AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Araminta stood up, leaned over and kissed her very lightly, a mere brushing of the lips on her brow, and left the room.
Beatrice sat still for several minutes, then slowly sank farther down in the bed.
“You can take the tray away, Hester; I don’t think I want any tea after all.”
So she had not forgotten her nurse was there. Hester did not know whether to be grateful her status gave her such opportunity to observe or insulted that she was of such total unimportance that no one cared what she saw or heard. It was the first time in her life she had been so utterly disregarded, and it stung.
“Yes, Lady Moidore,” she said coolly, and picked up the tray, leaving Beatrice alone with her thoughts.
That evening she had a little time to herself, and she spent it in the library. She had dined in the servants’ hall. Actually it was one of the best meals she had ever eaten, far richer and more varied than she had experienced in her own home, even when her father’s circumstances were very favorable. He had never served more than six courses, the heaviest usually either mutton or beef. Tonight there had been a choice of three meats, and eight courses in all.
She found a book on the peninsular campaigns of the Duke of Wellington, and was deeply engrossed in it when the door opened and Cyprian Moidore came in. He seemed surprised to see her, but not unpleasantly so.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Latterly.” He glanced at her book. “I am sure you have well deserved a little time to yourself, but I wanted you to tell me candidly what you think of my mother’s health.” He looked concerned, his face marked with anxiety and his eyes unwavering.
She closed the book and he saw the title.
“Good heavens. Couldn’t you find anything more interesting than that? We have plenty of novels, and some poetry—farther along to the right, I think.”
“Yes I know, thank you. I chose this intentionally.” She saw his doubt, then as he realized she was not joking, his puzzlement. “I think Lady Moidore is deeply concerned over the death of your sister,” she hurried on. “And of course having the police in the house is unpleasant. But I don’t think her health is in any danger of breakdown. Grief always takes a time to run its course. It is natural to be angry, and bewildered, especially when the loss is so unexpected. With an illness at least there is some time to prepare—”
He looked down at the table between them.
“Has she said anything about who she thinks to be responsible?”
“No—but I have not discussed the subject with her—except, of course, I should listen to anything she wished to tell me, if I thought it would relieve her anxiety.”
He looked up, a sudden smile on his face. Given another place, away from his family and the oppressive atmosphere of suspicion and defense, and away from her position as a servant, she would have liked him. There was a humor in him, and an intelligence beneath the careful manners.
“You do not think we should call in a doctor?” he pressed.
“I don’t believe a doctor could help,” she said frankly. She debated whether to tell him the truth of what she believed, or if it would only cause him greater concern and betray that she remembered and weighed what she overheard.
“What is it?” He caught her indecision and knew there was something more. “Please, Miss Latterly?”
She found herself responding from instinct rather than judgment, and a liking for him that was far from a rational decision.
“I think she is afraid she may know who it is who killed Mrs. Haslett, and that it will bring great distress to Mrs. Kellard,” she answered. “I think she would rather retreat and keep silent than risk speaking to the police and having them somehow detect what she is thinking.” She waited, watching his face.
“Damn Myles!” he said furiously, standing up and turning away. His voice was filled with anger, but there was remarkably little surprise in it. “Papa should have thrown him out, not Harry Haslett!” He swung back to face her. “I’m sorry, Miss Latterly. I beg your pardon for my language. I—”
“Please, Mr. Moidore, do not feel the need to apologize,” she said quickly. “The circumstances are enough to make anyone with any feeling lose his temper. The constant presence of the police and the interminable wondering, whether it is spoken or not, would be intensely trying to anyone but a fool who had no understanding.”
“You are very kind.” It was a simple enough word, and yet she knew he meant it as no easy compliment.
“I imagine the newspapers are still writing about it?” she went on, more to fill the silence than because it mattered.
He sat down on the arm of the chair near her. “Every day,” he said ruefully. “The better ones are castigating the police, which is unfair; they are no doubt doing all they can. They can hardly subject us to a Spanish Inquisition and torture us until someone confesses—” He laughed jerkily, betraying all his raw pain. “And the press would be the first to complain if they did. In fact it seems they are caught either way in a situation like this. If they are harsh with us they will be accused of forgetting their place and victimizing the gentry, and if they are lenient they will be charged with indifference and incompetence.” He drew in his breath and let it out in a sigh. “I should imagine the poor devil curses the day he was clever enough to prove it had to be someone in the house. But he doesn’t look like a man who takes the easy path—”
“No, indeed,” Hester agreed with more memory and heart than Cyprian could know.
“And the sensational ones are speculating on every sordid possibility they can think up,” h
e went on with distaste puckering his mouth and bringing a look of hurt to his eyes.
Suddenly Hester caught a glimpse of how deeply the whole intrusion was affecting him, the ugliness of it all pervading his life like a foul smell. He was keeping the pain within, as he had been taught since the nursery. Little boys are expected to be brave, never to complain, and above all never, never to cry. That was effeminate and a sign of weakness to be despised.
“I’m so sorry,” she said gently. She reached out her hand and put it over his, closing her fingers, before she remembered she was not a nurse comforting a wounded man in hospital, she was a servant and a woman, putting her hand over her employer’s in the privacy of his own library.
