A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(46)
“Ah, the woman question. But tell me, Miss Holmes, what do you think you are most well suited to do?”
Charlotte blinked in astonishment—no one had ever asked her that. “May I tell you a secret, ma’am?”
“Yes, I adore secrets.”
“I’ve always told my sister and my parents that I wished to be headmistress of a girls’ school. But that’s only because I’m greedy and a headmistress earns five hundred, possibly seven hundred, quid a year. The truth is I’ve no idea what on earth I could possibly do with my particular talent.”
Mrs. Jebediah leaned forward. “And what is your particular talent?”
“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.”