by Anne Perry
“A singular man, by your account,” Mary said with interest. “And it seems you know him very well. Is he aware of it?”
“Monk?” Hester asked with surprise. “I have no idea. Yes, I suppose so. We have seldom minced words with one another.”
“How interesting.” There was not the slightest sarcasm in Mary’s voice, only the most acute fascination. “And is he in love with you, this Monk?”
Hester’s face burned. “Certainly not!” She denied it hotly, and her throat tightened as she said the words. For one idiotic moment she thought she was going to cry. It would be mortifying, and thoroughly stupid. She must clear up the misapprehension which Mary quite obviously bore. “We have been friends in certain issues, because we believed in the same causes and were both prepared to fight against what was wrong,” she said firmly. “Where matters of love are concerned, he has no interest in women like me. He prefers”—she swallowed, memory sharp and peculiarly painful—“women like my sister-in-law, Imogen. She is very pretty indeed, very gentle, and knows how to be charming without clumsy flattery, but how to make one feel the desire to protect her. Not that she is ineffectual, you understand.”
“I see,” Mary agreed, nodding her head. “We have all known women like that at some time in our lives. They smile at a man, and instantly he feels better and handsomer, and definitely braver than before.”
“Exactly!”
“So your Monk is a fool where women are concerned.” It was a statement, not a question.
Hester chose not to answer that. “And I prefer someone like Oliver Rathbone,” she went on, not really sure how much truth there was in her words. “He is a most distinguished barrister….”
“Well-bred, no doubt,” Mary said flatly. “And respectable?”
“Not especially, that I know,” Hester replied defensively. “However, his father is one of the nicest people I have ever met. I feel comfortable merely to recall his face.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Indeed. I misunderstood. So Mr. Rathbone is not without interest. Tell me more.”
“He is also extremely clever, in a different kind of way. He is very sure of himself, and he has a dry sense of humor. He is never boring, and I admit I do not often know what he is really thinking, but I am quite certain it is not always what he says.”
“And is he in love with you? Or do you not know that either?”
Hester smiled smugly, that sudden impulsive kiss coming back as sharply as if it had been a week ago instead of a year. “I think that is too strong a term, but he has given me occasion to think he finds me not unattractive,” she replied.
“Oh excellent!” Mary said with evident pleasure. “And these two gentlemen dislike each other, I trust?”
“Certainly,” Hester agreed with a satisfaction which surprised her. “But I don’t think it has anything to do with me—or at least, very little,” she added.
“This is really most intriguing,” Mary said happily. “I am sorry our acquaintance will be so short I shall not see the end of this.”
Hester felt her face growing hot again. Her mind was in total confusion. She had spoken of her feelings as if it were a romance. Did she wish it were? She was embarrassed for her foolishness. She could not possibly marry Monk, even if he were to ask her, which he would not. They would quarrel all the time. There was far too much in him she really did not like. She had not mentioned it to Mary—it would be disloyal—but there was a streak of cruelty in him which appalled her; there were dark areas of his character, impulses she did not trust. She could not commit herself to such a man, not as anything more than a friend.
Or would she marry Oliver Rathbone, if he were to yield to any emotion powerful enough to make him ask her? She ought to. It would be a far better offer than most women ever received, certainly any woman at all at her age. She was nearly thirty, for heaven’s sake. Only heiresses could expect marriage at that time of life. And far from being an heiress, she was obliged to earn her own living.
Then why would she not leap at the chance?
Mary was still looking at her with her eyes full of laughter.
Hester started to speak, and then had no idea what she was going to say.
The amusement died out of Mary’s face. “Be very sure which one you want, my dear. If you make the wrong decision you may rue it the rest of your life.”
“There is no decision to make!” Hester said far too quickly.
Mary said nothing, but the comprehension, and the disbelief, were plain in her face.
The train was slowing down again, and with a clatter it finally came to a stop. Doors opened and someone was shouting. The stationmaster passed by on the platform, calling the name of the station outside every carriage. Hester rearranged the rug more closely around their knees. Outside in the flickering darkness a hand bell rang, and a few minutes later the engine belched steam and began to move forward again.
It was almost half past ten. Hester felt the tiredness of the previous night’s journey beginning to catch up with her, but Mary was obviously still wide-awake. Oonagh had said that her medicine should be given no later than eleven o’clock or, at the outside, a quarter past. Apparently Mary did not habitually retire early.
“Are you tired?” she suggested. Actually she was enjoying Mary’s company, and mere would be no further opportunity to talk in the morning. They would arrive shortly after nine and the time would be taken up with alighting, finding baggage and locating Griselda and Mr. Murdoch.
“No,” Mary said cheerfully, although she had smothered a yawn once or twice. “No doubt Oonagh has told you I am to retire by eleven at the latest? Yes, I thought so. I think Oonagh would have made a good nurse. She is naturally intelligent and efficient, the most practical of my children; but more than that, she has the art of persuading people to do the right thing in such a way that they are convinced that it was their own idea.” She pulled a slight face. “That truly is an art, you know? I have often wished I had it myself. And her judgment is excellent. I was surprised how quickly Quinlan learned to respect her. It is not often a man of his nature will have that kind of regard for a woman, especially one close to his own age, and it is genuine—I am not speaking of the kind of good manners he shows towards me.”
Hester did not find it hard to believe. She had seen the strength of determination in Quinlan’s face and the intelligence behind those quick, blue eyes. He would be far better served to make a friend of Oonagh than anyone else in the family. Baird obviously loathed him, Deirdra was indifferent, occupied with her own interests, and by Mary’s account, Alastair relied upon Oonagh’s judgment as he had done since they were children.
“Yes, I expect she would,” Hester agreed. “But good judgment and the arts of diplomacy are never wasted in a large family. They may make the difference between happiness and misery.”
“You’re right, of course you are,” Mary agreed with a nod. “But perhaps it is a fact not everyone appreciates.”
Hester smiled. It would have been clumsy to acknowledge her understanding.
“Will you have a pleasant time in London?” she asked. “Will you have the opportunity to dine out and to go to the theater?”
Mary hesitated a moment before replying. “I am not entirely sure,” she said thoughtfully. “I do not know Connal Murdoch or his family very well. He is rather a stiff young man, very conscious of other people’s opinions. Griselda may not care to come. But if we do go to the theater, it will be to see something very unadventurous, I fear, and certainly nothing controversial.”
“He may be concerned to impress you well,” Hester pointed out. “After all, you are his mother-in-law, and he will care very much what your opinion of him may be.”
“Oh dear.” Mary sighed, biting her lip. “I stand corrected. Of course he may. I remember when Baird was newly married to Oonagh, he was so shy it was painful, and yet at that time so much in love.” She took a deep breath. “Of course that kind of passion wears away as we become better acquainted;
the mystery is discovered, familiarity takes away the sense of wonderment. One can only remain excited and amazed for really quite a short time.”
“Surely then there comes a friendship, and a kind of warmth that …” Hester’s voice trailed away. She sounded naive, even to herself. She felt her cheeks burning.
“One hopes so,” Mary said softly. “If you are fortunate, the tenderness and the understanding never die, nor the laughter, and the memories.” She looked beyond Hester as she spoke, towards something in her imagination.
Hester pictured the man in the portrait again, wondering when it had been painted, trying to see the marks of time in his face and how he might have changed, how familiarity might have stripped the glamour from him. She failed. To her there was still too much in his face which was unreachable, laughter and emotions that would always be his alone. Had Mary discovered that, and remained in love with him? Hester would never know, nor should she. Monk was like that. You would never know him well enough that he would no longer be able to surprise you, reveal some passion or belief you had not seen in him.
“Idealism is a poor bedfellow,” Mary said suddenly. “Something I must tell Griselda, poor child; and most certainly tell this man she has married. It may be fairy princes with whom one walks up the aisle, but it is certainly very ordinary mortals with whom we wake up the following morning. And since we are ordinary mortals too, that is no doubt just as well.”
Hester smiled in spite of herself. She prepared to stand up.
“It is growing late, Mrs. Farraline. Do you think I should take out your medicine now?”
“Should?” Mary raised her eyebrows. “Quite probably. But I am not yet ready to take it. To return to your original question, yes, I believe I shall go to the theater. I shall insist upon it. I have brought with me some gowns suitable for such occasions. Unfortunately I could not bring my favorite because it is silk, and I marked it right at the front where it shows.”
“Can it not be cleaned?” Hester said sympathetically.
“Oh certainly, but there wasn’t time before I left. I’m sure Nora will take care of it in my absence. But apart from the fact that I like it, unfortunately it is the only gown I have which really sets off my gray pearl pin, so I didn’t bring it. It is quite beautiful, but gray pearls are not easy to wear; I really don’t care for it with colors, or with anything that glitters. Still, no matter. It is only a week, and I daresay we shall have few enough formal occasions. And I am going in order to see Griselda, not to sample London’s social life.”
“I expect she is very excited about having her first child?”
“Not at the moment,” Mary said, pulling a small face. “But she will do. I am afraid she worries about her health overmuch. There is really nothing wrong with her, you know.” Mary stood up at last, and Hester rose to her feet quickly to offer her arm in assistance. “Thank you, my dear,” Mary accepted. “She just worries about every little ache and pain, imagining it to be some serious fault with the child, or some irreparable defect. That is a bad habit, and one men dislike intensely, unless, of course, it is something wrong with them.” She stood at the compartment entrance, slender and very straight, a smile on her lips. “I shall warn Griselda of that. And assure her that she has no cause for anxiety. Her child will be perfectly well.”
The train was slowing again, and when it reached the station they both alighted to take advantage of the facilities offered. Hester found herself returned to the carriage first. She did what she could to tidy the seats, spread the rug ready for Mary and shook the footwarmer again. It really was getting very chilly now and the darkness beyond the windows was spotted with rain. She took down the medicine chest and opened it. The vials were all stacked in neat rows, the first one already used, the glass empty. She had not noticed it when she had seen it in Edinburgh, but the glass was tinted and the liquid hard to see. Nora must have used that one this morning, which was foolish. That meant they were one short. Still, possibly it was easy enough to replace, providing she warned Mary in time.
She stifled a yawn with difficulty. She really was very tired. It had been thirty-six hours since she had had a proper sleep. At least tonight she would be able to put her feet up and relax, instead of sitting upright between two other people. “Oh, you have the chest down,” Mary said from the entranceway. “I suppose you are right. Morning will be here soon enough.” She came in, swaying a little with the rough movement as the train jerked forward and began to pick up speed.
Hester put out her hand to steady her, and Mary sat down.
The conductor appeared at the doorway, his uniform spotless, buttons gleaming.
“Evening, ladies. Everything well wi’ ye?” He touched the peak of his cap with his forefinger.
Mary had been staring out of the window at the streaming night, not that there was anything to see but the rain and the darkness. She turned around abruptly. Then her face paled for an instant, before the calm returned in a flood of relief.
“Oh, yes, thank you.” She took a quick breath. “Yes, all is well.”
“Right y’are, ma’am. Then I’ll bid ye good night. London at a quarter past nine.”
“Yes, thank you. Good night.”
“Good night,” Hester added as he retreated quickly, walking with a peculiar ungainliness that kept his balance perfectly.
“Are you all right?” Hester said anxiously. “Did he startle you? I think perhaps we are a little late with your medicine. I must insist you take it now. You do look rather pale.”
Mary pulled the rug over herself and Hester tucked it around her.
“Yes, I am perfectly all right,” Mary said firmly. “The wretched man reminded me of someone else, that long nose and brown eyes; he looked just like Archie Frazer for a moment.”
“Someone you dislike?” Hester took the stopper out of the vial and poured the liquid into the little glass provided.
“I don’t know the man personally.” Mary’s lip curled in distaste. “He was a witness in the Galbraith case, at least what should have been the Galbraith case, had it come to court. It was dismissed. Alastair said there was insufficient evidence.”
Hester offered her the glass and she took it and drank, pulling a slight face. Oonagh had also packed some small sugared sweets to take away the taste, and Hester offered her one. She took it gratefully.
“Then Mr. Frazer was a public figure?” She pursued the subject to take Mary’s mind off the taste of the medicine. She returned the glass to its place and closed the chest, lifting it back onto the luggage rack.
“More or less.” Mary lay down and made herself as comfortable as she could, and Hester tucked the rug more closely around her.
“He visited the house one night,” Mary continued. “A little weasel of a man, creeping in and out like some nocturnal creature bent on no good. That is the only time I have seen him in person. It was by lamplight, just like that wretched conductor, poor soul. I am sure I am maligning him.” She smiled. “And possibly Frazer too.” But still there was uncertainty in her voice. “Now please go to sleep yourself. I know perfectly well you are ready for it. They will call us well in time to rise and make ourselves respectable for London.”
Hester looked at the single oil lamp which gave the soft, yellowish light in the compartment. There was no way to turn it down, but she doubted its glow would keep either of them awake.
She curled up in the seat as comfortably as possible, and was amazed that in a few minutes the rhythmic rattle of the wheels over the ties lulled her to sleep.
She woke several times, but only to try to make herself more comfortable and wish she were a little warmer. Her dreams were troubled with memories of the Crimea, of being cold and overtired and yet ready to keep awake to care for those who were immeasurably worse.
Finally she woke up with a start to find the conductor in the doorway, looking at her cheerfully.
“London in half an hour, ma’am,” he said. “Morning to ye!” And he disappeared.
&nbs
p; She was stiff and very cold. She got up slowly. Her hair had fallen down and she had lost some of the pins, but that was a small thing. She must wake Mary, who was still tucked up with her face towards the wall, just as she had left her. She seemed hardly to have moved. The rug was not in the least disturbed.
“Mrs. Farraline,” she said as cheerfully as she could. “We are approaching London. Did you sleep well?”
Mary did not stir.
“Mrs. Farraline?”
Still no movement.
Hester touched her shoulder and shook her very gently. Some older people slept very deeply. “Mrs. Farraline!”
The shoulder did not yield at all; in fact, it seemed quite stiff.
Hester felt a twinge of alarm.
“Mrs. Farraline! Wake up! We are nearly in London!” she said with mounting urgency.
Still Mary did not move.
Hester pulled at her sharply and forced her over. Her eyes were closed, her face was white, and when Hester touched it the flesh was cold. Mary Farraline had been dead all night.
3
HESTER’S FIRST FEELING was one of profound loss. Long ago she might have had an initial moment of rejecting the fact altogether, refusing to believe Mary was dead, but she had seen too much death not to recognize it, even when it was completely without warning. Last night Mary had seemed in excellent health and buoyant spirits, and yet she must have died quite early in the night. Her body was cold to the touch, and such stiffness took from four to six hours to achieve.
Hester pulled the blanket up over her, gently covering her face, and then stood back. The train was moving more slowly now, and there were houses in the gray, early morning beyond the rain-streaked windows.
Then the next emotion came: guilt. Mary had been her patient, entrusted to her care, and after only a few hours she was dead. Why? What had she done so badly? What had she bungled, or forgotten, that Mary had died without even a sound, no cry, no gasp, no struggle for breath? Or perhaps there had been, only Hester had been too soundly asleep to hear, and the clatter of the train had masked it.
