Chapter Nine #2
“Like people.”
It was a telling phrase, and it struck a chord.
Inequality was a fact of life, just or otherwise.
But his early life among wealthy plantation owners, slaves, paid workers, rebels, and soldiers had taught him the importance of seeing the humanity in all, good and ill.
This woman saw it too. Born into a privileged class, she must have battled for her independence in a man’s world and paid for it in many ways.
She saw clearly, but there was no resentment in her.
Solomon poured the tea, politely offering milk and sugar before asking, “Did he ever dismiss servants?”
“I imagine that was his wife’s business, but he would not allow it if it was unjust.”
“I am thinking of the last month, when you said he was concerned about something. Did he confide anything about his servants to you?”
She thought about it. “Nothing bad.”
Solomon returned to the list, struggling to turn his instincts into words.
“These people—including yourself—were whom he chose as his friends, not those who were his mere neighbors or natural allies in the world he was born into. Free thinkers, free doers, who don’t live according to custom but to their own views and whims. Was that what he truly wished to be?
Was he crushed by the conventionality of his public life? ”
Color flooded her face, which he was at a loss to account for. Embarrassment? Shame, because she had inadvertently given away her friend’s confidences? For a moment, he wondered if she would bolt or just snatch the list of names back from him.
She did neither, merely reached for her teacup. “In a way, yes. But never think he did not love his family. He did. They were the world to him.”
“And this world,” Solomon said slowly, with a flick of the list, “this was his escape?”
“Yes, I suppose it was.” But she wasn’t looking at him now. She was drinking tea, her shoulders tense.
“What are you not telling me?” he asked abruptly.
Surprise often worked, but she seemed to be ready for the accusation. She even looked and sounded faintly amused. “My dear sir, I am trying to help you discover what happened to my friend. I want you to succeed.”
“And if what we need is whatever you are hiding?”
“I have kept back nothing that is relevant.”
“Are you the best judge of that?”
She smiled serenely. “Yes, I am.”
Along with his frustration at that blind confidence came the thought, Where the devil is Constance when I need her?
*
Constance, in fact, was at the dressmaker’s.
In an effort to learn more about St. John’s family, the women in particular, she was seeking a source of gossip.
She began with her own favored modiste, who had not dealt with Mrs. St. John, but directed her to a more likely establishment.
It was at the fourth of those that she finally found what she sought.
Madame Veronique herself clearly recognized a lucrative customer when she saw one, for she stopped an assistant from rushing up to Constance and approached her in person.
“Is madame seeking something in particular?” she asked. Her accent was very subtly French. Genuine or not, it was perfectly done. “Whatever it is, we shall have something uniquely ravishing for such an elegant lady.”
Constance spared her a glance—a smartly but modestly dressed woman of some forty years, her figure trim, her manner submissive, and her eyes hard and assessing. A businesswoman who had struggled upward from very little and had no intention of going back down. Constance understood that well enough.
“Nothing in particular,” she said. “I am merely considering a subtle change in style and looking about for inspiration. Someone recommended you, so I thought I would look in.”
“May I know who?” asked Veronique, preening slightly.
Constance shrugged carelessly. “I can’t remember. One of my friends with whom I was discussing the matter… Mrs. St. John, perhaps? Yes, I believe it was, for you are making all the gowns for her daughter’s wedding, are you not?”
She had used the same line three times that afternoon, but it finally struck home.
Madame Veronique’s eyes positively sparkled. “Indeed, Mrs. St. John is one of my most valued customers.”
“Not so immediately valuable, I imagine,” Constance said, minutely examining the gorgeous golden silk evening gown in front of her, “if the wedding is postponed.”
“Oh, but it is not,” the dressmaker said smugly. “Such an appalling tragedy, of course, but madame and mademoiselle come for their next fitting tomorrow. Madame confides in me that her late husband would wish the wedding to go ahead without postponement. Mademoiselle persuaded her.”
“I am so glad for their sakes,” Constance said. “You know, this gown is gorgeous, but I rather doubt it is my color, and the style is too busy for me, with all those flounces and trims…”
“You will be surprised, madame. You will carry the style most beautifully, and I have other colored silks that might please you more. Why don’t you try it?”
She condescended to try the gown and let Veronique fuss about her for some time while Constance flitted from subject to subject before bringing the conversation back to the St. Johns, wondering how many gowns there were to be for Miss St. John’s trousseau.
“At least Mr. St. John can’t balk at the numbers and veto any,” she added callously.
Veronique didn’t bat an eyelid. “He never did,” she said simply. “He liked to be generous.” Perhaps she caught Constance’s look, for she added hastily, “To his family.”
“Such a kind man,” Constance agreed. “Did you know him well?”
If she had hoped to surprise a betrayal of an illicit liaison between St. John and the dressmaker, she was disappointed.
“I never met him,” Veronique said. “I know him only through the affectionate chatter of his daughter and his wife.”
“I do like to hear of affectionate families,” Constance said. “Do you know, you are right about this gown? I really can carry this style. Perhaps you could show me the other silks you mentioned.”
Unfortunately, another customer entered the shop, and though Veronique was happy to leave this person to her assistant, there was too much possibility of being overheard to hope for further confidences.
Still, having ordered the gown in a bold scarlet silk for an extortionate amount of money, Constance returned to the Silver and Grey offices with new theories buzzing around her head.
Catching sight of Janey at the end of Chandos Street, Constance alighted early from the hackney to greet her.
“Wotcher, ma’am,” Janey exclaimed. “Know anything about the two old biddies four doors up from us? She’s called Willow and lives with her maiden sister. They’re the sort who give churches a bad name, making their servants pray all the time and faces as prim as a duck’s—”
“Janey,” Constance interrupted. “I understand.”
Janey grinned. “Course you do. Well, the servants are pleasant enough; the housekeeper herself asked me into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Only then she—Mrs. Willow—appears unexpectedly and throws me out like I’m…
whoever it was Jesus threw out of the temple.
Anyway, the point is, she recognized me. ”
Constance saw the significance at once. “Which means she’s been paying attention to the household and knows who and what we are…”
“Can’t see her shoveling sh…”—again, Janey caught Constance’s eye and changed her mind—“shoveling dirt, though, and trotting round to our back door with it.”
“Is she frail?”
“No…”
“Then she could have. Or got a servant to do it for her.”
“True,” Janey allowed. “It’d take several servants, though, to lug two dead bodies there.”
“We’re beginning to think they died where they were and their position was altered only slightly.”
“Why?” Janey asked.
Constance sighed. “That is another question.” She inserted her key in the lock and was glad to see Hat bob immediately out of the reception office she still thought of as Janey’s.
“Tea, ma’am?” Hat said brightly. “I just made some for Mr. Grey, so the kettle won’t take long. He’s with someone, by the way.”
“Who?” Constance asked, for there were no appointments. Had Cordell come back to change his mind and dismiss them?
“A Miss Paul.” Hat lowered her voice. “Very bright, colorful lady.”
“Ah.” Constance was intrigued. “We’ll talk later, Janey. You go and see how Hat’s been faring.”
With a brief knock, she entered Solomon’s office.
“Constance.” Solomon rose immediately and turned to face her with such laughter in his eyes that she was startled.
It wasn’t a joke he’d been sharing with his visitor, either.
It was for her, and over in a flash. “Miss Paul, this is my wife, Mrs. Grey, the Silver part of our partnership. Constance, Miss Zenobia Paul, Mr. St. John’s friend. ”
Zenobia was regarding her with blatant curiosity. She held out her hand. “How do you do? You do unusual work for a woman.”
Since she offered, Constance shook hands with her. “So do you.”
Zenobia’s lips curved upward. She had a strong-featured face that had its own beauty. But her main attraction seemed to be character, which blazed out of her eyes and her every expression. After a moment, she delved into a capacious bag and came out with a card, which she presented to Constance.
“I shall be at home tomorrow evening with a few friends. I would be honored if you would join me.”
Constance blinked. “You know who I am? You understand about my establishment?”
“I admire your work there,” Zenobia said calmly. “Yes, I too can make inquiries. And you need not fear being ostracized by less liberal-minded guests.” Her eyes danced. “My dear, I even entertain actresses.”