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“Indeed.” Mrs. Willis was totally ignorant in the matter, but unwilling to say so. “Well, we
have five outside menservants here, whom you are unlikely to meet, and inside we have Mr. Phillips, the butler; Rhodes, Sir Basil’s valet; Harold and Percival, the footmen; and Willie, the bootboy. You will have no occasion to have dealings with any of them.”
“No ma’am.”
Mrs. Willis sniffed. “Very well. You had best go and present yourself to Lady Moidore and see if there is anything you can do for her, poor creature.” She smoothed her apron fiercely and her keys jangled. “As if it wasn’t enough to be bereaved of a daughter, without police creeping all over the house and pestering people with questions. I don’t know what the world is coming to! If they were doing their job in the first place all this would never have happened.”
Since she was not supposed to know it, Hester refrained from saying it was a bit unreasonable to expect police, no matter how diligent, to prevent a domestic murder.
“Thank you, Mrs. Willis,” she said in compromise, and turned to go upstairs and meet Beatrice Moidore.
She tapped on the bedroom door, and when there was no answer, went in anyway. It was a charming room, very feminine, full of flowered brocades, oval framed pictures and mirrors, and three light, comfortable dressing chairs set about to be both ornamental and useful. The curtains were wide open and the room full of cold sunlight.
Beatrice herself was lying on the bed in a satin peignoir, her ankles crossed and her arms behind her head, her eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. She took no notice when Hester came in.
Hester was an army nurse used to caring for men sorely wounded or desperately ill, but she had a small experience of the shock and then deep depression and fear following an amputation, and the feeling of utter helplessness that overwhelms every other emotion. What she thought she saw in Beatrice Moidore was fear, and the frozen attitude of an animal that dares not move in case it draws attention to itself and does not know which way to run.
“Lady Moidore,” she said quietly.
Beatrice realized it was a voice she did not know, and an unaccustomed tone, firmer and not tentative like a maid’s. She turned her head and stared.
“Lady Moidore, I am Hester Latterly. I am a nurse, and I have come to look after you until you feel better.”
Beatrice sat up slowly on her elbows. “A nurse?” she said with a faint, slightly twisted smile. “I’m not—” Then she changed her mind and lay back again. “There has been a murder in my family—that is not an illness.”
So Araminta had not even told her of the arrangements, let alone consulted her—unless, of course, she had forgotten?
“No,” Hester agreed aloud. “I would consider it more in the nature of an injury. But I learned most of my nursing in the Crimea, so I am used to injury and the shock and distress it causes. One can take some time even to desire to recover.”
“In the Crimea? How useful.”
Hester was surprised. It was an odd comment to make. She looked more carefully at Beatrice’s sensitive, intelligent face with its wide eyes, jutting nose and fine lips. She was far from a classic beauty, nor did she have the rather heavy, sulky look that was currently much admired. She appeared far too spirited to appeal to many men, who might care for something a great deal more domestic seeming. And yet today her aspect completely denied the nature implicit in her features.
“Yes,” Hester agreed. “And now that my family are dead and were not able to leave me provided for, I require to remain useful.”
Beatrice sat up again. “It must be very satisfying to be useful. My children are adult and married themselves. We do a great deal of entertaining—at least we did—but my daughter Araminta is highly skilled at preparing guest lists that will be interesting and amusing, my cook is the envy of half of London, and my butler knows where to hire any extra help we might need. All my staff are highly trained, and I have an extremely efficient housekeeper who does not appreciate my meddling in her affairs.”
Hester smiled. “Yes, I can imagine. I have met her. Have you taken luncheon today?”
“I am not hungry.”
“Then you should take a little soup, and some fruit, It can give you very unpleasant effects if you do not drink. Internal distress will not help you at all.”
Beatrice looked as surprised as her indifference would allow.
“You are very blunt.”
“I do not wish to be misunderstood.”
Beatrice smiled in spite of herself. “I doubt you very often are.”
Hester kept her composure. She must not forget that her primary duty was to care for a woman suffering deeply.
“May I bring you a little soup, and some fruit tart, or a custard?”
“I imagine you will bring it anyway—and I daresay you are hungry yourself?”
Hester smiled, glanced around the room once more, and went to begin her duties in the kitchen.
