to the woman who came in twice a week to do the heavy scrubbing and laundry.
“Mr. Pitt din’t finish ’is breakfast!” she said, looking at the toast.
“I don’t think he wanted it,” Charlotte replied. There was no point in making up a lie for Gracie. She would not say anything, but she was far too observant to be misled.
“Prob’ly worried about that reverend wot pushed the girl down them stairs,” Gracie said with a nod, picking up the teapot and putting it on the tray. “ ‘Nother nasty one, that. I daresay as she was no better than she should be, an’ teasin’ a reverend is a wicked fing ter do, seein’ as they get undressed or summink if they fall inter sin.” She set about clearing the rest of the dishes from the table.
“Undressed?” Charlotte said curiously. “Most people get undressed to—” She stopped. She had no idea how much Gracie knew of the facts of life.
“ ‘Course they do,” Gracie agreed cheerfully, putting the marmalade and the butter onto her tray. “I mean the bishop takes ’em to court an’ undresses ’em permanent, like. And then they in’t reverends anymore. They can’t preach nor nuffink.”
“Oh! You mean defrocked!” Charlotte bit her lips to stop herself from laughing. “Yes, that’s right. It’s very serious indeed.” Her heart sank again, thinking of Dominic. “Perhaps Miss Bellwood wasn’t a very nice person.”
“Some folks like ter do that kind o’ thing,” Gracie went on, picking up the tray to carry it through to the kitchen. “Yer gonner find out all about ’em, ma’am? I can look arter everyfink ’ere. We gotter ’elp the Master if ’e’s got a bad case. ’E depends on us.”
Charlotte opened the door for her.
“ ’E must be worried,” Gracie went on, turning sideways to get through. “ ’E’s gorn awful early, an’ ’e never leaves ’is toast, ’cos of ‘is likin’ fer marmalade.”
Charlotte did not mention that he had gone in anger because of her repeated praise of Dominic and old wounds she had clumsily reopened.
They went into the kitchen, and Gracie set down the tray. A ginger striped cat with a white chest stretched languidly in front of the fire and removed himself from a pile of clean laundry.
“Get orff me dusters, Archie!” Gracie said sharply. “I dunno ’oo’s kitchen this is … ’is or mine!” She shook her head. “Wot wif ’im an’ Angus chasin’ each other all over the ’ouse, it’s a wonder more don’t get broken. I found ’em both asleep in the linen cupboard last week. Often lie there, them two. Black and ginger fur all over everythin’, there was.”
The front doorbell rang and Gracie went to answer it. Charlotte followed her into the hall and saw Sergeant Tellman. She stopped abruptly, knowing Tellman’s complicated emotions regarding Gracie, and her very simple reaction to him.
“If yer lookin’ for Mr. Pitt, ’e already went,” Gracie said, regarding Tellman’s lantern-jawed face, its characteristic dourness softening as he saw her.
Tellman pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket.
“ ’E went early,” Gracie agreed with a nod. “ ’E din’t say w’y.”
Tellman was undecided what to do. Charlotte could see that he wanted to stay longer and talk to Gracie. He had intense feelings about anyone’s being a servant to another person. He despised Gracie’s acceptance of the role, and she thought he was foolish and impractical not to see the great advantages it held. She was warm and dry every night, had more than sufficient to eat, and never had bailiffs after her, or any of the other trials and indignities of the poor. It was an argument they could have pursued indefinitely, only she considered it too silly to bother with.
“Yer ’ad yer breakfast?” Gracie asked, looking him up and down. “Yer look ’ungry. Not that you never looks like nothin’ but a fourpenny rabbit anyway, an’ a face like a dog wot’s bin shut out.”
He decided to ignore the insult, although he did it with difficulty.
“Not yet,” he answered.
“Well, if yer wants a couple o’ pieces o’ toast, there’s an ’ot cup o’ tea in the kitchen,” she offered quite casually. “If yer like?”
“Thank you,” he accepted, coming in straightaway. “Then I’d better be going to find Mr. Pitt. I can’t stay long.”
“I in’t askin’ yer fer long.” She whisked around, flashing her skirts and marching back down the corridor towards the kitchen. “I got work ter do. Can’t ’ave the likes o’ you clutterin’ up me way ‘alf the mornin’.”