A Study In Scarlet Women (18 page)

“I'm not sure how to describe it. Or even that it is a talent, rather than a nuisance. In fact, I learned early in life not to practice it in public. Or in private, for that matter—people I know well are just as easily disconcerted by it.”

“Practice what, Miss Holmes?”

“Discernment, I suppose.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “I can tell more about you, for instance, than you would want me to know.”

Mrs. Jebediah raised a brow. “I thought by dressing as I do, I already tell those I encounter everything they could possibly want to know about me.”

“I do not believe you thought, that by dressing as you do, you would broadcast how much you still mourn your husband's passing.”

Mrs. Jebediah became very still, her gaze fixed on Charlotte.

“My apologies, I shouldn't have—”

“No, no, please don't. I was unprepared, that's all. I'd like to hear how you came by your observation, Miss Holmes.”

It was not a request, but a command. Charlotte complied. “The black crape on your hat and your reticule—I saw them the other day. You have on a different hat and a different reticule this afternoon, but they each still incorporate a square inch or so of the same fabric. The queen wears her widow's weeds for all to see. You wear your slivers of black crape only for yourself.”

Mrs. Jebediah shook her head slowly. Once. Twice. “What else? What else do you know about me?”

“You were on the stage. And successfully so.”

“And how do you know that? A stage performer does not have the equivalent of black crape to give her away.”

“Your attire. I suppose I could interpret it as that of a parvenu, but it isn't so much ostentatious as it is intentionally theatrical, which leads me to conclude that you belong to the demimonde. My mother would have me believe that all the women of the demimonde are prostitutes who will die penniless and alone. But it's my understanding that the demimonde is broader than that—and includes others who live unconventional lives without necessarily resorting to cyprian means to support themselves.

“At first, however, I was inclined to think that you've been a
courtesan at some point, on account of the trace of rouge I see on your lips and cheeks. There's also a substance that reflects light beautifully and gives your skin a smooth appearance. Rice powder, perhaps?”

“Arrowroot powder.”

“I see.” Charlotte made a mental note. She didn't understand the arbitrary line that declared only loose women resorted to rouge, whereas ladies must pinch their cheeks to achieve a rosier appearance. “Yes, given that, I'd first assumed you to be a courtesan—or a former courtesan.

“But your dress changed my mind. You're clearly conveying your status as a demimondaine, yet the manner in which you achieve it is curious: You are signaling not the men, but the women. Were you aiming for the notice of the gentlemen, a higher hemline and saucy boots with cutout patterns would be much more effective. Most of them do not quite grasp that your dress, beautiful as it is, is de trop. It is left to the ladies, who have been schooled in such things from the moment they can walk, to understand that you are doing them the favor of letting them know they would not wish to associate with you, not without provoking strong disapproval in their own circles.

“If you weren't a courtesan, then most likely you were a performer. Your voice, your movement—they speak of training and control. But just as important, your posture speaks of pride in your accomplishments. Which speaks of success. Yet not so much success—or success of sufficient duration—that I would have recognized you from having seen your photographs elsewhere.”

With a thoughtful look on her face, Mrs. Jebediah lifted the lid on the teapot, peered at the contents inside, and then replaced the lid. “What else do you know about me?”

“That your husband was young when he died.”

The older woman nearly came out of her seat. “How can you possibly deduce
that
?”

Customers at nearby tables turned toward them. Mrs. Jebediah settled back and took a sip of her tea. They waited for their neighbors' curiosity to dissipate.

“Well, Miss Holmes?”

Charlotte turned her teacup a few degrees on its saucer. “Gentlemen in their prime, hampered by the opinion of the public and often constrained by already being married, take mistresses from the stage. It is usually the young and the old who do not give a farthing, who have the audacity to pledge their hand to a woman who has entertained the public.

“And when an old man dies, no matter how well loved he is, it is easier to accept: death has been in the wings for a while. But when a young man perishes unexpectedly, his devoted wife, who has had every expectation of many more happy years together, suddenly finds herself profoundly alone—and descends into a powerful grief that lasts for years upon years.”

Mrs. Jebediah's throat moved.

“I do apologize,” said Charlotte quietly. “It has been pointed out to me that once I start, I do not know where to stop.”

Mrs. Jebediah exhaled. “I can see why you refrain from regularly practicing this absolutely remarkable talent of yours. But please go on.”

“Are you sure, ma'am?”

“I am.”

“Well, with one exception, there isn't that much more I can tell, other than minor details such as that you've spent some time in India.”

“I wouldn't call that a minor detail. But what is this exception you mentioned?”

“Your name is not Mrs. Jebediah. Or at least that isn't your only name.”

Mrs. Jebediah chortled. “What gave it away?”

“The letter you dropped. It was to be called for not at the General Post Office, but at the one in Charing Cross. I can well understand why a resident of London might wish to have mail delivered to the post office, rather than her private home. But to be calling for letters at two different post offices? I can only assume that you are running a scheme of some sort, Mrs. Jebediah. Not a criminal one, necessarily, but a scheme nevertheless.”

“At this point, Miss Holmes, I am only shocked that you haven't told me the exact particulars of my scheme.”

“I believe it involves newspaper advertisements pointing those interested to write to you. Other than that, not so much.”

“Goodness gracious,” murmured Mrs. Jebediah. “Knowing everything you do about me before we'd even exchanged a word, the lure of the scrambled eggs must have been powerful indeed.”

“It was the strawberries and cream that did me in, I believe.” Charlotte glanced at the three remaining strawberries before looking back at Mrs. Jebediah. “Please do not feel that you owe me any explanations, Mrs. Jebediah. Your great kindness has been enough.”

Mrs. Jebediah didn't answer for a while. Charlotte began to wonder if she shouldn't take her leave, when Mrs. Jebediah tucked a nonexistent stray strand of hair behind her ear and said, “But will you listen to an explanation?”

“Of course.”

“As you've so capably deduced, I am a woman widowed before my time. And it was all the more bitter because my husband had not only been young, he had been a good eleven years junior to me—one of the reasons I resisted his entreaties of marriage, from near and far, for as long as I did. I was younger then, but I dreaded the day when he would still be in his prime, and I would have already descended into old age.

“Even when I finally decided to throw caution to the wind, I did so while making jokes about being mistaken for his mother one of
those days—or at best, his dear old aunt. I never thought . . . I never thought God would take him first. That instead of dreading the appearance of each new wrinkle, each new white hair, I could only wish he were here to witness my inevitable aging.”

Charlotte found herself with a lump in her throat. She ate another strawberry.

“In the six years since he passed away, I've kept myself busy looking after my niece, who had lived with me all her life. But last year she moved to Paris to study medicine. And while I couldn't be more proud of her, I am alone in a large house and at a loss over what to do.

“Not that there aren't things to do, but I don't wish to do them all by myself. And of course I have no plan to recall my niece—this is her time to spread her wings. So I thought I'd find myself a companion.

“I wrote to a few registries and was sent some candidates to interview. But the moment they saw my photographs from my days on stage, gallivanting in hose and breeches, they couldn't swallow their tea and get out fast enough. Mustn't have their respectability tampered by association. And then they'd storm back to their registries and fume about my disrepute.”

She spoke lightly, but Charlotte couldn't imagine that it would have been easy for her to swallow the rejections.

“After that, I had no choice but to advertise in the papers.”

“But how can you be sure that your candidates will be suitable?”

Lady Holmes always suspected the servants to be full of sloth and thievery. Livia, as great a pessimist as ever lived, simply assumed that the staff, like the rest of the world, despised her on sight and would inevitably take advantage of her. Charlotte didn't share their views, but seeking a lady's companion directly via the back of the newspaper was probably not the best way to find qualified candidates. And if she were a qualified candidate herself, she'd be leery of such an advert, wondering why a potential employer didn't obtain
recommendation from friends or use the service of a registry, wondering whether it wasn't instead the work of a confidence artist.

“Well, I placed another advert, this one for finding a long-lost daughter, and I made sure the two adverts are set close together—in the same region on the page, but in different columns,” explained Mrs. Jebediah who wasn't really Mrs. Jebediah. “And of course, the two adverts direct potential applicants to write to two different women at two different post offices.”

Charlotte clapped her hands together. “Aha! At my previous boarding home, one of the women read aloud your lost-daughter advert. I see your ruse: If a candidate answers both adverts, then she is clearly not to be trusted.”

“Precisely.”

“And has this method helped you eliminate some candidates?”

“All of them, except one. That is, one woman who hasn't written about the lady's companion position, but seems to be most sincerely seeking her mother, which makes me feel terrible for possibly having given her hope where none existed.” Mrs. Jebediah smiled a little. “You are correct, Miss Holmes. I am running a scheme, only not a successful one. At least not for me.”

A fine carriage drew up before the tea shop. “Oh, that's mine,” she said, “which reminds me that I have an appointment to keep.”

She rose. A look of alarm must have crossed Charlotte's face, for she added, “And the bill has already been settled. I would not dream of saddling you with it, my dear.”

Charlotte's face heated. She didn't believe Mrs. Jebediah was the sort to indulge in such frauds, but then again she had read the mother-and-daughter beggar team completely wrong, too. “The thought never occurred to me. Thank you most kindly for tea, ma'am.”

“I'm sure we will run into each other again at the post office, Miss Holmes.”

Mrs. Jebediah swept out and entered the carriage, the gaze of everyone in the tea shop and half of the pedestrians on the street affixed to her person. Charlotte was full—what a marvelous feeling—but she remained at the table and, without any hurry, polished off the last small clumps of scrambled eggs, the last crumbs of the ham pie, and the last two divine strawberries. Alas the potted chicken was already all gone, the inside of the ramekin as empty as Charlotte's appointment book.

Only as she finally rose did she see Mrs. Jebediah's reticule, left behind on a chair.

T
he woman who wasn't named Mrs. Jebediah stood before her wedding photograph, gazing at the radiant bridegroom who would remain forever young. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted a glass of sherry to her lips.

Mears, her faithful butler, walked into the room. “Ma'am, a young lady to see you. She said—”

“You may show her in.”

She could very well regret it before the night was out, but Mrs. Not-Jebediah had come to a decision.

An important decision.

She set aside the sherry glass and took a seat in her favorite chair. Footsteps came up the stairs. The young woman who entered in Mears's wake, however, was not Miss Holmes, but someone she had never seen before.

“Miss Hartford,” announced Mears—and withdrew.

Miss Hartford was about the same age as Miss Holmes, but the similarity ended there. She was thin, hunched, and remarkably dowdy for one so young: ill-fitting dress, drooping bonnet, and spectacles that insisted on sliding down her nose.

“Mrs. Jebediah?” she asked tentatively.

Mrs. Not-Jebediah blinked. She was only Mrs. Jebediah in the advert for the fictional long-lost daughter and she had never given her private address in that context, not even to the newspaper.

“Mrs. Jebediah, my name is Ellie Hartford. I'm mighty sorry to call so late but I work as a cook's assistant at the Dog and Duck in Bywater and they didn't let me out any sooner.”

“Oh.”

“A few days ago, the barmaid at the pub showed me the paper. ‘Ain't you always said you was dropped on the doorsteps of Westminster Abbey, luv? Well, here be a lady looking for her baby what was—'”

“You may stop right there, Miss Hartford,” came another voice.

Miss Holmes.

Miss Hartford glanced at Miss Holmes. And then she stared, as if unable to believe such a severe command could issue from someone who looked as if she'd freshly stepped off a Valentine card, all wide eyes and blond ringlets.

“What right you got to tell me to stop? There ain't other babies left at Westminster Abbey. There—”

“For a woman who works as a cook's assistant in a pub, you certainly arrived in a very nice carriage, which is waiting for you around the corner, with a well-dressed gentleman sitting inside.”

Miss Hartford took a step toward Miss Holmes. “You're lying. You'll do anything to claim Mrs. Jebediah as your own mum, won't you?”

“I certainly wouldn't. I happen to know exactly where my mother is and she would be very cross with me—not that she isn't already—if I dared to find myself a new mother.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I came to return Mrs. Jebediah's reticule, which she left behind when we took tea together.”

“Oh,” said Miss Hartford, at a loss for further words.

“I believe you intend to show yourself out, Miss Hartford,” said Miss Holmes, her voice cool.

Miss Hartford lifted her chin. “I sure ain't staying for more insults.”

She flounced out with great vigor. Mrs. Not-Jebediah stared in the direction of her departure, still not sure what had taken place.

“I apologize for shooing off your caller, Mrs. Watson,” said Miss Holmes softly. “It is Mrs. Watson, is it not? Mrs. John Watson?”

Mrs. Watson realized she was on her feet—and slowly sat down again. “How did you find out, Miss Holmes?”

“I enjoy fashion. I recognized that your hats are from Madame Claudette's on Regent Street. Chances are, not that many clients ask to have little black crape details appended to their millinery. So I went to the shop, knocked on the living quarters, and told the women inside that I'd met you on the train, that you'd left your reticule behind with no address to be found inside, and that the only way to return it was to identify you via your hat. They were very glad to help.”

“Thank you for taking the trouble.” Mrs. Watson sounded tremulous to herself. As if she were the woman in dire straits who'd been helped, rather than the other way around.

“I should be the one to thank you, for taking the trouble.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

Miss Holmes smiled. She had dimples. Of course she did—the Good Lord went to ridiculous lengths to make sure that one of the finest minds in existence was housed in a body least likely to be suspected of it.

“I can accept that a kindhearted woman would want to feed a stranger a good meal,” said Miss Holmes. “But when she also leaves her reticule behind, a reticule that contains far too much money for a trip across town, in far too usable a combination of coins and
notes, I begin to ask questions. I begin to wonder whether it is merely my luck—or your design.”

The butler returned with the tea service.

“Thank you, Mr. Mears,” said Mrs. Watson.

Mears left silently.

Mrs. Watson poured for her guest, her fingers tight around the handle of the teapot. “Both milk and sugar, if I recall correctly, Miss Holmes.”

“Yes, please.”

Mrs. Watson couldn't remember the last time she saw anyone's face light up at the sight of a cup of tea. Miss Holmes half closed her eyes as she took that first sip.

“Some macaroons, perhaps?” asked Mrs. Watson, gesturing toward the plates of comestibles that had been brought in with the tea. She had appeared before audiences of thousands—and yet now she was nervous before an audience of one. “And if you like cake, the madeira is very good. But if I do say so, my cook makes the best plum cake I've ever tasted.”

“I don't believe I've ever turned down plum cake in my life—and I certainly won't start now,” answered Miss Holmes, helping herself to a slice. “Oh, you are right. This is scrumptious. Absolutely scrumptious.”

Mrs. Watson smiled with some effort. “I'm glad you agree.”

She took a macaroon, so that she, too, would have something to do while Miss Holmes polished off her slice of cake. When Miss Holmes finished, she sighed. Mrs. Watson half hoped she would take another slice—the girl certainly had the appetite for it. But Miss Holmes set down her plate and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“Thank you. You are so very, very kind,” she said, gazing fully upon Mrs. Watson.

Her eyes were clear and remarkably guileless. Mrs. Watson, blood pounding in her ears, braced herself for what was coming.

“You know who I am, don't you, Mrs. Watson?” asked Miss Holmes. “You know my story.”

Charlotte watched as Mrs. Watson stirred her tea.

Here in her own home, she was dressed more plainly, in a russet velvet dress that Livia might almost approve of, if not for the gold piping that trimmed the flounces of the skirt. The interior of the house was also conservatively furnished, without the wild prints and eastern influences that one often associated with more Bohemian décor.

In fact, if it weren't for the stage photographs, a caller might think herself in the drawing room of an ordinary, respectable widow. A kind and beautiful one, but otherwise unexceptional.

The photographs told a different story altogether. Charlotte, no stranger to flouting conventional mores these days, was more than a little taken aback by images of a young Mrs. Watson in “hose and breeches.” A woman's lower limbs were always enshrouded by layers of skirts. Even bloomers, worn by the brave and athletic few, were purposefully billowy, to hide the exact form of the wearer.

Of course there were postcards of scantily clad actresses. But to see the sight of one's hostess's calves and thighs so obviously and deliberately outlined—she could only imagine the shock of those applicants who had come hoping to become Mrs. Watson's companion.

Mrs. Watson followed Charlotte's line of sight. “The public considers all women on stage to be of questionable morals, if not outright whores. But the serious Shakespearean actresses console themselves that at least they aren't involved in the vulgarity of musical theater. And those of us in musical theater congratulate ourselves on not being involved in the pornographic nonsense that is the burlesque. I don't know to whom the burlesque performers compare themselves, but I'm sure they feel superior to
someone
.”

Charlotte sighed. “My sister fears becoming an impoverished old
maid. Sometimes I think that more than eating boiled cabbage in a dilapidated boardinghouse, she fears becoming the most pathetic person she knows—to have no one before whom she could feel the least bit superior.”

Mrs. Watson set aside her teacup without drinking from it. “What do
you
fear the most, Miss Holmes?”

“I . . .” Charlotte exhaled. She knew what she feared, but she wasn't accustomed to voicing it aloud. “I fear always being beholden to someone else. I want to be independent—and I want to earn that independence. But now I can no longer believe that fortunate state of affairs will ever come to pass, not with all the mistakes I've made.”

“Is there someone specific you have in mind—that you don't wish to be beholden to?”

Charlotte hesitated. “My father has a natural son.”

It wasn't common knowledge. Charlotte only found out because she wanted to know why Lady Amelia had, in the end, jilted Sir Henry. This might not be the only reason, but for someone of Lady Amelia's lofty background, marrying a mere baronet would already be a step down. That he had sired a child out of wedlock, hardly an unforgivable sin under normal circumstances, might have tilted the balance against him.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Watson.

“My half brother lives in London and works as an accountant.”

“And you consider him your last resort?”

Charlotte hesitated again. “I don't know anything about him. Though I dare say he has no reason to feel any sympathy for me: I didn't have the hurdles of illegitimacy placed in my path and yet I've managed to bungle everything.”

She blew out a breath and eyed the plate of plum cake. Was it appetite or gluttony that made her want to reach out for another slice?

Or was it fear and fear alone?

She looked back at Mrs. Watson. “I guess you've answered my question, ma'am. You do know who I am.”

Mrs. Watson picked up a piece of macaroon and took a delicate nibble. “It must have been three years ago that I first noticed you at the opera. I remarked that you were probably the most darling young woman present. In return, I was told that you were in fact the greatest eccentric in that crowd of thousands. As you can imagine, that left an impression.

“I've seen you a few times since, at the park or coming out of the modiste's with your mother. After the scandal erupted . . . Well, the separation between Society and the demimonde has always been porous and I quickly learned of your misfortune. And when I walked into the post office a few days ago and saw you looking pale and distressed, I decided that if I came across you again, I would try to help you.”

“I cannot tell you how much I cherish your generosity. But it's no pittance that you left me in that reticule. And I'm not in such desperate straits yet that I can simply take the money without second thoughts.”

Mrs. Watson smiled. “I cooked up my little scheme before I truly knew anything about you. The moment I stepped out of the tea shop, I realized that it wasn't going to work. I'd left no identifying information in the reticule. But you knew so much about me from a look—it would be only a matter of time before you discovered my address.”

“I didn't mean to call upon you—my intention was only to ring the doorbell and give the reticule to a member of the staff. But as I approached the house, I saw Miss Hartford emerge from a carriage far too grand for her supposed station in life. She turned around and said to someone in the carriage, ‘'Ow do I sound?' and a man's voice replied, in a similarly exaggerated accent, ‘Like a proper Cockney, luv.'

“It made me uneasy. She was still some distance ahead of me.
When I turned the corner and saw that she'd been admitted into your house, I went back to the carriage, knocked, and asked for directions to the Strand, claiming to be lost.”