guessed. He could no longer put off going home. He walked along the footpath in Gower Street, crossed the intersection at Francis Street and Torrington Place, and went on. His feet hurt. Perhaps that was why he was walking more and more slowly.
There was damp in the air and a slight haze around the new moon above the bare branches of the trees. It was possible they had not seen the very last of the frost. What should he say to Charlotte? She had been so angry this morning she had refused to be present so she would not have to speak to him.
Did she care for Dominic so very much … even now? He was part of a past Pitt could never share in, because it had happened before he had known her. It was part of the life she was born to, of sufficient money and beautiful dresses, not hand-me-downs from Aunt Vespasia or gifts from Emily. It was parties and dances, soirees, the theater, having one’s own carriage instead of using a hansom on the rare occasions one went out. It was being known in fashionable circles, never having to explain yourself, to conceal the fact that your husband worked for a living, that you had only one resident maid and no manservant. It was the whole world of leisure.
It was the whole world of idleness, of seeking petty occupations with which to fill your day, and at the end wondering why you were still unsatisfied. Even Dominic had grown tired of it and chosen, with a passion, to do something difficult and consuming with his life. That was what Charlotte admired in him, not his handsome face or his charm or his social position. He had no social position.
She had said “Poor Dominic.” Did he ever want to hear her say “Poor Thomas” like that?
Never! The thought made his stomach hurt.
He turned the corner into Keppel Street. He was a hundred yards from home. He lengthened his stride. He turned up his own step and opened the front door. He would pretend nothing had happened.
The lights were on. He heard no sound. She could not be out. Could she?
He swallowed hard. He wanted to shout. He could feel panic welling up inside him. This was ridiculous. He had been wrong to be pleased about Dominic, but it was not a sin so grievous as—
He heard laughter from the kitchen, women’s laughter, light and happy.
He strode down the corridor, his feet heavy on the linoleum, and threw the door open.
Charlotte was standing beside the flour bin near the dresser and Gracie was next to the sink with a tray of small cakes. There was milk all over the floor. He looked at the mess, then at Gracie, lastly at Charlotte.
“Don’t step on it!” she warned. “You’ll slip. Don’t worry, it isn’t all I have. It’s only half a pint. It looks terrible like that, but it isn’t really bad.”
Gracie put down the cakes and reached for a cloth. Charlotte took a mop and squeezed it out, then began to swab up, looking at Pitt as she did and sending the milk in even wider circles. “You must be tired. Have you had anything to eat?”
“No.” Was it going to be all right?
“Would you like scrambled eggs? I’ve got enough milk for that … I think. Perhaps it had better be an omelette. I can do that with water. And I have a confession to make.”
He sat down, keeping his feet out of the way of the mop.
“Have you?” He tried to sound light, unafraid.
She looked down at the mop, guiding it back to the right place. “Daniel put his foot through one of the sheets,” she said. “I looked at them all. They’re all on their way out. I bought four new pairs, and pillow slips to go with them. Two pairs for us, one each for Daniel and Jemima.” She looked up to see what he would say.
Relief overwhelmed him like a tidal wave. He found he was smiling, even though he had not meant to. “Excellent!” He did not even care how much they had cost. “A very good thing. Are they linen?”
She still looked a little cautious. “Yes … I’m afraid so. Irish linen. It was a good bargain.”
“Even better. Yes, I would like an omelette. And have we any pickle left?”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled slowly. “I never run out of pickle. I wouldn’t dare,” she added under her breath.
“Neither should you.” He