Page 107 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
The light was lambent, a gentle golden glow. Miss Baxter’s green eyes seemed to glow too. She rolled her head with a languid finesse, and spoke with an equally languid menace. “Miss Holmes, I don’t think we have much more to say to each other. Let us end our conversation right here.”
Ah, but no. Charlotte had not come to the point of her visit yet.
“Why? Look outside the walls of the Garden, Miss Baxter. You are surrounded. I believe you face a fate far worse than merely being forced back home.
“Shall I make another unsubstantiated guess? There is a chance that your father has caught Madame Desrosiers and that Madame Desrosiers has given you up as the true mastermind behind his ouster last year.”
Miss Baxter’s eyelids flickered.
So Charlotte had guessed correctly: She had been involved in the coup.
“With so much danger darkening your doorstep, why not help me, at least? You claim responsibility for Mr. Craddock’s death; I go on keeping the secret of your child’s location. Perhaps I could even help Mrs. Crosby and the baby after I leave.”
“Oh, perhaps you could, could you?” said Miss Baxter lightly, yet with unmistakable animosity.
She cracked her neck, her motion sharp yet lithe, like that of a cobra uncoiling. “Too much groundless speculation isn’t good for you, Miss Holmes. Mr. Craddock is perfectly fine, meditating in his cottage. And I shall be fine, too. But you, my dear foolhardy girl, you should be careful.”
And now they really didn’t have anything else to say to each other.
Charlotte took an extra coconut biscuit and rose. “I’m sorry we must part on such terms, Miss Baxter. You have lovely clothes and just as lovely biscuits, both of which I appreciate very much.”
She saw herself out, whistling as she did so. The night fog was even thicker now, a cloud that flowed around her lantern and drifted on the ground. She returned to her own cottage, put some water to boil, and made two hot water bottles.
As she wiped around the stoppers and made sure they were tight, Lord Ingram came back, too. “Mrs. Steele was listening outside Miss Baxter’s window. Mrs. Watson has engaged her and her husband.”
Charlotte nodded. They climbed out from the bedroom window. In this fog, unless someone stood directly outside, they would not be seen.
She had her umbrella in one hand; he took her other hand. After a moment, she pulled free and took his hand instead. As children, she and Livia often held hands, but always with her holding Livia’s hand and not the other way around, so that she could decide for herself when to let go.
He did not object—he probably already understood this about her.
It felt... very nice. As an adult, she’d never walked holding someone’s hand. Granted, she could see nothing on this walk, not him, not the ground underfoot, not even the fog that surrounded them, but she did not feel the need to see either the sky or the earth. Or even him.
His hand in hers was enough as they traveled through pitch-blackness.
When they neared her destination, he left to reconnoiter and returned a few minutes later to let her know she could go ahead. They gave each other’s hand a squeeze. He would remain outside and she would proceed by herself.
She found the door of Mrs. Crosby’s cottage, let herself in, and locked the door.
Inside, darkness pressed against her eyes. She felt her way with the tip of her umbrella.
“You poked me on my foot,” someone said.
Miss Baxter.
“Are the curtains secure?” Charlotte asked.
“Yes. And the windows, too,” said Miss Baxter.
A tiny bit of light spread. Miss Baxter had brought a pocket lantern the shutter of which she raised slightly. She looked rather ghostly in this light. Charlotte imagined she herself did not appear very different, a somewhat chubbier ghost.
She took the chair next to Miss Baxter’s and handed her a hot water bottle, keeping the other one for herself. With Mrs. Crosby gone, fires hadn’t been lit in her cottage. It was cold and damp.
“Thank you,” said Miss Baxter. “And we meet again.”
Charlotte nodded. She hadn’t dropped off only a calling card for Miss Baxter this afternoon. Underneath the calling card had been a carefully folded note.I may have glimpsed something in the magazines you wished me to read and would like a meeting. But first we must have a different meeting. I noticed last time that your parlor window was open a crack to let in fresh air. Please make sure of the same tonight.
She wanted theater. And between the two of them they had mounted a veritable spectacle.
