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She resumed her slow pace along the path, her face very pale, her skirts brushing the gravel.
“She was very emotional, very impulsive,” she replied after only the briefest thought. “When she fell in love with Harry Haslett her family disapproved, but she was absolutely determined. She refused to consider anyone else. I have always been surprised that Sir Basil permitted it, but I suppose it was a perfectly acceptable match, and Lady Moidore approved. His family was excellent, and he had reasonable prospects for the future—” She shrugged. “Somewhat distant, but Octavia was a younger daughter, who could reasonably expect to have to wait.”
“Had he an unfortunate reputation?” Monk asked.
“Not that I ever heard.”
“Then why was Sir Basil so against the
match? If he was of good family and had expectations, surely he would be agreeable?”
“I think it was a matter of personality. I know Sir Basil had been at school with his father and did not care for him. He was a year or two older, and a most successful person.” She shrugged very slightly. “Sir Basil never said so, of course, but perhaps he cheated? Or in some other way that a gentleman would not mention, behaved dishonorably?” She looked straight ahead of her. A party of ladies and gentlemen was approaching and she nodded at them but did not make any sign of welcome. She was annoyed by the circumstance. Monk saw the color rise in her cheeks and guessed her dilemma. She did not wish them to speculate as to who he was that Romola walked alone with him in the park, and yet still less did she wish to introduce a policeman to her acquaintances.
He smiled sourly, a touch of mockery at himself, because it stung him, as well as at her. He despised her that appearances mattered so much, and himself because it caught him with a raw smart too, and for the same reasons.
“He was uncouth, brash?” he prompted with a trace of asperity.
“Not at all,” she replied with satisfaction at contradicting him. “He was charming, friendly, full of good humor, but like Octavia, determined to have his own way.”
“Not easily governed,” he said wryly, liking Harry Haslett more with each discovery.
“No—” There was a touch of envy in her now, and a real sadness that came through the polite, expected grief. “He was always kind for one’s comfort, but he never pretended to an opinion he did not have.”
“He sounds a most excellent man.”
“He was. Octavia was devastated when he was killed—in the Crimea, you know. I can remember the day the news came. I thought she would never recover—” She tightened her lips and blinked hard, as if tears threatened to rob her of composure. “I am not sure she ever did,” she added very quietly. “She loved him very much. I believe no one else in the family realized quite how much until then.”
They had been gradually slowing their pace; now conscious again of the cold wind, they quickened.
“I am very sorry,” he said, and meant it.
They were passed by a nurserymaid wheeling a perambulator—a brand-new invention which was much better than the old pulling carts, and which was causing something of a stir—and accompanied by a small, self-conscious boy with a hoop.
“She never even considered remarrying,” Romola went on without being asked, and having regarded the perambulator with due interest. “Of course it was only a little over two years, but Sir Basil did approach the subject. She was a young woman, and still without children. It would not be unseemly.”
Monk remembered the dead face he had seen that first morning. Even through the stiffness and the pallor he had imagined something of what she must have been like: the emotions, the hungers and the dreams. It was a face of passion and will.
“She was very comely?” He made it a question, although there was no doubt in his mind.
Romola hesitated, but there was no meanness in it, only a genuine doubt.
“She was handsome,” she said slowly. “But her chief quality was her vividness, and her complete individuality. After Harry died she became very moody and suffered”—she avoided his eyes—“suffered a lot of poor health. When she was well she was quite delightful, everyone found her so. But when she was …” Again she stopped momentarily and searched for the word. “When she was poorly she spoke little—and made no effort to charm.”
Monk had a brief vision of what it must be like to be a woman on her own, obliged to work at pleasing people because your acceptance, perhaps even your financial survival, depended upon it. There must be hundreds—thousands—of petty accommodations, suppressions of your own beliefs and opinions because they would not be what someone else wished to hear. What a constant humiliation, like a burning blister on the heel which hurt with every step.
And on the other hand, what a desperate loneliness for a man if he ever realized he was always being told not what she really thought or felt but what she believed he wanted to hear. Would he then ever trust anything as real, or of value?
“Mr. Monk.”
She was speaking, and his concentration had left her totally.
“Yes ma’am—I apologize—”
“You asked me about Octavia. I was endeavoring to tell you.” She was irritated that he was so inattentive. “She was most appealing, at her best, and many men had called upon her, but she gave none of them the slightest encouragement. Whoever it was who killed her, I do not think you will find the slightest clue to their identity along that line of inquiry.”
“No, I imagine you are right. And Mr. Haslett died in the Crimea?”
“Captain Haslett. Yes.” She hesitated, looking away from him again. “Mr. Monk.”
