She knew he was watching her.
'I'm sorry,' he said quietly.
She understood what he was apologising for. He had made Pitt unpopular by singling him out, preferring him, confiding in him. Now, without Narraway, he would be vulnerable. He had never had any other profession but the police, and then Special Branch. He had been forced out of the police after his long struggle against the Inner Circle. He could not go back there. It was Narraway who had given him a job when he had so desperately needed it. If Special Branch dismissed him, where was there for him to go? There was nowhere where he could exercise his very particular skills, and certainly nowhere where he could earn a comparable salary.
They would lose this house in Keppel Street and all the comforts that went with it. Mrs Waterman would certainly no longer be a problem. Charlotte might well be scrubbing her own floors; indeed, it might even come to her scrubbing someone else's as well. Pitt would hate that for her more than she would for herself. She could imagine it already, see the shame in his face for his own failure to provide for her, not the near luxury she had grown up in, nor even the amenities of a working-class domesticity.
She looked up at Narraway, wondering now about him. She had never considered before if he were dependent upon his salary or not. His speech and his manner, the almost careless elegance of his dress, said that he was born to a certain degree of position, but that did not necessarily mean wealth. Younger sons of even the most aristocratic families did not always inherit a great deal.
'What will you do?' she asked, then was aware how intrusive that sounded, and that it might be a painful question. Certainly it was one to which she had no right to expect an answer. She could feel the heat mounting up her cheeks. Would apologising make it better, or worse?
'How like you,' he replied. 'Both to be concerned for me, and to assume that there is something to be done.'
Now she felt foolish. 'Isn't there?'
He hesitated. The silence between them was full of all sorts of memories and emotions. Yesterday he had been Pitt's superior, a man with enormous power. Today he had no authority, possibly even no income beyond a few weeks.
Did he have friends, people he could call on, or might he be too proud to do that? She had known him, through Pitt, since Pitt had joined Special Branch, but she was sharply aware now how superficial that knowledge was. What of his past? What was his life beyond the Branch? Perhaps there was not much.
She knew that in the last case, Pitt had made an enemy of the Prince of Wales. Perhaps that enmity extended to Narraway as well. Remembering the circumstances, she could only believe that it must. There may be many other enemies. People do not forgive knowledge of the intimate and painful kind that Narraway possessed.
She looked at his face in the lamplight, and then lowered her eyes. She was not sure what she wanted to say, only that silence was of no use to Pitt, or to Narraway himself.
'What are you going to do?' she asked him again.
'To help Pitt? There's nothing I can do,' he replied. 'I don't know the circumstances, and to interfere blindly might do far more harm.'
'Not about Thomas, about yourself?' She had not asked him what the charge was, or if he was wholly or partially guilty. Suddenly that omission seemed so enormous she drew in her breath to say something to amend it. Then she felt inexcusably clumsy, and ended saying nothing.
The ashes settled even further in the fire.
Several seconds passed before he answered. 'I don't know,' he admitted, his voice hesitant for the first time in her knowledge. 'I am not even certain who is at the root of it, although I have at least an idea. It is all . . . ugly.'
She had to press onward, for Pitt's sake. 'Is that a reason not to look at it?' she said quietly. 'It will not mend itself, will it?'
He gave the briefest smile. 'No. I am not certain that it can be mended at all.'
'Would you like a cup of tea?' she asked. you like a cup of tea?' she asked.
He was startled. 'I beg your pardon?'
'You look uncomfortable standing there in front of the fire. Wouldn't sitting down be better?'
He turned slightly to look behind him at the hearth and the mantel, and took a step sideways. 'You mean I am blocking the heat,' he said ruefully.
'No,' she smiled. 'Actually I meant that I am getting a crick in my neck staring up and sideways at you.'
For a moment the pain in his face softened. 'Thank you, but I would prefer not to disturb Mrs . . . whatever her name is. I can sit down without tea, unnatural as that may seem.'
'Waterman,' she supplied.
'Yes, of course.'
'I was going to make it myself, provided, of course, that she will allow me into the kitchen. She doesn't approve. Ladies of the social order she is accustomed to working for do not even know where the kitchen is. Although how I could lose it in a house this size, I have no idea.'
'She has come down in the world,' Narraway observed. 'It can happen to the best of us.'
Charlotte watched as he sat down, elegantly as always, crossing his legs and leaning back as if he were comfortable.
'I think it may concern an old case in Ireland,' he began, at first meeting her eyes, then looking down awkwardly. 'At the moment it is to do with the death of a present-day informant there, because the money I paid did not reach him in time for him to flee those he had . . . betrayed.' He said the word crisply and clearly, as if deliberately exploring a wound: his own, not someone else's. 'I did it obliquely, so it could not be traced back to Special Branch. If it had been, it would have cost him his life immediately.'
Watching his face, Charlotte had no impression that he was being deliberately obscure. She waited. There was silence beyond the room, no sound of the children asleep upstairs, or of Mrs Waterman, who was presumably still in the kitchen. She would not retire to her room with a visitor still in the house.
'My attempts to hide its source make it impossible to trace what actually happened to it,' Narraway continued. 'To the superficial investigation, it looks as if I took it myself.'
He was watching her now, but not openly. She saw the apprehension in his eyes; it was there just for a moment, then gone again. She tried to keep all expression from her face. What did she believe of him? She did not know, but for Pitt's sake she could not afford to allow doubt.
'You have enemies,' she said.
His body eased so minutely it was barely visible, just an alteration in the way the fabric of his suit stretched across his shoulders. He was not a large man: average height, slender, wiry. The bones of his hands resting on his knee were lean. In fact his hands were beautiful. She had not noticed them before.
'Yes,' he agreed. 'I have. No doubt many. I thought I had guarded against the possibility of their injuring me. It seems I overlooked something of importance.'
'Or someone is an enemy whom you did not suspect,' she amended.
'That is possible,' he agreed. 'I think it is more likely that an old enemy has gained a power that I did not foresee.'
'You have someone in mind?' She leaned forward a little. The question was intrusive, but she had to know. Pitt was in France, relying on Narraway to back him up. He would have no idea Narraway no longer held any office.
'Yes.' The answer seemed to be difficult for him.
Again she waited.
'It's an old case. It all happened more than twenty years ago.' There was a roughness in his voice and he had to clear his throat before he went on. 'They're all dead now, except one.'
She had no idea to what he was referring, and yet the past seemed to be in the room with them.
'But one is alive?' she probed. 'Do you know, or are you guessing?'
'I know Kate and Sean are dead,' he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him. 'I imagine Cormac is still alive. He would be barely sixty.'
'Why would he wait this long?'
'I don't know.'
She studied him as he sat in Pitt's chair opposite her. He was uncomfortable, yet he made no move to go, nor even to defend himself from her enquiries.
'But you believe he hates you enough to lie, to plan and connive to ruin you?' she insisted.
Thoughts chased each other across his face; she could not guess what they were. 'Yes. I have no doubt of that. He has cause.'
Charlotte realised with surprise, and pity, that he was ashamed of his part in whatever had happened. She hoped she would never have to know what it was.
'So what will you do?' she asked again. 'You have to fight.'
He smiled, and she knew it was because he assumed she was concerned that he protect Pitt. She was, but that was not all, nor had it been uppermost in her mind when she had spoken.
She felt a heat burn up her face. 'Nurse your wound for a few hours, then gather yourself together and think what you wish to do.'
Now he really smiled, showing a naturalness of humour she had not seen in him before. 'Is that how you speak to your children when they fall over and skin their knees?' he asked. 'Quick sympathy, a hug, and then briskly get back up again? I haven't fallen off a horse, Mrs Pitt. I have fallen from grace, and I know of nothing to get me back up again.'
The colour was even hotter in her face now. 'You mean you have no idea what to do?'
He stood up and straightened the shoulders of his jacket. 'Yes, I know what to do. I shall go to Ireland and find Cormac O'Neil. If I can, I shall prove that he is behind this, and clear my name. I shall make Croxdale eat his words. At least I hope I will.'
She stood also. 'Have you anyone to help you, whom you can trust?'
'No.' His loneliness was intense. Just the one, simple word. Then it vanished, as if self-pity disgusted him. 'Not here,' he added. 'But I may find someone in Ireland.'
She knew he was lying, to cover the moment's slip.
'I'll come with you,' she said impulsively. 'You can trust me because our interests are the same.'
His voice was tight with amazement, as if he did not dare believe her. 'Are they?'
'Of course,' she said rashly, although she knew it was the absolute truth. 'Thomas has no other friend in Special Branch than you. The survival of my family may depend upon your being able to prove your innocence.'
The colour was warm in his cheeks also, or perhaps it was the firelight. 'And what could you do?' he asked.
'Observe, ask questions, go where you will be recognised and cannot risk being seen. I am quite a good detective at least I was in the past, when Thomas was in the police force and his cases were not so secret. At least I am considerably better than nothing.'
He blushed and turned away. 'I could not allow you to come.'
'I did not ask your permission,' she retorted. 'But of course it would be a great deal pleasanter with it,' she added.
He did not answer. It was the first time she had seen him so uncertain. Even when she had realised some time ago, with shock, that he found her attractive, there had always been a distance between them. He was Pitt's superior, a seemingly invulnerable man: intelligent, ruthless, always in control, and knowing so many things that others did not. Now he was unsure, able to be hurt, no more in control of everything than she was. She would have used his Christian name if she had dared, but that would be a familiarity too far.
'We need the same thing,' she began. 'We have to find the truth of who is behind this fabrication and put an end to it. It is survival for both of us. If you think that because I am a woman I cannot fight, or that I will not, then you are a great deal more naive than I assumed, and frankly, I do not believe that. You have some other reason. Either you are afraid of something I will find out, some lie you need to protect; or else your pride is more important to you than your survival. Well, it is not more important to me.' She took a deep breath. 'And should I be of assistance, you will not owe me anything, morally or otherwise. I care what happens to you. I would not like to see you ruined, because you helped my husband at a time when we desperately needed it. But what is far more urgent at the moment, I will come in order to save my own family.'
'Every time I think I know something about you, you surprise me,' Narraway observed. 'It is a good thing you are no longer a part of high society; they would never survive you. They are unaccustomed to such ruthless candour. They would have no idea what to do with you.'
'You don't need to be concerned for them. I know perfectly well how to lie with the best, if I have to,' she retorted. 'I am coming to Ireland with you. This needs to be done, and you cannot do it alone because too many people already know you. You said as much yourself. But I had better have some reasonable excuse to justify travelling with you, or we shall cause an even greater scandal. May I be your sister, for the occasion?'
'We don't look anything alike,' he said with a slightly twisted smile.
'Half-sister then, if anybody asks,' she amended.
'Of course you are right,' he conceded. His voice was tired, the banter gone from it. He had been bruised to the heart and he knew it was ridiculous to deny the only help he had been offered. 'But you will listen to me, and do as I tell you. I cannot afford to spend my time or energy looking after you or worrying about you. Is that understood, and agreed?'
'Certainly. I want to succeed, not prove some kind of point.'
'Then I shall be here at eight o'clock in the morning the day after tomorrow to take us to the train, and then the boat. Bring clothes suitable for walking, for discreet calling upon people in the city, and at least one gown for evening, should we go to the theatre. Dublin is famous for its theatres. No more than one case.'
'I shall be waiting.'
He hesitated a moment, then let out his breath. 'Thank you.'
After he had gone Charlotte went back to the front parlour and a moment later there was a knock on the door.
'Come in,' she said, expecting to thank Mrs Waterman for waiting up, tell her that nothing more was needed and she should go to bed.
Mrs Waterman came in and closed the door behind her. Her back was ramrod stiff, her face almost colourless and set in lines of rigid disapproval. One might imagine she had found a blocked drain.
'I'm sorry, Mrs Pitt,' she said before Charlotte had had time to say anything. 'I cannot remain here. My conscience would not allow it.'
Charlotte was stunned. 'What are you talking about? You've done nothing wrong.'
Mrs Waterman sniffed. 'Well, I dare say I have my faults. We all do. But I've always been respectable, Mrs Pitt. There wasn't ever anyone who could say different.'
'Nobody has.' Charlotte was still mystified. 'Nobody has even suggested such a thing.'
'And I mean to keep it like that, if you understand me.' Mrs Waterman stood, if possible, even straighter. 'So I'll be going in the morning. I'm sorry, about that. I dare say it'll be difficult for you, which I regret. But I've got my name to think of.'
'What are you talking about?' Charlotte was growing annoyed. Mrs Waterman was not particularly agreeable, but they might learn to accept one another. She was certainly hard-working, diligent and totally reliable at least she had been so far. With Pitt away for an indefinite period of time, and now this disastrous situation with Narraway, the last thing Charlotte needed was a domestic crisis. She had to go to Ireland. If Pitt were without a job they would lose the house and in quite a short time possibly even find themselves scraping for food. He might have to learn a new trade entirely, and that would be difficult for a man in his forties. Also, with all the effort he would put into it, it would still take time. It was barely beginning to sink into her mind just how serious it would be. The embarrassment, the shame of it had not even begun to take shape. How on earth would Daniel and Jemima take the news? No more pretty dresses, no more parties, no more hoping for a career for Daniel. He would be fortunate not to start work at anything he could find, in a year or two. Even Jemima could become somebody's kitchen maid. The tears stung in her eyes.
'You can't leave,' she said aloud, her tone angry now. 'If you do, then I cannot give you a letter of character.' That was a severe threat. Without a recommendation, no servant could easily find another position. Their reason for leaving would be unexplained, and most people would put the unkindest interpretation on it.
Mrs Waterman was unmoving. 'I'm not sure, ma'am, if your recommendation would be of any service to me, as to character, that is if you understand me.'
Charlotte felt as if she had been slapped. 'No, I do not understand you. I have no idea what you are talking about,' she said tartly.
'I don't like having to say this,' Mrs Waterman replied, her face wrinkling with distaste. 'But I've never before worked in a household where the gentleman goes away unexpectedly, without any luggage at all, and the lady receives other gentlemen, alone and after dark. It isn't decent, ma'am, and that's all there is to it. I can't stay in a house with such goings-on.'
Charlotte was astounded. '"Goings-on"!' She could feel the heat rise up her face and was furious with herself. It must look like the flush of guilt, not anger. 'Mrs Waterman, Mr Pitt was called away on urgent business, without time to come home or pack any luggage. He went to France in an emergency, the nature of which is not your concern. Mr Narraway is his superior in the government, and he came to tell me, so I would not be concerned. If you see it as something else, then the "goings-on", as you put it, are entirely in your own imagination.'
'If you say so, ma'am,' Mrs Waterman answered, her eyes unwavering. 'And what did he come for the second time? Did Mr Pitt give a message to him, and not to you, his lawful wedded wife I assume?'
Charlotte wanted to slap her. It was an awful feeling, ridiculous and undignified. She knew exactly why men hit each other sometimes. However, she had never heard of a decent woman slapping her maid. She would probably be arrested and charged with assault. This was a nightmare. With a great effort she forced herself to become calm.
'Mrs Waterman, Mr Narraway came to tell me further news concerning my husband's work, none of which is your concern, and I can't imagine why you believe that I owe you some kind of explanation for it. Some work for Her Majesty is extremely discreet, and he does not discuss it with me, which is as it should be. I do not intend to tell you any more about it than that. If you choose to think ill of it, or of me, then you will do so whatever the truth is, because that is who you are . . .'
Now it was Mrs Waterman's face that flamed. 'Don't you try to cover it with nice words and high-and-mighty airs,' she said bitterly. 'I know a man with a fancy for a woman when I see one.'
It was on the edge of Charlotte's tongue to ask sarcastically when Mrs Waterman had ever seen one, but it was perhaps an unnecessarily cruel thought. Mrs Waterman was exactly what Charlotte's grandmama used to call a 'vinegar virgin', in spite of the courtesy 'Mrs' in front of her name.
'You have an overheated and somewhat vulgar imagination, Mrs Waterman,' she said coldly. 'But I cannot afford to have such a person in my household, so it might be best for both of us if you were to pack your belongings and leave first thing in the morning. I shall make breakfast myself, and then see if my sister can lend me one of her staff until I find someone satisfactory of my own. Her husband is a Member of Parliament, and she keeps a large establishment. I shall see you to say goodbye in the morning.'
'Yes, ma'am.' Mrs Waterman turned for the door.