughts on such issues?

Was it because she already had all the things that mattered to her: the husband she loved, children, friends, enough money to be comfortable? And she also had the causes she fought for. The world was changing even from month to month. Now political votes for women were far more than a dream, and she was more involved in the fight than she had told Pitt.

She would tell him, of course, but in time. It was exciting. If women had a voice in government, even if it was only the power to withhold their support, it would be the beginning of a new age in reform of a hundred griefs and inequalities.

There were burning reasons to be involved. One of these was an upcoming parliamentary by-election in which cricket hero Dalton Teague was the candidate almost certain to win. Charlotte understood why people admired him, but abhorred the fact that he was against the availability of information regarding birth control. It had been a difficult subject for many years and feelings about it ran very high. The knowledge of such practices was not illegal-it was simply not widespread enough to reach those who desperately needed it: poor women who had child after child until their bodies were exhausted. Ignorance, fear and social pressures were responsible. Religious beliefs had much influence as well.

But it was the women who died because of it, not the men!

It was the recent death of a friend, giving birth to her seventh child, that had brought the subject so forcefully to the front of Charlotte’s mind.

Charlotte knew she had so much, sitting here in the warmth and the dark of the carriage, her daughter beside her. She couldn’t help but wonder: Was she too satisfied to need a belief in anything greater, a purpose beyond the immediate future?

What if she lost it all? What strength was there inside her to go on, to stand alone, walk in the darkness? It was a terrible thought, and one that she had had to face several times over the years as Pitt’s job, first in the police force and now in Special Branch, took him into dangerous situations. She found herself tense as they drove along, so unyielding she was bumped by every unevenness in the road. Would she, in the face of hardship or loss, find nothing inside her to carry her through?

Jemima also was quiet. She had been very eager to come, and now she offered no comment at all.

“What did you think of her?” Charlotte asked gently, concerned how she would answer if Jemima was confused. The emptiness in her own mind gave her a feeling of guilt for never having found at least some clarity of faith to teach her daughter. Jemima would soon be seventeen, of marriageable age. She would have decisions to make that would affect the rest of her life.

“She’s a little frightening,” Jemima said thoughtfully, as though searching her mind for the right words. “Not that she’d hurt you, at least not intentionally. I don’t mean that. But…she’s so certain of what she means that she’ll risk everything to say it.” As Jemima looked out the window of the moving carriage the streetlights flashed on her face, brilliant one moment, shadowed the next. “She’s nothing like the vicar,” she went on, frowning as she struggled to explain herself. “He always sounds as if he doesn’t mean what he says. I suppose it’s the singsong sort of voice he uses, and the fact that he seems to be reciting what he’s been told to recite.” She turned toward Charlotte. “Do you suppose he would actually love to say what he really thinks; only he doesn’t want to upset everyone-or lose his job?”

“I should think it’s very likely,” Charlotte agreed, picturing the Reverend Mr. Jameson in her mind. He was mild-mannered, a kind man, a guardian of his flock, but not a crusader. He was exactly what they wanted: he offered gentle assurance, unfailing patience and an ability to judge the right amount of hunger within them. But was it what they needed?

“Is Sofia Delacruz right?” Jemima asked bluntly. “Are we all ignoring who we really are, and sitting comfortably in our pews until we turn into statues?”

“She didn’t say that!” Charlotte protested, although in truth it was precisely what she herself had been thinking.

“Yes, she did.” Jemima was quite certain. “Not in so many words, of course, but that is what it amounted to. We aren’t really looking for anything, except to change position now and then, so we don’t get a cramp in our…” She hesitated to use an anatomical word.

“You may say ‘posterior,’ my dear.” Charlotte was a touch sarcastic because the whole subject was disturbing. “You seem to be happy enough to call the vicar and his flock ‘statues.’ ”

“I’m not happy about it!” Jemima protested, her voice showing the depth of emotion she felt. “But if this woman from Spain can be honest about who we are and what we should be doing, then so can I!”

“We need to be honest,” Charlotte agreed gently. “But we also need to be right. And it would be good to be kind as well.”