“Y-yes?”
“I’m sorry to intrude, ma’am. But I believe you dropped this outside the post office.”
Mrs. Jebediah rose. “Why, yes. Thank you, Miss . . .”
Charlotte hesitated—she’d been brought up to be wary of introductions performed without a reliable third party known to both sides. “Holmes.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Holmes.” Mrs. Jebediah smiled and gestured at a chair. “Please, won’t you sit down?”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Thank you, but no. I couldn’t possibly impose.”
“Oh, poppycock, Miss Holmes,” said Mrs. Jebediah with gentle exasperation. “You can see plain as day that I am an old lady hoping for a bit of companionship. Now if you have pressing matters or more interesting friends awaiting your attention—or if you routinely run from women past their prime who still dress like peacocks—let me know and we will say our good-byes. But if you only fear to impose, then shove a few useless rules of etiquette to the side and sit down.”
The wildest thought echoed in Charlotte’s head. She felt as if she’d met her mother. Her real mother.
But still she hesitated.
A waitress came by and placed on Mrs. Jebediah’s table a plate of scrambled eggs exactly like the one that had seduced Charlotte a minute earlier. And a ham pie. And a ramekin of potted chicken. And finally, luxury of luxuries, red ripe strawberries accompanied by a jug of fresh, rich cream.
Charlotte’s bottom found the chair quite on its own. “In that case, I shall boldly impose.”
“Excellent! Tea and a place setting for the young lady,” Mrs. Jebediah instructed the serving girl.
“Right away, mum.”
“As you can see, Miss Holmes, I’ve ordered too much. When I’m hungry, I want one of everything, somehow never remembering that I will be stuffed after two bites. But then food comes and I’m full of self-recrimination—how I hate letting anything go to waste. Would you mind sparing me those twinges of conscience?”
Charlotte once again surveyed the bounty before her. “I stand ready to undertake my duty to queen and country, ma’am. And your conscience, too.”
Mrs. Jebediah grinned. “I shall be in your debt, Miss Holmes.”
The waitress came back with plates and cutlery for Charlotte, and an empty cup. Mrs. Jebediah poured for her. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Yes, both.” Charlotte never thought she’d salivate over a cup of tea—and how. “I wish I had your problem of feeling full early and often. For me, it’s the opposite. I can’t remember the last time I ate until I was completely satisfied.”
Mrs. Jebediah stilled. “Oh, my.”
Charlotte realized that her words might be misconstrued. “Please don’t think that my circumstances stand between me and a full stomach.” At least not until lately. “It has been all for vanity, of course. I can sustain somewhere between one point five and one point six chins. But the moment I have more than that, my looks suffer catastrophically.”
Mrs. Jebediah laughed, startled. “But surely you exaggerate, my dear.”
“I assure you I do not. Via scientific trials, I have determined the precise weight, to the ounce, at which the shape of my face changes to my detriment.”
Mrs. Jebediah laughed again. “Goodness, Miss Holmes, but you are diverting to speak with. I am confident that at the moment you are at least a stone below that dreaded point on the scale. So shall we fall upon our feast?”
Her hostess, Charlotte was relieved to note, did not peck like a sparrow, but ate steadily if sedately—otherwise Charlotte would have felt conspicuous, gobbling up everything in sight.
The potted chicken, spread on richly buttered toast, had to be absolutely the most delicious thing she had ever eaten in her life. Until she reached the strawberries and cream, that was, which happened to be the most delicious thing to have ever existed in the history of the universe.
There were three strawberries left when Mrs. Jebediah asked, “Do tell me, Miss Holmes, what is it that you do with your rigorous and exacting mind? Surely you haven’t devoted all your waking hours to experimenting with your chins and your intake of food.”
“Not all, but a good portion. At the moment, though, I’m trying to find a position as a typist.”
“But that would be a waste! Why not seek work that demands more of your abilities? I should hate to see you with your belly full but your mind criminally underused.”
“Most positions for women that use their minds rather than their labor require education and training, which eliminates me from consideration as I have none. And the rest, well, given what other positions are there, I’d consider myself lucky if I could become a typist.”
“You mustn’t be so defeatist, Miss Holmes.”