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“Yes.” He moved to climb to his feet, and she put out both her hands to help him. “Yes,” he agreed again. “The least I can do is be there—poor Beatrice.”
He had not yet fully understood.
“But will you swear to her answer, if need be before a judge? Will you strengthen her when she realizes what it means?”
He straightened up until he stood very erect, shoulders back, chest out.
“Yes, yes I will.”
Beatrice was startled to see Septimus behind Hester when they entered her room. She was sitting at the dressing table brushing her hair. This was something which would ordinarily have been done by her maid, but since it was not necessary to dress it, she was going nowhere, she had chosen to do it herself.
“What is it?” she said quietly. “What has happened? Septimus, are you worse?”
“No, my dear.” He moved closer to her. “I am perfectly well. But something has happened about which it is necessary that you make a decision, and I am here to lend you my support.”
“A decision? What do you mean?” Already she was frightened. She looked from him to Hester. “Hester? What is it? You know something, don’t you?” She drew in her breath and made as if to ask, then her voice died and no sound came. Slowly she put the hairbrush down.
“Lady Moidore,” Hester began gently. It was cruel to spin it out. “On the night she died, you said Octavia came to your room to wish you good-night.”
“Yes—” It was barely even a whisper.
“And that her peignoir was torn across the lace
lilies on the shoulder?”
“Yes-”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
Beatrice was puzzled, some small fraction of her fear abating.
“Yes, of course I am. I offered to mend it for her.” The tears welled up in her eyes, beyond her control. “I did—” She gulped and fought to master her emotion. “I did—that night, before I went to sleep. I mended them perfectly.”
Hester wanted to touch her, to take her hands and hold them, but she was about to deal another terrible blow, and it seemed such hypocrisy, a Judas kiss.
“Would you swear to that, on your honor?”
“Of course—but who can care—now?”
“You are quite sure, Beatrice?” Septimus knelt down awkwardly in front of her, touching her with clumsy, tender hands. “You will not take that back, should it become painful in its meanings?”
She stared at him. “It is the truth—why? What are its meanings, Septimus?”
“That Octavia killed herself, my dear, and that Araminta and someone else conspired to conceal it, to protect the honor of the family.” It was so easily encapsulated, all in one sentence.
“Killed herself? But why? Harry has been dead for—for two years.”
“Because she learned that day how and why he died.” He spared her the last, ugly details, at least for now. “It was more than she could bear.”
“But Septimus.” Now her mouth and throat were so dry she could scarcely force the words. “They hanged Percival for killing her!”
“I know that, my dear. That is why we must speak.”
“Someone in my house—in my family—murdered Percival!”
“Yes.”
“Septimus, I don’t know how I can bear it!”
