by Anne Perry
Three times she tried to persuade him that her gardener was quite skilled in the art, but his enthusiasm overrode all she could do, and it was a quarter of an hour later when she finally extricated herself and found herself face to face with young Arthur Stanhope, Sir Herbert’s eldest son. He was a slender young man with a pale complexion and smooth brown hair. He was about nineteen and very obviously doing his duty at his mother’s party. It would have been heartless to dismiss him. The only decent thing was to answer all his polite questions and try to keep her mind on the totally meaningless conversation.
She was saying yes and no at what she hoped were appropriate junctures when she became aware of a girl of about seventeen hovering a few yards away. She was very thin and seemed to stand almost lopsidedly, as if she might walk with a limp. Her dress was a pretty blush pink, and very well cut, but all the dressmaker’s skill could not hide the drawn look on her face nor the smudges of tiredness under her eyes. Callandra had seen too many invalids not to recognize the signs of pain when she saw them so clearly, or the attitude of one who finds standing tiring.
“Excuse me,” she said, interrupting Arthur without a thought.
“Eh?” He looked startled. “Yes?”
“I think the young lady is waiting for you.” She indicated the girl in pink.
He turned around to follow her gaze. A mixture of emotions filled his face—discomfort, defensiveness, irritation, and tenderness.
“Oh—yes, Victoria, do come and meet Lady Callandra Daviot.”
Victoria hesitated; now that attention was drawn to her, she was self-conscious.
Callandra knew what life lay ahead for a girl who could not ever hope to marry. She would be permanently dependent upon her father for financial support, and upon her mother for companionship and affection. She would never have a home of her own, unless she were an only child of wealthy parents, which Victoria was not. Arthur would naturally inherit the estate, apart from a suitable dowry for his marriageable sisters. His brothers would make their own way, having been given appropriate education and a handsome start.
For Victoria, by far the most consistently painful thing would be the pity, the well-meaning and desperately cruel remarks, the unthinking questions, the young men who paid her court—until they knew.
With an ache inside her that was almost intolerable, Callandra smiled at the girl.
“How do you do, Miss Stanhope,” she said with all the charm she could muster, which was far more than she realized.
“How do you do, Lady Callandra,” Victoria said with a hesitant smile in answer.
“What a delightful garden you have,” Callandra went on. Not only was she considerably the elder, and therefore it was incumbent upon her to lead the conversation, it was quite apparent that Victoria found it hard to accomplish what duty required, and did not enjoy it. Social awkwardness was a pinprick compared with the mortal wound that had already been dealt her, but at that moment Callandra would have spared her even the thought of pain, much less its reality. “I see you have several fine pinks as well. I love the perfume of them, don’t you?” She saw Victoria’s answering smile. “A gentleman with an eyeglass was just explaining to me how they are propagated to cross one strain with another.”
“Oh yes—Colonel Strother,” Victoria said quickly, taking a step closer. “I’m afraid he does tend to elaborate on the subject rather.”
“Just a little,” Callandra conceded. “Still, it is a pleasant enough thing to discuss, and I daresay he meant it kindly.”
“I had rather listen to Colonel Strother on pinks than Mrs. Warburton on immorality in garrison towns.” Victoria smiled a little. “Or Mrs. Peabody on her health, or Mrs. Kilbride on the state of the cotton industry in the plantations of America, or Major Drissell on the Indian mutiny.” Her enthusiasm grew with a sense of ease with Callandra. “We get the massacre at Amritsar every time he calls. I have even had it served up with fish at dinner, and again with the sorbet.”
“Some people have very little sense of proportion,” Callandra agreed with answering candor. “On their favorite subject, they tend to bolt like a horse with a bit between its teeth.”
Victoria laughed; it seemed the analogy amused her.
“Excuse me.” A nice-looking young man of perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two came up apologetically, a small lace handkerchief in his hand. He looked at Victoria, almost ignoring Callandra and apparently not having seen Arthur at all. He held up the scrap of lawn and lace. “I think you may have dropped this, ma’am. Excuse my familiarity in returning it.” He smiled. “But it gives me the opportunity of presenting myself. My name is Robert Oliver.”
Victoria’s cheeks paled, then flushed deep red. A dozen emotions chased themselves across her face: pleasure, a wild hope, and then the bitterness of memory and realization.
“Thank you,” she said in a small tight voice. “But I regret, it is not mine. It must belong to some other—some other lady.”
He stared at her, searching her eyes to see whether it was really the dismissal it sounded.
Callandra longed to intervene, but she knew she would only be prolonging the pain. Robert Oliver had been drawn to something in Victoria’s face, an intelligence, an imagination, a vulnerability. Perhaps he even glimpsed what she would have been. He could not know the wound to the body which meant she could never give him what he would so naturally seek.
Without willing it, Callandra found herself speaking.
“How considerate of you, Mr. Oliver. I am sure Miss Stanhope is obliged, but so will be the handkerchief’s true owner, I have no doubt.” She was also quite convinced that Robert Oliver had no intention of seeking anyone further. He had found the scrap of fabric and used it as an excuse, a gracious and simple one. It had no further purpose.
He looked at her fully for the first time, trying to judge who she was and how much her view mattered. He caught something of the grief in her, and knew it was real, although of course he could not know the cause of it. His thin, earnest young face was full of confusion.
Callandra felt a scalding hot anger well up in her. She hated the abortionist who had done this. It was a vile thing to make money out of other people’s fear and distress. For an honest operation to go wrong was a common enough tragedy. This was not honest. God knew if the practitioner was even a doctor, let alone a surgeon.
Please—please God it had not been Kristian. The thought was so dreadful it was like a blow to the stomach, driving the breath out of her.
Did she want to know, if it had been? Would she not rather cling to what she had, the gentleness, the laughter, even the pain of not being able to touch, of knowing she never could have more than this? But could she live with not knowing? Would not the sick, crawling fear inside her mar everything, guilty or not?
Robert Oliver was still staring at her.
She forced herself to smile at him, although she felt it was a hideous travesty of pleasure.
“Miss Stanhope and I were just about to take a little refreshment, and she was to show me some flowers her gardener has propagated. I am sure you will excuse us?” Gently she took Victoria by the arm, and after only a moment’s hesitation, Victoria came with her, her face pale, her lip trembling. They walked in silence, close to each other. Victoria never asked why Callandra had done such a thing, or what she knew.
A memorial service was held for Prudence Barrymore in the village church at Hanwell, and Monk attended. He went as part of his duty to Callandra, but also because he felt a growing respect for the dead woman, and a profound sense of loss that someone so alive and so valuable should have gone. To attend a formal recognition of that loss was some way of, if not filling the void, at least bridging it.
It was a quiet service but the church was crowded with people. It seemed many had come from London to show their respect and offer their condolences to the family. Monk saw at least a score who must have been soldiers, some of them only too obviously amputees, leaning on crutches or with empty sleeves hangin
g by their sides. Many others had faces which should have looked young but showed signs of premature strain and indelible memory, whom he took also to be soldiers.
Mrs. Barrymore was dressed entirely in black, but her fair face glowed with a kind of energy as she supervised affairs, greeted people, accepted condolences from strangers with a kind of amiable confusion. It obviously amazed her that so many people should have held a deep and personal regard for the daughter she had always found such a trial, and ultimately a disappointment.
Her husband looked much closer to the edge of emotion he could not contain, but there was an immense dignity about him. He stood almost silently, merely nodding his head as people filed past him and spoke of their sorrow, their admiration, their debt to his daughter’s courage and dedication. He was so proud of her that his head was high and his back ramrod straight, as if for this day at least he too were a soldier. But his grief was more than would allow his voice to come unchoked, and he did not embarrass himself by trying more than a few words as courtesy made it completely unavoidable.
There were flowers in tribute, wreaths and garlands of summer blossoms. Monk had brought one himself—fullblown summer roses—and laid it among the rest. He saw one of wildflowers, small and discreet among the others, and he thought of the flowers of the battlefield. He looked at the card. It said simply, “To my comrade, with love, Hester.”
For a moment he felt a ridiculous surge of emotion that forced him to raise his head away from the bouquets and sniff hard, blinking his eyes. He walked away, but not before he had noticed another wreath, of plain white daisies, and the card, “Rest in the Lord, Florence Nightingale.”
Monk stood apart from the crowd, not wishing to be spoken to by anyone. He was not doing his duty. He was here to observe and not to mourn, and yet the emotion welled up inside him and would not be denied. It was not curiosity he felt, and just at that moment not anger; it was grief. The slow sad music of the organ, the ancient stone of the church arching over the small figures of the people, all in black, heads bared, spoke of unrelieved loss.
He saw Callandra, quiet and discreet, here for herself, not for the Board of Governors. Probably one of the solemn dignitaries at the far side of the aisle was serving that function. There had been a wreath from Sir Herbert and one from the hospital in general, white lilies soberly arranged and some suitable inscription.
After the service chance brought him inevitably to Mr. Barrymore, and it would have been ostentatiously rude to have avoided him. He could not bear to say anything trite. He met Barrymore’s eyes and smiled very slightly.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Monk,” Barrymore said with sincerity. “That was generous of you, since you never knew Prudence.”
“I know a great deal about her,” Monk replied. “And everything I have learned makes me feel the loss more deeply. I came because I wished to.”
Barrymore’s smile widened, but his eyes suddenly filled with tears and he was obliged to remain silent for a moment until he mastered himself.
Monk felt no embarrassment. The man’s grief was genuine, and nothing which should shame or trouble the onlooker. Monk held out his hand. Barrymore took it firmly and clasped it in a hard warm grip, then let go.
It was only then that Monk noticed the young woman standing half behind him and a little to his left. She was of average height with a finely chiseled, intelligent face, which in different circumstances would have been filled with humor and made charming by vivacity. Even as somber as this, the lines of her normal character were plain. The resemblance to Mrs. Barrymore was marked. She must be Faith Barker, Prudence’s sister. Since Barrymore had said she lived in Yorkshire and was presumably down only for the service, he would have no other opportunity to speak with her. However unsuitable or insensitive it seemed, he must force the issue now.
“Mrs. Barker?” he inquired.
Her expression sharpened with interest immediately. She regarded him up and down in an unusually candid manner.
“Are you Mr. Monk?” she inquired with a courtesy which robbed it of the bluntness it would otherwise have had. Her face was remarkably pleasing, now that she had temporarily cast aside the complete solemnity of mourning. He could see in her the girl who danced and flirted that her mother had described.
“Yes,” he acknowledged, wondering what had been said of him to her.
Her look was confidential, and she placed a black-gloved hand on his arm.
“May we speak alone for a few moments? I realize I am taking up your time, but I should appreciate it more than you can know.”
“Of course,” he said quickly. “If you don’t mind coming back toward the house?”
“Thank you so much.” She took his arm and they went together through the mourners out of the shadow of the church and into the sunlight, picking their way between the gravestones into a quiet corner in the long grass close to the wall.
She stopped and faced him.
“Papa said you were inquiring into Prudence’s death, independently from the police. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“But you will take to the police anything you find which may be of importance, and force them to act upon it?”
“Do you know something Mrs. Barker?”
“Yes—yes I do. Prudence wrote to me every two or three days, regardless of how busy she was. They were not merely letters, they were more in the nature of diaries, and notes upon the cases she worked on that she felt to be interesting or medically instructive.” She was watching his face keenly. “I have them all here—at least all those from the last three months. I think that will be sufficient.”
“Sufficient for what, ma’am?” He could feel excitement bubbling up inside him, but he dared not be precipitate, in case it should prove to be an ill-founded suspicion, a matter of guesses rather than fact, a sister’s natural desire for revenge—or as she would see it, justice.
“To hang him,” she said unequivocally. Suddenly the charm fled from her eyes and left them bleak, angry, and full of grief.
He held out his hand. “I cannot say until I have read them. But if they are, I give you my word I shall not rest until it is done.”
“That is what I thought.” A smile flashed across her mouth and vanished. “You have a ruthless face, Mr. Monk. I should not care to have you pursuing me.” She fished in an unusually large black reticule and brought out a bundle of envelopes. “Here.” She offered them to him. “I hoped you would come to the service. Please take these and do what you must. Perhaps one day I may have them back—after they have served their purpose in evidence?”
“If it lies within my power,” he promised.
“Good. Now I must return to my father and be what comfort I can to him. Remember, you have given me your word! Good day, Mr. Monk.” And without adding anything further, she walked away, very upright, head held stiff and straight, until she mingled with a group of soldiers, some one-armed or one-legged, who parted awkwardly to allow her through.
He did not open the letters to read until he reached his home and could do so in comfort and without haste.
The first had been written some three months earlier, as Faith Barker had said. The handwriting was small, untidy, and obviously written at speed, but there was nothing cramped or mean about it, and it was easily legible.
Dear Faith,
Another long and most interesting case today. A woman came in with a tumor of the breast. The poor creature had been in pain for some considerable time, but too frightened to consult anyone in the matter. Sir Herbert examined her, and told her it must be removed as soon as possible, and he would do it himself. He reassured her until she was almost without anxiety, and she was duly admitted to the hospital.
Then followed a detailed and highly technical description of the operation itself, and Sir Herbert’s brilliance in its performance.
Afterwards I had a hasty meal with Sir Herbert (we had been working long without a break or refreshment of any sort). He explained to me many
ideas of his on further procedure which could cut down the shock to the patient in such operations. I think his ideas are quite excellent, and would love to see him obtain the position where he has the opportunity to exercise them. He is one of the great ornaments to both the study and the practice of medicine. I sometimes think his hands are the most beautiful part of any human being I have ever seen. Some speak of hands in prayer as exquisite. I think hands in healing can never be superseded by anything.
I went to bed so tired! And yet so very happy!
Your loving sister.
Monk set it aside. It was personal, perhaps mildly suggestive—certainly far from accusing, let alone damning.
He read the next one, and the next. They were essentially similar, a great deal of medical comment and detail, and again the reference to Sir Herbert and his skill.
It was ridiculous to feel so disappointed. What had he expected?
He read three more, his attention increasingly waning. Then quite suddenly he found his heart beating and his fingers stiff as he held the paper.
I spoke for over an hour with Sir Herbert last night. We did not finish until nearly midnight, and both of us were too overwrought by events to retire immediately. I have never admired a man’s skills more, and I told him so. He was very gentle and warm toward me. Faith, I really believe true happiness is possible for me, in a way I only dreamed as a girl. I am on the brink of all I have wanted for so long. And Herbert is the one who can bring it about for me.
I went to bed so happy—and excited. I hope—I dream—I even pray! And it all lies with Herbert. God be with him.
Prudence.
Frantically Monk leafed through more letters, and found other passages in the same vein, full of hope and excitement, full of reference to happiness in the future, dreams coming true, in among the medical details and case histories.
