Page 24 of Beyond the Grave
Lincoln tilted his head a little. "Why do you say that?"
"She couldn't sit far enough away from her, for one thing, and I never heard them exchange a single word or even a friendly glance. I thought it odd, considering they are quite close in age and have family matters in common."
"I see." He nodded slowly. "Thank you for your observation."
I limped into the scullery and dipped one of the cloths into the pail we kept filled with cold water by the back door, then fetched a canister of baking powder from the pantry and one of Cook's mixing bowls. Since my adopted mother had a housekeeper, I'd never learned how to make cleaning pastes or remove stains in my childhood like the girls who'd been thrust into service at a young age. When he'd seen my dilemma, early in my tenure as Lichfield's maid, Gus had called upon his great aunt and asked her to reveal the secrets she'd learned in forty years as a charwoman. He'd taken dictation and given me eight-pages of densely packed scrawl, rolled up and secured with a piece of string. It was still my most treasured possession, even over my cloak from Lincoln.
I returned to the kitchen only to find Lincoln gone. He was waiting for me in the parlor. Or rather, perhaps not waiting forme, just for me to bring the materials for cleaning the rug. He looked up from the tea stain and held out his hand.
"Pass me the powder."
"You have to soak up the excess liquid first," I told him.
"Then pass me a cloth."
"I can do it."
"Allow me, Charlie. You should be off that foot."
"I'm perfectly capable of performing my duties, thank you."
I set the cloths, bowl and canister down on a table and he picked up one of the dry cloths while I picked up another. It would seem he wouldn't be swayed from helping. So be it. I doubted I could change his mind, no matter what I said.
We worked in silence, side by side, to soak up as much of the spilled tea as possible. I wanted to ask him for his thoughts on Lady Harcourt's invitation to dine with Miss Overton, but decided against it. It was not the sort of discussion an employee had with her employer, and he'd made it clear that was what we were to one another from now on. Nothing more.
To my surprise,hebrought the subject up, however. "I have no intention of marrying Miss Overton," he said.
I stopped sponging and sat back on my haunches. "Lady Harcourt thinks she'll make a good wife since she's so…malleable," I said, borrowing a term from Seth.
"I don't want a malleable wife." His sponging became more aggressive, stamping the cloth into the damp rug in time to the beat of my heart. "Or any other sort of wife. I won't be marrying at all. Not Miss Overton, Lady Harcourt or…anyone. Marriage is not for me."
The cold tea from my cloth seeped into the skin on my palm. I stared at it and blinked. My eyes were dry, thankfully. I didn't want to shed any more tears for him. Not over this. Unrequited love was pathetic, and I detested being so needful. I'd managed for years without needing anyone's love, and I would do so again. It was time to move on and be thankful for what I did have. I had so much more than most. "Why are you telling me this? You don't owe me an explanation."
"I do. I didn't want you thinking that I was in the habit of kissing a woman one day then setting her aside to marry another the next. I won't marry you, Charlie, but I won't marry another either. It's imperative that you understand that."
"Is it?" I couldn't keep the disdain out of my voice. At least disdain was better than sounding confused and wistful, which was how I felt.
He stopped sponging. "You mock me."
"No, I… I don't know what to say or do or think." It helped to hear his stance on marriage in general. It was one thing to not be able to keep him to myself, but it would be worse to see him wed another woman, even if it were a marriage of convenience to a spineless twit like Miss Overton.
"Is it ready for the powder now?" he asked.
It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. "Yes."
He popped the lid off the canister and sprinkled the baking powder over it until I told him there was enough. He watched as I rubbed in the powder with the clean, damp cloth. With the task complete, he stood then held out his hand to me. I took it and rose. A small jolt passed between us and his fingers tightened.
Then he extricated himself quickly and strode out of the parlor without another word or glance back. With a sigh, I picked up the cleaning materials and limped to the kitchen.
"She's dead," Lincoln informed us when he returned from the General Registry Office the following afternoon. "Estelle Pearson died five months ago at Queen Charlotte's Hospital For Lying-In."
"In childbirth?" I asked, picking up another pea pod.
"In an accident. The records don't mention how it happened. She worked there as a midwife."
"Damn," Gus muttered. He'd been snoozing in the armchair in the corner but had jumped to his feet when Lincoln entered the kitchen and pretended to look busy rearranging things on the sideboard. Lincoln had hardly spared him a glance, but I doubt he was fooled. "Dead end, eh?" He snorted at his lame joke.
I tossed the empty pea pod into the pail. "I could raise her spirit."
