“Well, Miss Holmes?”
Charlotte turned her teacup a few degrees on its saucer. “Gentlemen in their prime, hampered by the opinion of the public and often constrained by already being married, take mistresses from the stage. It is usually the young and the old who do not give a farthing, who have the audacity to pledge their hand to a woman who has entertained the public.
“And when an old man dies, no matter how well loved he is, it is easier to accept: death has been in the wings for a while. But when a young man perishes unexpectedly, his devoted wife, who has had every expectation of many more happy years together, suddenly finds herself profoundly alone—and descends into a powerful grief that lasts for years upon years.”
Mrs. Jebediah’s throat moved.
“I do apologize,” said Charlotte quietly. “It has been pointed out to me that once I start, I do not know where to stop.”
Mrs. Jebediah exhaled. “I can see why you refrain from regularly practicing this absolutely remarkable talent of yours. But please go on.”
“Are you sure, ma’am?”
“I am.”
“Well, with one exception, there isn’t that much more I can tell, other than minor details such as that you’ve spent some time in India.”
“I wouldn’t call that a minor detail. But what is this exception you mentioned?”
“Your name is not Mrs. Jebediah. Or at least that isn’t your only name.”
Mrs. Jebediah chortled. “What gave it away?”
“The letter you dropped. It was to be called for not at the General Post Office, but at the one in Charing Cross. I can well understand why a resident of London might wish to have mail delivered to the post office, rather than her private home. But to be calling for letters at two different post offices? I can only assume that you are running a scheme of some sort, Mrs. Jebediah. Not a criminal one, necessarily, but a scheme nevertheless.”
“At this point, Miss Holmes, I am only shocked that you haven’t told me the exact particulars of my scheme.”
“I believe it involves newspaper advertisements pointing those interested to write to you. Other than that, not so much.”
“Goodness gracious,” murmured Mrs. Jebediah. “Knowing everything you do about me before we’d even exchanged a word, the lure of the scrambled eggs must have been powerful indeed.”
“It was the strawberries and cream that did me in, I believe.” Charlotte glanced at the three remaining strawberries before looking back at Mrs. Jebediah. “Please do not feel that you owe me any explanations, Mrs. Jebediah. Your great kindness has been enough.”
Mrs. Jebediah didn’t answer for a while. Charlotte began to wonder if she shouldn’t take her leave, when Mrs. Jebediah tucked a nonexistent stray strand of hair behind her ear and said, “But will you listen to an explanation?”
“Of course.”
“As you’ve so capably deduced, I am a woman widowed before my time. And it was all the more bitter because my husband had not only been young, he had been a good eleven years junior to me—one of the reasons I resisted his entreaties of marriage, from near and far, for as long as I did. I was younger then, but I dreaded the day when he would still be in his prime, and I would have already descended into old age.
“Even when I finally decided to throw caution to the wind, I did so while making jokes about being mistaken for his mother one of those days—or at best, his dear old aunt. I never thought . . . I never thought God would take him first. That instead of dreading the appearance of each new wrinkle, each new white hair, I could only wish he were here to witness my inevitable aging.”
Charlotte found herself with a lump in her throat. She ate another strawberry.
“In the six years since he passed away, I’ve kept myself busy looking after my niece, who had lived with me all her life. But last year she moved to Paris to study medicine. And while I couldn’t be more proud of her, I am alone in a large house and at a loss over what to do.
“Not that there aren’t things to do, but I don’t wish to do them all by myself. And of course I have no plan to recall my niece—this is her time to spread her wings. So I thought I’d find myself a companion.
“I wrote to a few registries and was sent some candidates to interview. But the moment they saw my photographs from my days on stage, gallivanting in hose and breeches, they couldn’t swallow their tea and get out fast enough. Mustn’t have their respectability tampered by association. And then they’d storm back to their registries and fume about my disrepute.”
She spoke lightly, but Charlotte couldn’t imagine that it would have been easy for her to swallow the rejections.
“After that, I had no choice but to advertise in the papers.”