Anne Perry - Callander Square

“No, no,” he said gently. “Besides, I am concerned with the past, not the future.” He hid his annoyance. Now it would not be possible to get any further information from the girl without her immediately knowing what he was seeking. Better speak to the others straight away, before she spread the alarm, even inadvertently.

He went upstairs to see the lady’s maid, past the objections of the bristling housekeeper, because he wished to see the dresses himself; although he had, as yet, no idea what excuse he might use for his interest.

He found the lady’s maid brushing a riding habit and sponging the skirt where the autumn mud had splashed it. She dropped it in some alarm when she saw him.

“Don’t disturb yourself, ma’am” he said as he walked over and picked it up, feeling it between his fingers appreciatively, not yet passing it back to her. “An excellent piece of stuff.” He flipped it over so that the waist was in his grasp. “And well-tailored, too.” He felt quickly at the seams. Nothing. He glanced at the waistband where Charlotte had told him to look. He found it immediately, an extension to the band, a piece let in. He gave it back to the maid, quite casually, smiling at her. “I like to see a well-dressed lady. Gives everyone pleasure.”

“Oh, this is last year’s,” she said quickly. “Quite old, in fact. Lady Euphemia has far better than this!”

“Indeed? I should like to see better than this,” he let a note of polite disbelief fall into his voice. “It’s a very fine cloth.”

She went over to an enormous wardrobe and threw it open. There was a gleam of light on the purples and fuschias and lambent greens of silk.

“How very beautiful,” he said quite genuinely. He went over and touched the soft, shining stuff with his fingers, for a moment forgetting his purpose. There was an amber gown, almost corn gold where the light fell on it, and deep fire russet in the shadows. It must have looked magnificent on Euphemia Carlton, but he saw it on Charlotte. He felt a sharp stab of pain because he could not buy such things for her. He forgot the maid, and Callander Square, and his mind whirled wildly for some idea, some other occupation where he might be able to earn that sort of money.

“Lovely things, aren’t they?” There was a note of wistfulness in the woman’s voice too. He was jerked back to reality. He looked at her pinched figure in its dark stuff dress and white apron.

“Yes,” he agreed, “yes, very.” Rapidly he searched for the waist seams, the sides where letting out would be done. “I expect they take a lot of looking after.” He found nothing yet. “You must be very skilled with a needle.”

She smiled at the compliment.

“Not many men as thinks of that. Yes, I does a lot of work, but she looks a rare sight when I send ’er out of ’ere, if I say that as shouldn’t. I’ve never sent ’er out less than perfect.”

Pitt seized his chance and looked openly at the minute stitching. The waist had definitely been let out, a couple of inches or more.

“You’re quite an artist,” he said, and meant at least part of it. What must it be like for a woman to put all her labor and her love into making another woman beautiful? Then to sit at home and watch her leave for parties and balls, to dance all night and be admired while she stayed upstairs, waiting to receive the clothes back again, press them, mend them for the next time?

“You have every right to be proud,” he said. He let the silk fall and closed the wardrobe doors.

She blushed with pleasure.

“Thank you, I’m sure,” she stammered.

He must ask her something, lest she think afterward and become suspicious. His mind searched for some likely question.

“Does your mistress ever give away any of her old clothes, to deserving servant girls, or the like?” He knew the answer-no mistress wishes to see a servant wearing the style and quality of garment she herself wore, no matter how old, or how deserving the girl.

“Oh no, sir! Lady Euphemia sends them all to the country, to some cousin or other, who don’t know what’s fashionable and what’s not, and very glad of them she is.”

“I see. Thank you,” he smiled reassuringly at her and took his departure to the kitchen.

Neither the cook nor the kitchen maids yielded anything conclusive, but it seemed Euphemia had indulged in sudden bouts of eating every so often, put on weight, and then dieted again. They attributed it to a healthy appetite, a love of sweet things, and then a re-emergence of vanity and the dictates of fashion. There was nothing to prove them either right or wrong. He thanked them and left the house, filling in time through the afternoon until he could call on Sir Robert Carlton and Lady Euphemia herself, and expect to find them at home.

He returned a little after six. He knew it was inconvenient, but there is no convenient time for the sort of question to which he sought an answer.

The footman received him coolly and showed him into the library. It was several minutes before the door opened and Sir Robert Carlton came in, closing it gently behind him. He was a little above average height, slender, stiff. His face was, as Charlotte had said, extremely distinguished, but the mildness of his expression robbed it of arrogance.

“I understand you wish to see me?” he said quietly. His voice was clear and precise, and contained a slight lift of surprise.

“Yes, sir,” Pitt replied. “If you please. I apologize for calling at this hour, but I wished to be sure of finding you in.” Carlton waited politely and he continued. “I’m afraid I have reason to believe that the mother of the babies found in the square may be a member of your household-” He stopped, ready for outrage, denials. Instead there was only a tightening of the skin across Carlton’s high cheeks, as if he anticipated pain. Pitt wondered quickly if either he already knew, or at least suspected his wife. Was it possible he had even personally accepted it, long since fought his private battle?

“I’m sorry,” Carlton said quietly. “Poor woman.”

Pitt stared at him.

Carlton turned his face to look at Pitt. There was anxiety and compassion in his eyes. It was something he did not understand, but struggling to imagine, and for which he was deeply sorry. Pitt felt a surge of anger against Euphemia, and against young Brandon Balantyne, whom he had not yet met. Carlton was speaking again.

“Have you any idea who it is, Mr. Pitt? Or what will happen to her?”

“That rather depends on the circumstances, Sir Robert. If the children were born dead, there may be no criminal prosecution. But she will lose her character, and unless she is extremely fortunate, her position, and be without reference to obtain another.”

“And if they were not born dead?”

“Then there will be a charge of murder.”

“I see. I suppose that is inevitable. And the wretched woman will be hanged.”

Pitt realized too late that he should not have committed himself; he should have left it in doubt. Perhaps in that single carelessness he had forfeited Carlton’s help.

“That is only an opinion,” he tried to withdraw. “There may be some mitigating circumstances, of course-” He could think of many, for himself; but none that would appeal to the lords justices.

”You said, someone in the house,” Carlton continued as if he had not spoken. “I take it you do not as yet know whom?”

“No, sir. I thought perhaps Lady Carlton, knowing the servants better, might be able to assist me.”

“I suppose it is necessary to bring her into this?”

“I regret so.”

“Very well,” Carlton reached for the bell cord and pulled it. When the footman appeared he gave instructions that Euphemia should be asked to come. They waited in silence until she arrived. She closed the door behind her and turned to them. Her face was smooth and utterly guileless, even when she saw Pitt. If she had any guilt, then she was either one of those rare creatures who genuinely see no interest but their own, or was the most accomplished actress.