A Breach of Promise (21 page)

He reached the far side and brushed the excess water and mud off himself. He was filthy.

How would he feel in Melville’s place? Suddenly his imagination was vivid! He would no longer have any privacy. He could not do so simple a thing as decorate his room as he wished, have the windows open or closed according to his own whim, eat what and when he liked. And these things were trivial. What about the enormous financial responsibility? And the even greater emotional commitment to spend the rest of his life with one other human being, to put up with her weaknesses, her foibles, her temper or occasional stupidity, to be tender to her needs, her physical illness or emotional wounds and hungers! How could any sane person undertake such a thing?

But then the other person would also promise the same to him. It would be better than passion, stronger than the heat of any moment, more enduring. It would be the deepest of friendships; it would be the kindness which can be trusted, which need not be earned every day, the generosity which shares a triumph and a disaster with equal loyalty, which will listen to a tale of injury or woe as honestly as a good joke. Above all it could be closeness to one who would judge him as he meant to
be, not always as he was, and who would tell him the truth, but gently.

He was walking more and more rapidly. He was now in Woburn Place, and the bare trees of Tavistock Square were ahead of him. The sky was clearing again. A brougham swept by, horses stepping out briskly. Two young women walking together laughed loudly and one clasped the other by the arm. A small boy threw a stick for a black-and-white puppy that went racing after it, barking excitedly. “Casper!” the boy shouted, his voice high with delight. “Casper! Fetch!”

Monk turned into Tavistock Square and stopped at number fourteen. Before he could give himself time to reconsider, he pulled the bell.

“Good evening,” he said to the parlormaid who answered. “My name is Monk. I should like to call upon Miss Latterly, if she is in and will receive me. That is, if Lieutenant Sheldon will permit?”

The maid looked less surprised than he had expected, then he remembered that Rathbone would have been there only the day before. Somehow that irritated him. He should not have come without a better reason, but it was too late to retreat now without looking ridiculous.

“I shall understand, of course, if she is occupied,” he added.

But she was not, and less than ten minutes later she came into the small library where he was waiting. She looked neat and efficient, and a little pale. Her hair was pulled back rather too tightly. It was no doubt practical, and she might have done it in a hurry, but it was less than flattering to her strong, intelligent face and level eyes.

She regarded him with surprise. Obviously she had not expected to see him. He was now acutely aware of being wet and his trousers splashed with filth.

“How are you?” he asked stiffly. “You look tired.”

Her face tightened. It was apparently not what she wished to be told.

“I am quite well, thank you. How are you? You look cold.”

“I am cold!” he snapped. “It is raining outside. I’m soaked.”

She regarded his trousers, biting her lip.

“Yes, I can see that. You would have been better advised to take a hansom. You must have walked some distance.”

“I was thinking.”

“So I see,” she observed. “Perhaps you should have been watching where you were going.” A tiny flicker of amusement touched the corner of her mouth.

“You have been nursing too long,” he criticized. “It has become a habit with you to tell people what to do for their welfare. It is extremely unattractive. You remind me of one of the more miserable type of governess. Nobody likes to be ordered around, even if the person doing it is correct.”

Two spots of color burned on her cheeks. He had hurt her, and he saw it. There were times when her composure bordered on arrogance, and this was one of them. He was aware of having stepped in front of the hansom without looking. He was actually fortunate not to have been run over.

She lifted her eyebrows in sarcasm. “Is that what you waded through the gutter to tell me?”

“No, of course it isn’t!” He had not meant to quarrel with her. Why did he allow her to make him feel so defensive? He would not have spoken to any other woman that way. The very familiarity of her face, the curious mixture of vulnerability, bravado and true strength, made him aware of how much she had woven herself into the threads of his life, and it frightened him. She could not leave without tearing it apart, and that knowledge left him open to more hurt than he had armor to deal with. And yet he was driving her out himself.

He breathed in and out slowly, making an effort to control his temper. Even if she could not do that, he could.

“I came because I thought you might be of some assistance in the case I am investigating for Rathbone,” he explained. “The trial continues tomorrow, and he is in considerable difficulty.”

Her concern was immediate, but who was it for, himself or Rathbone?

“You mean the architect who broke his word? What are you trying to learn?”

“The reason for it, of course,” he replied.

She sat down, very straight-backed. He could imagine some governess in her childhood had come and poked the middle of her spine with a sharp ruler. She sat now as if there were a spike behind the padding of the chair.

“I meant what is wrong with him, or wrong with her,” she explained patiently, as though he were slow-witted.

“Either,” he answered. “He takes precedence, so if there is anything, at least Rathbone can be forewarned—if there is any defense.” He sat down on the other chair.

She stared at him solemnly. “What did you learn?”

He was ashamed of his failure. The expectancy in her eyes stung him. She had no idea how difficult it was to acquire the sort of information Rathbone needed. It could take weeks, if it was possible at all. He was seeking the most intimate details of people’s lives, things they told no one. It had been a hopeless request in the first place.

“Nothing that is not in the public domain,” he replied with an edge to his voice. “I might know if Rathbone had asked me a month ago. I don’t know what possessed him to take the case. He has no chance of winning. The girl’s reputation is impeccable, her father’s even better. He is a man of more than ordinary honor.”

“And isn’t Melville, apart from this?” she challenged.

“So far as I know, but this is a very large exception,” he returned. He looked at her very directly. “I would have expected you to have more sympathy with a young woman publicly jilted by a man she had every reason to suppose loved her.”

The color drained from her face, leaving her white to the lips.

He was overtaken with a tide of guilt for his clumsiness. The implication was not at all what he had intended; he had meant only that she was also a young woman. But it was too late to say that now. It would sound false, an artificial apology. He
was furious with himself. He must think of something intelligent to say to contradict it, and quickly. But it must not be a retreat.

“I thought you might be able to imagine what she might have done to cause him to react this way,” he said. He wanted to tell her not to be so idiotic! Of course he did not think she had been in this position herself. Any man who would jilt her this way was a fool not worthy of second thought, still less of grief, and certainly not worthy of her! If she applied an atom of sense to the matter, she would know what he had meant. And even if he thought it, he would not have said so. It was completely unjust of her even to entertain such an idea of him.

“Did you?” she said coldly. “I’m surprised. You never gave the impression you thought I had led a colorful life … in that respect. In fact, very much the opposite.”

He lost his temper. “For heaven’s sake, Hester, don’t be so childish! I never thought of your early life, painted scarlet or utterly drab! I thought that as a woman you might understand her feelings better than I, that’s all. But I can see that I was clearly—” He stopped as the door opened and a burly, muscular man came in, his face agitated. He closed the door behind him, ignoring Monk and turning to Hester.

She stood up, Monk forgotten. The anger fled out of her eyes, her mouth, and was instantly replaced by concern.

“Is something wrong?”

The large man’s eyes flickered at Monk.

“This is Mr. Monk,” Hester said, introducing him perfunctorily as he too rose to his feet. “Mr. Athol Sheldon.” She gave them no time to speak to each other but hurried on. “What is wrong? Is it Gabriel?”

Athol Sheldon relaxed a fraction, his powerful shoulders stopped straining his jacket and he let out his breath in a sigh. Apparently, having found her he already felt better, as if somehow the problem were in control.

“Yes—I’m afraid he fell asleep and seems to have had a nightmare. He is—quite unwell. I … I don’t know what to do for him, and poor Perdita is dreadfully upset.” He half swiveled
on his foot to acknowledge Monk. “I am sorry to intrude,” he said briefly; it was lip service to courtesy. He looked back instantly to Hester. It was not necessary to request she come; she was already moving towards the door.

Monk followed her because he could not simply ignore what was obviously an emergency of some sort. It was an unbecoming curiosity to go with them, and callous indifference to stay. The former was instinctive to him.

Athol led the way across the hall and up the stairs. If he found Monk’s presence odd he was too involved in his own concern to remark it. There was a maid standing at the top of the stairs, a woman of perhaps forty or so, her thin face creased with worry, her eyes going swiftly not to Athol but to Hester. A younger woman with a lovely, frightened face stood a yard away from her, her cheeks pale, her lips trembling. She twisted her hands together, the light catching the gold of her wedding ring. She too looked at Hester desperately. She seemed on the verge of tears.

The door ahead of them was ajar, and Hester went past them after only the briefest hesitation, not as if she was undecided, certainly not afraid, but simply allowing herself time to be reassured. Then she went into the room, and Monk could see over her shoulder a wide bed with a young man lying crumpled over in it, his fair hair tousled, his face buried in the pillow. It was a moment before Monk realized his left sleeve was empty.

Hester did not speak at first. She sat on the bed and put her arms around her patient, her cheek against his hair, holding him tightly. It was a gesture which startled Monk; there was a spontaneity in it and a tenderness he had never seen in her before. She did not wait to be asked. It was a response to his need, not to any touch or plea he had made. It moved the whole scene to a new level of gravity.

Beside Monk, Athol Sheldon was also taken aback, but he seemed embarrassed. He cleared his throat as if about to speak, then changed his mind and said nothing. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

“Gabriel,” Hester said quietly, as if she were unaware of the group outside the open door. “Was it James Lovat again?”

Gabriel nodded.

Perdita looked questioningly at Athol.

“I’ve no idea,” Athol said. He moved forward at last. “Really, my dear chap,” he said to his brother, addressing the back of his head where he half lay in Hester’s arms. “You must put all this behind you. It is a tragedy which cannot be helped now. You did your part, splendidly. Put it from your mind.”

Hester looked up at him, her eyes wide and bright.

“One cannot forget at will, Mr. Sheldon. Some memories have to be faced and lived with.”

“I think not,” Athol contradicted, his voice firm. He stood very square on the balls of his feet.

“Then if it should happen to you, Mr. Sheldon,” Hester said without flinching, “we shall know what best to do for you. But for Gabriel we shall do as he wishes.”

“Gabriel is ill!” Athol said angrily. He was frightened by emotion he could neither understand nor share; it was sharp in his voice. He had no idea what demons were in his brother’s head. He was afraid of them for himself, and he did not want anyone to have to look at them. “It is our duty, as well as our—our love for him to make decisions in his interest. I would have thought as a nurse you would have perceived that!” That was an accusation.

Monk drew breath to defend Hester, then saw her face and realized it was her battle and she needed no assistance. She understood Athol better than he understood himself.

“If we want to help, we will listen to him,” she answered, equally levelly. “Grief for the death of a friend should not be smothered. You wouldn’t say that if James Lovat had died in an accident here in England instead of from gangrene in Cawnpore.”

“I should not encourage dwelling on it!” Athol argued, his face pink. “But that is beside the point. He didn’t die here, poor fellow. The whole matter of the Indian Mutiny is better not
dwelt upon, and the siege of Cawnpore and its atrocities especially so.” His voice was final, as if what he said were an order, but he did not move away. Suddenly Monk realized Athol depended upon Hester. He might condescend to her, his conscious mind might think of her as a woman and necessarily of inferior intellect and ability in almost everything, but he knew there was a strength in her to meet and deal with the horror and tragedies of life greater than anything within himself.

A ripple of ridiculous pride surged through Monk.

“Mr. Sheldon”—Hester let go of Gabriel gently and rose to her feet, straightening her rumpled skirts with one hand—“if it had been Gabriel who had died in Cawnpore, or a wife or child of yours—and there were hundreds of women and children among the dead—what would you think of their friends who chose to forget them?”

“Well, I—I think I would understand if it was to save their own minds from nightmare—” Athol began to answer.

“Oh, it’s not to save Gabriel,” she interrupted. “It is because you don’t wish to hear about it … and because you think we don’t.”

“Nonsense!” he said too quickly. “I want Gabriel to get well, to be able to take up his life again here at home—at least … at least, as much as he can. And I want to protect Perdita from horrors no woman should have to know about. Really, Miss Latterly.” His voice was growing stronger, his confidence gathering. He squared his shoulders. “We have discussed this before. I thought we had reached an understanding. This house is to be a refuge from the ugliness and violence of the world, a place where Gabriel, above all, will be at peace, may heal his mind and body from the tragedies of war and its barbarities, where he may feel utterly safe….” He was becoming enthusiastic now; his face was composed again, his body easily balanced. He even had the shadow of a smile on his lips. “It is Perdita’s calling most properly to establish and master that, and ours to be of whatever assistance to her we may.” He swung around and looked at Perdita, his lips parted, his eyes brighter. “And you may rest assured, my dear, we shall be equal to it!”