Page 27 of The Elusive Phoebe (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #1)
Chapter Nineteen
MRS. CHARLOTTE PEMBERTON TAKES THE WATERS
C harlotte Pemberton had always fancied herself something of an actress, though her late husband had never appreciated her dramatic tendencies. Now, as she stepped out of the hired carriage at Bath's most fashionable hotel, she finally had an audience worthy of her talents.
"Careful with that trunk," she called to the porter, pitching her voice to carry across the busy courtyard. "It contains my late husband's most precious... documents." She paused dramatically, pressing a black-gloved hand to her heart. "Oh, how it pains me to speak of dear Robert! "
Several heads turned at the mention of grief, and Charlotte felt a thrill of satisfaction. Within minutes of her arrival, she had already established herself as a tragic widow with mysterious luggage.
The hotel manager himself appeared to escort her inside. "Lady Smalling, welcome to the Royal Crescent Hotel. We've prepared our finest suite overlooking the gardens."
"How thoughtful," Charlotte sighed, allowing a single tear to track down her cheek. "Though I fear no view can ease the ache in my heart. My dear husband left me so... alone... with such complicated affairs to manage."
"Perhaps the waters will provide some comfort, my lady?"
"Perhaps." Charlotte dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "Though I confess, I'm quite overwhelmed by the... inheritance... he left me. So many properties to consider, so many decisions to make about the future."
By the time she reached her rooms, half the hotel had heard that the mysterious Lady Smalling had arrived with grief, secrets, and substantial properties to manage.
The real entertainment began the next morning at the Pump Room.
Charlotte had dressed the part perfectly: deep mourning attire with just enough style to suggest wealth, a thick black veil that obscured her features, and jewelry that managed to be both appropriate for grief and impressive enough to catch attention.
She entered the Pump Room with the perfect balance of reluctance and dignity, as if duty rather than choice had brought her to this public place.
"The waters are particularly beneficial this time of year," offered an elderly gentleman, clearly hoping to engage the mysterious widow in conversation.
"Are they?" Charlotte's voice carried just the right note of listless interest. "My physician recommended them for... nervous complaints... brought on by shock." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "My husband's death was so sudden. A carriage accident on those dreadful northern roads."
"How terrible! Was he traveling on business?"
"Government business," Charlotte whispered, then immediately looked stricken. "Oh, I shouldn't speak of it. The matters he was involved in... so sensitive... so dangerous..." She trailed off dramatically.
Within an hour, the entire Pump Room was buzzing with speculation about the tragic Lady Smalling and her husband's mysterious government work.
But Charlotte's masterpiece came during her visit to the modiste.
"I require an entirely new wardrobe," she announced, sweeping into the shop. "My current mourning clothes were hastily assembled after my husband's death, and now that I must... travel... to manage his various estates..."
"Estates, my lady?" The seamstress's eyes lit up with the prospect of a wealthy client.
"Oh yes, several of them. Properties in the north, holdings in... well, I probably shouldn't specify. Some of his work was quite... confidential." Charlotte lowered her voice. "I fear I may need to leave Bath quite suddenly if certain... parties... discover my location."
"Parties, my lady?"
Charlotte glanced around nervously. "My late husband made some rather powerful enemies in his government service. There are those who believe I have access to... information... they would prefer remained secret."
The seamstress's eyes widened. "How thrilling! I mean, how terrifying!"
"Indeed. In fact, I may need clothing suitable for... different climates. Perhaps something appropriate for the seaside? Or the northern counties? One never knows where duty might call."
By evening, Charlotte's story had spread throughout Bath's fashionable circles, gaining embellishments with each telling. Lady Smalling was variously described as the widow of a war hero, a government spy, or a diplomat, depending on the imagination of the teller.
The climax came on her third day, when a suspicious-looking man in a shabby coat began asking questions about her at the hotel.
Charlotte spotted him immediately—clearly one of the Irish agents Phoebe had warned about. Rather than flee, she decided to give him exactly what he was looking for: Lady Smalling, in all her mysterious glory.
She arranged to be in the hotel dining room when he arrived, dining alone at a table perfectly positioned for observation. She had timed it so that several other guests would witness the encounter.
"Excuse me," the man said, approaching her table with poorly concealed eagerness. "Might you be Lady Smalling?"
Charlotte looked up from her soup, allowing her face to show the perfect combination of fear and resignation. "I... yes. Though I wasn't aware... that is, I didn't expect..." She half-rose from her chair. "You're not from the solicitors, are you?"
"No, my lady. I represent certain... interested parties... who would like to discuss your late husband's affairs."
"Oh dear." Charlotte's hand flew to her throat. "I was afraid this might happen. Ever since I received that last letter from Robert... the one that mentioned..." She stopped abruptly, looking around the dining room as if suddenly aware they had an audience.
"Perhaps we could speak privately?"
"I... I suppose..." Charlotte allowed herself to be escorted to a quiet corner, making sure her reluctance was visible to the other diners.
For the next twenty minutes, Charlotte led the poor man on a merry chase through half-truths and misdirection.
Yes, her husband had left papers. No, she didn't understand most of them.
Yes, there had been mention of Ireland in some correspondence.
No, she hadn't brought any documents to Bath—they were safely locked away at. .. well, she couldn't say where.
The man grew increasingly frustrated as Charlotte played the part of the helpless widow who knew just enough to be dangerous but not enough to be useful .
Finally, she delivered her masterstroke.
"I'm afraid I really must cut this conversation short," she said, rising gracefully.
"I've just received word that I must travel immediately to.
.. well, I suppose there's no harm in telling you.
.. Canterbury. There are some religious artifacts among my husband's effects that require special handling. "
"Canterbury?" The man's eyes lit up.
"Yes, though I don't expect to stay long. From there, I believe I'll be traveling north. Yorkshire, perhaps, or even Scotland. My husband had holdings everywhere, you know."
She swept away, leaving the agent with a head full of false destinations and the clear impression that Lady Smalling was a flighty, talkative widow who couldn't keep a secret to save her life.
The next morning, Charlotte checked out of the hotel with great fanfare, making sure to tell anyone who would listen that she was "bound for Canterbury on urgent family business."
As her carriage pulled away from Bath, she could see the suspicious man frantically preparing for his own departure, no doubt eager to report to his superiors that Lady Smalling had been found, questioned, and was now heading south toward Canterbury .
My Dearest Lady Joanna,
What a delightful adventure! I'm pleased to report that "Lady Smalling" made quite the impression in Bath. By the time I departed, no fewer than six different versions of my tragic story were circulating through the town's gossip networks.
I was approached by one suspicious gentleman (Irish accent, poorly concealed weapons, dreadful table manners) who seemed most eager to discuss dear "Robert's" government papers.
I gave him just enough information to convince him I was a helpless widow in possession of dangerous secrets, then sent him chasing after me toward Canterbury.
The hotel staff, several local shop owners, and at least a dozen fellow guests can now testify that Lady Smalling is a rather chatty widow with multiple properties, mysterious documents, and a tendency to travel suddenly when danger threatens.
I do hope poor Phoebe appreciates the dramatic sacrifices I've made for her cause. Playing the grieving widow is exhausting work!
Awaiting my next theatrical assignment, Charlotte
P.S. - I may have accidentally started a rumor that Lady Smalling's late husband was involved in preventing Napoleon's escape from St. Helena. I got rather carried away during tea with the local vicar's wife.