Paragon Walk by Anne Perry

Emily did not utterly and immediately believe him. And if he had evaded the truth, left out something, like a flirtation, a foolish party, some excess in drink, then he would feel guilty. One lie would lead to another, and Emily would become confused and in the end perhaps suspect him even of the crime itself. The truth could be full of so many uglinesses. It was unforeseeably painful to strip away the small deceits that made life comfortable and allowed you not to see what you preferred to pretend you did not know.
    “Charlotte,” Pitt’s voice came from behind her. She forced the fear out of her mind and served the food. She set it on the table in front of him.
    “Yes?” she said innocently.
    “Stop it!”
    It was no use trying to deceive him, even with a thought. He read her too easily. She sat down with her own plate.
    “You will prove it wasn’t George as soon as you can, won’t you?” she asked.
    He stretched out his hand across the table to touch hers.
    “Of course, I will. As soon as I can, without making it look as if I suspect him.”
    She had not even thought of that! Of course—if he pursued George first of all, it would make it even worse. Emily would think—oh goodness only knew what Emily would think.
    “I shall go and call on Emily.” She speared a potato with her fork and sliced it hard, unconsciously making the pieces smaller than usual, as if she were already dining in Paragon Walk. “She is often inviting me.” She started to think which of her dresses she could possibly make suitable for the occasion. If she called in the morning, her dark gray would be well enough. It was a good muslin and not too obviously last year’s cut. “After all, one of us should go, and Mama is busy with Grandmama’s illness. I think it is an excellent idea.”
    Pitt did not answer her. He knew that she was talking to herself.

Three
    C HARLOTTE HAD ALREADY worked out in her mind exactly what she meant to do, and, as soon as Pitt had gone, she tidied the kitchen and then dressed Jemima in her second-best clothes, cotton, trimmed with lace Charlotte had carefully salvaged from one of her own old petticoats. When she was all ready, Charlotte picked her up and took her out into the warm, dusty street and over to the house opposite. The net curtains were twitching behind a dozen windows, but she refused to turn her head and betray that she knew it. Balancing Jemima on one arm, she knocked on the door.
    It opened almost immediately, and a gaunt little woman in a plain, stuff pinafore stood on the mat just inside.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Smith,” Charlotte said with a smile. “I just heard yesterday evening that my sister is unwell, and I feel I should go and see her. Perhaps I can help.” She did not want to lie so directly as to imply that Emily had no one else to care for her, as might have been her own situation, but she did want to suggest a certain urgency. Her feelings conflicted; she was faintly ashamed on this woman’s doorstep, looking at the shabby hall and knowing that Emily could ring a bell and have a maid come if she were ill, or send a footman for a doctor. Yet she needed to make the summons seem important.
    “Would you be good enough to look after Jemima for me today?”
    The woman’s face lit in an answering smile, and she held out her arms. Jemima hesitated for a moment, drawing back a little, but Charlotte had no time for tears or cajolings today. She gave her a quick kiss and passed her over.
    “Thank you very much. I expect I shall not be long, but, if things are worse than I fear, I may not be home until the afternoon.
    “Don’t you worry, love.” The woman cuddled Jemima easily, setting her weight on her bony hip, as she had done with countless bundles of laundry and with all eight of her own children, except the two who had died before they were old enough to sit at all. “I’ll take care of ’er, give ’er ’er dinner. You just go and see to your sister, poor soul. I ’ope as