Free Bethlehem Road by Anne Perry

admiration of Gracie, who could hardly contain herself for delight. She was on the edge of the most total romance; she had seen Emily many times and thought her a real lady, and she would hang on every word when her mistress returned and told her all about the wedding. It was better than all the pictures in The Illustrated London News, or even the most sentimental songs and ballads she heard cried in the street. Not even the penny dreadfuls she read by candlelight in the cupboard under the stairs could match this—after all, those were people she had never met, or cared about.
    Emily sent a carriage for them on the chime of ten o’clock, and by twenty minutes past, Charlotte, Jemima, and Daniel alighted at St. Mary’s Church, Eaton Square.
    Immediately behind her, Charlotte’s mother, Caroline Ellison, stepped out of her carriage and signaled her coachman to continue and find a suitable place to wait. She was a handsome woman now in her middle fifties and wearing her widowhood with vigor and a new and rather daring sense of freedom. She was dressed in golden brown, which suited her admirably, and a hat nearly as splendid as Charlotte’s. Holding her hand was Emily’s son Edward, now Lord Ashworth in his father’s stead, wearing a dark blue velvet suit, his fair hair combed neatly. He looked nervous and very sober and held onto his grandmother’s hand with small, tight fingers.
    Behind them, helped discreetly by a footman, came Caroline’s mother-in-law, well into her eighties, making the most of every twinge and infirmity, her bright black eyes taking in everything, and her ears with their pendulous jet earrings highly selectively deaf.
    “Good morning, Mama,” Charlotte kissed Caroline carefully, so as not to disarrange either of their hats. “Good morning, Grandmama.”
    “Think you’re the bride?” the old lady said sharply, looking her up and down. “Never seen such a bustle in all my life! And you’ve too much color—but you always had!”
    “At least I can wear yellow,” Charlotte replied, looking at her grandmother’s sallow skin and dark gold gown and smiling charmingly.
    “Yes you can,” the old lady agreed with a glare. “And it’s a pity you didn’t—instead of that! What do you call it? No color I ever saw before. Well, if you spill raspberry fool on it no one will ever know!”
    “How comforting,” Charlotte said sarcastically. “You always did know the right thing to say to make a person feel comfortable.”
    The old woman bent her head. “What? What did you say? I don’t hear as well as I used to!” She picked up her ear trumpet and placed it ostentatiously near her hand so it would be ready for instant use to draw attention to her infirmity.
    “And you were always deaf when you chose to be,” Charlotte replied.
    “What? Why can’t you stop mumbling, child!”
    “I said I would call it rose.” Charlotte looked straight at her.
    “No you didn’t!” the old lady snapped. “You’ve got above yourself since you married that tom-fool policeman. Where is he, anyway? Didn’t care to bring him into society, eh? Very wise—probably blow his nose on the table napkins and not know which fork to use!”
    Charlotte remembered again how intensely she disliked her grandmother. Widowhood and loneliness had made the old woman spiteful; she commanded attention either by complaining or by attempting to hurt those around her.
    Charlotte ceased looking for an adequately cutting reply. “He’s working on a case, Grandmama,” she said instead. “It is a murder, and Thomas is in charge of the investigation. But he will be here for the ceremony if he can.”
    The old lady sniffed fiercely. “Murders! Don’t know what the world’s coming to—riots in the streets last year. ‘Bloody Sunday’ indeed! Even housemaids don’t know how to behave themselves these days; lazy, uppity, and full of impertinence. You live in sad times, Charlotte; people don’t know their place anymore. And