Here in her own home, she was dressed more plainly, in a russet velvet dress that Livia might almost approve of, if not for the gold piping that trimmed the flounces of the skirt. The interior of the house was also conservatively furnished, without the wild prints and eastern influences that one often associated with more Bohemian décor.
In fact, if it weren’t for the stage photographs, a caller might think herself in the drawing room of an ordinary, respectable widow. A kind and beautiful one, but otherwise unexceptional.
The photographs told a different story altogether. Charlotte, no stranger to flouting conventional mores these days, was more than a little taken aback by images of a young Mrs. Watson in “hose and breeches.” A woman’s lower limbs were always enshrouded by layers of skirts. Even bloomers, worn by the brave and athletic few, were purposefully billowy, to hide the exact form of the wearer.
Of course there were postcards of scantily clad actresses. But to see the sight of one’s hostess’s calves and thighs so obviously and deliberately outlined—she could only imagine the shock of those applicants who had come hoping to become Mrs. Watson’s companion.
Mrs. Watson followed Charlotte’s line of sight. “The public considers all women on stage to be of questionable morals, if not outright whores. But the serious Shakespearean actresses console themselves that at least they aren’t involved in the vulgarity of musical theater. And those of us in musical theater congratulate ourselves on not being involved in the pornographic nonsense that is the burlesque. I don’t know to whom the burlesque performers compare themselves, but I’m sure they feel superior to someone.”
Charlotte sighed. “My sister fears becoming an impoverished old maid. Sometimes I think that more than eating boiled cabbage in a dilapidated boardinghouse, she fears becoming the most pathetic person she knows—to have no one before whom she could feel the least bit superior.”
Mrs. Watson set aside her teacup without drinking from it. “What do you fear the most, Miss Holmes?”
“I . . .” Charlotte exhaled. She knew what she feared, but she wasn’t accustomed to voicing it aloud. “I fear always being beholden to someone else. I want to be independent—and I want to earn that independence. But now I can no longer believe that fortunate state of affairs will ever come to pass, not with all the mistakes I’ve made.”
“Is there someone specific you have in mind—that you don’t wish to be beholden to?”
Charlotte hesitated. “My father has a natural son.”
It wasn’t common knowledge. Charlotte only found out because she wanted to know why Lady Amelia had, in the end, jilted Sir Henry. This might not be the only reason, but for someone of Lady Amelia’s lofty background, marrying a mere baronet would already be a step down. That he had sired a child out of wedlock, hardly an unforgivable sin under normal circumstances, might have tilted the balance against him.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Watson.
“My half brother lives in London and works as an accountant.”
“And you consider him your last resort?”
Charlotte hesitated again. “I don’t know anything about him. Though I dare say he has no reason to feel any sympathy for me: I didn’t have the hurdles of illegitimacy placed in my path and yet I’ve managed to bungle everything.”
She blew out a breath and eyed the plate of plum cake. Was it appetite or gluttony that made her want to reach out for another slice?
Or was it fear and fear alone?
She looked back at Mrs. Watson. “I guess you’ve answered my question, ma’am. You do know who I am.”
Mrs. Watson picked up a piece of macaroon and took a delicate nibble. “It must have been three years ago that I first noticed you at the opera. I remarked that you were probably the most darling young woman present. In return, I was told that you were in fact the greatest eccentric in that crowd of thousands. As you can imagine, that left an impression.
“I’ve seen you a few times since, at the park or coming out of the modiste’s with your mother. After the scandal erupted . . . Well, the separation between Society and the demimonde has always been porous and I quickly learned of your misfortune. And when I walked into the post office a few days ago and saw you looking pale and distressed, I decided that if I came across you again, I would try to help you.”
“I cannot tell you how much I cherish your generosity. But it’s no pittance that you left me in that reticule. And I’m not in such desperate straits yet that I can simply take the money without second thoughts.”