A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(21)

The date sounded familiar. Charlotte searched her memory and recalled that there had been an awful pea-souper on that day in 1861. She sincerely doubted anyone would choose to venture out in such weather to abandon a baby, of all things, but she didn’t say anything.

At precisely nine o’clock Miss Turner laid aside the paper. All the other women rose and prepared to vacate the room.

Charlotte took the paper.

“Miss Holmes, lights-out is at half nine,” said Miss Turner officiously. “You should not read past that.”

“I won’t,” Charlotte promised.

In her room, a small but faultlessly clean space, she quickly found the death notice for Lady Shrewsbury. So Lady Shrewsbury truly was dead. When she’d been energetic and vigorous only the day before.

Lady Shrewsbury had seemed a great deal more upset at Charlotte than at her own son. But could she have been furious about him, rather than merely peeved? Could that fury have led to her perishing in her slumber?

Charlotte rubbed her temples, wishing she’d bought a cache of foodstuff. The portions at supper might have been enough for a woman of smaller appetites, but Charlotte had never been one of those women.

What was really going on? And would people think Charlotte might have had something to do with it?




Charlotte,

You liar!

You swore up and down that all would be well, that you would have no trouble landing a post in short order. How inebriated I must have been, to have taken you at your word.

I have since skimmed through your stacks of books and magazines having to do with female employment. I ended my reading with a pounding headache and a heart that cannot sink any lower.

The vast majority of avenues open to gentlewomen seeking work are for those who already possess the necessary educational and professional qualifications. Of which you have none. And those other opportunities you mentioned? Most require a period of apprenticeship, for which you have to pay a premium with money you do not have. The only positions that do not demand either education or apprenticeship pay so little they are only suitable for young girls working to supplement the family income, not for a grown woman trying to live on her own.

And I have not even brought up the Working Ladies’ Guild, which you described as so very helpful. It requires that a member personally vouch for you before you can seek employment via its registry. May the Almighty strike me dead for saying this to my own sister but Charlotte, no woman alive will risk her respectability to recommend you to any association or employer.

Not anymore. Not ever.

You knew all this. And you lied through your teeth. And I aided and abetted you in this hopeless venture. If I had shoved you in front of an oncoming omnibus, I could not have done worse as your sister.

Oh, what have you done, Charlotte? What have we done?

Livia

P.S. I wrote the above shortly before luncheon, but have not been able to leave the house to post it. I hope I will have better luck in the afternoon.

P.P.S. You were right about our parents’ reactions. Mamma was in a state and Papa coldly angry—and he changed his mind after first saying he would bring you back, exactly as you had predicted.

P.P.P.S. As you instructed, I told them I did not know when or how you had left. I said I had too much to drink and went to bed early in a stupor and you must have stolen out at night. I do not know how much Mamma and Papa believe me. They questioned Mott, too, and Mott turned out to be a tremendous liar: He looked them in the eye, and his expression remained frank and naive throughout.

P.P.P.P.S. Mamma has forbidden me to leave the house. I will try to entrust this letter to Mott.

P.P.P.P.P.S. An awful realization: If I cannot leave the house, then I cannot withdraw any money from the bank. Charlotte, promise me you will not let yourself starve to death on the streets—or worse. No, forget that. There is no worse fate than your starving to death on the streets. Do not let your pride be your end. If things go ill, come home. Please.




Charlotte met Miss Whitbread, who carried a heavy-looking satchel, outside Mrs. Wallace’s.

“Why, hullo, Miss Holmes,” said Miss Whitbread. “Back home early?”

“Yes,” Charlotte answered, opening the door for Miss Whitbread. “I have my own typewriter and the firm doesn’t mind if I brought some work home.”

Charlotte had always been a good liar. According to Livia, her expression didn’t change at all as she slipped between truths—having her own typewriter, for example—and falsehoods—in this case, having a firm that paid her for clacking away at said typewriter.

“That’s capital. I’m doing the same here—bringing work home.” Charlotte remembered that Miss Whitbread painted silks and cards for a living. “My employer’s got only the shop on the Strand—everybody who works for him takes their pieces home. It’s nice in a way, but to tell you the truth I wouldn’t mind if he had a studio somewhere, so I’ve a place to go during the day and people to see.”

“Yes, staying put in your room all day can become tedious.” Charlotte didn’t mind it so much, but Livia became antsy if she couldn’t get out for a daily walk.

“That, and not having anyone around for a good chinwag ’til supper.” Miss Whitbread set her satchel on a chair in the empty common room and rolled her shoulders. “That’s why I stopped to see my cousin today. We had a cup of tea and she gave me the latest about the scandal.”