A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(39)

Nine





Charlotte,

You bloody fool.

(I hope Mamma never sees this. Or it would be off with my head for such blasphemous language—if not already for writing to you behind her back. But my word, you bloody fool!)

This morning Mamma took to her bed and Papa was abroad. I snuck out of the house to Mrs. Wallace’s boarding home, hoping to run into you—and reassure myself you were still in tolerable circumstances. Needless to say, every single one of my nightmares came true in that woman’s parlor.

I came home to a letter that Mott had smuggled in for me—he had been calling for my letters at the Charing Cross post office, since I am watched closely. The postmark let me know without a doubt that the letter was posted after you had been evicted. But you said nothing of it. It was full of falsely cheerful observations of life at Mrs. Wallace’s!

I am drenched in fear. Steeped, marinated, macerated in it. I beg you to please tell me what is going on. The truth cannot be worse than the dreadful scenarios barging through my head.

Or at least tell me that you are not lying in a ditch somewhere, though how I am to believe you after all the lies I do not know.

Livia

P.S. Come home, Charlotte. Come home.




Sherlock Holmes’s letter had caused a sensation. The tone of coverage suggested a willingness on the part of the newspapers—and most likely, by extension, on the part of the public—to entertain the possibility that Lady Shrewsbury’s death had been part of a sinister larger plan. Which ought to have made Livia breathe easier, as she’d rarely crossed paths with Lady Amelia and had never met Mr. Sackville.

Had probably made things better for Livia, which explained how she could have slipped out—and discovered the reality of Charlotte’s current situation.

My Dearest Livia,

My apologies for not having been entirely truthful earlier. I am not lying in a ditch somewhere and things are not hopeless. Yet.

Charlotte





The eviction from Mrs. Wallace’s boarding home cast a long shadow.

Charlotte felt marked. Even if her situation were to improve drastically, the danger remained that at any moment she could be recognized, her disguise stripped away, and her scandalous past brought to the fore to condemn her all over again.

But to be banished from her place of domicile, as bad as it had been, was not as awful as the possibility that the same might happen to her at her place of employment.

Should she ever have a place of employment, that is.

The inside of Miss Oswald’s Employment Agency smelled of ink and overbrewed tea. The place was mentioned by two of the sources Charlotte had studied, not so much in recommending it as begrudgingly admitting its legitimacy.

Their distaste, as far as Charlotte could discern, stemmed from the fact that Miss Oswald’s aim was less to help other women and more to make a living for herself. Charlotte had no objection to that goal. Moreover, she entertained hopes that Miss Oswald would, one, recognize that Charlotte would be a valuable worker and, two, prove more efficient than the charitable societies and registries for which greater efficacy would not bring more profits, only more work.

Squinting behind her thick glasses, Miss Oswald perused the letter of character Charlotte had brought. Behind her, a small window set high on the wall offered a rectangular slice of what passed for clear blue sky in London.

Livia lived for days like this. When sunlight wasn’t just warm on the skin, but seemed to have a soft, blanketlike weight. She would sit outside and turn her face up—the risk of becoming unfashionably tanned be damned—and soak in all the heat and brightness.

Charlotte had never told her this, but she had planned to take Livia to the south of France someday. To spend a few weeks, or perhaps an entire winter, bathing daily in that lemon-colored sunshine.

“You were . . . a typist for Broadbent, Lucas and Sons in Tunbridge,” said Miss Oswald, a hint of disbelief in her voice, as she set aside the letter of character.

“Yes, ma’am.”

There was nothing amiss with the letter Charlotte had forged, which had been typed on proper stationery: The letterheads had been ordered from a good stationer’s, and the signature was masterful, if she did say so herself.

Unfortunately, she had hesitated at the expense of acquiring new clothes that would have completed the illusion. The clothes wouldn’t be costly in absolute terms—they were meant to make her look like a young woman who must contribute to her own support. But compared to how little money remained to her, every price was dauntingly exorbitant.

So she’d come to the interview in her own clothes—a jacket, a blouse, and a skirt—which, while not extravagant, were still of a level of quality and workmanship far exceeding what a typist ought to be able to afford.

Were she observing herself, she’d draw the obvious conclusion that there was something incongruous about her, that she might not be the humble position seeker she claimed to be. Why should Miss Oswald, whose business depended on accurately judging the trustworthiness of the applicants, come to a different verdict?

“And what is the reason you moved to London?”

“My parents are no more and my aunt asked me to come live with her.”

“Where does she live, your aunt?”

“Lambeth, ma’am.”

After losing her pound note to the girl beggar, a rundown boarding home in Lambeth was the best Charlotte could do. The district was grey, industrial, and in constant danger of flooding, but safe enough during daylight hours—and an acceptable place for a typist’s aunt to live.