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“Don’t tell me you have simply accepted dismissal like a good girl and gone obediently on your way! Surely you are fighting the cause in some fashion or other?”
“Well—no….” She saw Mary’s face slowly fill with dismay. “No—because there have been other battles,” she went on hastily. “For—for justice of other sorts.”
Mary’s eyes widened with new interest “Oh?”
“Er—I—” Why should she be so reluctant to talk of helping Monk? There was nothing dishonorable in assisting the police. “I became acquainted with a police inspector who was investigating the murder of an army officer, and it seemed as if there was going to be a terrible miscarriage of justice….”
“And you were able to prevent it?” Mary leaped to the conclusion. “But afterwards, did you not return to the question of nursing reform?”
“Well …” Hester found herself coloring very faintly, Monk’s face with dark gray eyes and broad, high cheeks so vivid in her mind he could have been in the seat opposite her.
“Well, there were other cases … soon afterwards.” She stumbled a little over the words. “And again there was the question of injustice. I was in a position to help….”
A slow smile curled Mary’s lips. “I see. At least I think I do. And no doubt after that one, another? What is he like, this policeman of yours?”
“Oh he is not mine!” Hester disclaimed instantly and with more vehemence than she had intended.
“Is he not?” Mary looked unconvinced, but there was laughter in her voice. “Are you not fond of him, my dear? Tell me, how old is he, and what does he look like?”
Hester wondered for a moment if she should tell the truth, that Monk did not know how old he was. A carriage accident had robbed him of all his memory, and his self-knowledge was returning only in fragments as the months passed into a year, and more. It was too long a story, and not truly hers to tell. “I am not quite sure,” she prevaricated. “Around forty, I should think.”
Mary nodded. “And his appearance, his manner?”
Hester tried to be honest and impartial, which was more difficult than she had expected. Monk always aroused emotions in her, both admiration, for his cutting intelligence, his courage and his dedication to truth; and impatience, even contempt, for his occasional bitterness towards those he suspected of crime, not towards his own colleagues if they were less quick, less agile of mind than himself, or less willing to take risks.
“He is a good height,” she began tentatively. “In fact, quite tall. He stands very straight, which makes him look …”
“Elegant?” Mary suggested.
“No—I mean, yes, it does, but that is not what I was going to say.” It was absurd to be stumbling over words this way. “I think the word I was looking for was lithe. He is not handsome. His features are good, but there is a directness in him, which … I was going to say that it approaches arrogance, but that is not true at all. It is arrogance, quite simply.” She took a deep breath and continued before Mary could interrupt. “His manner is abrasive. He dresses beautifully and spends far too much money on his clothes because he is vain. He tells what he sees to be the truth without the slightest regard as to whether it is suitable or not. He has neither patience nor respect for authority, and little time for those who are less able than himself, but he cannot abide an injustice once he has seen it, and will acknowledge a truth at whatever cost to himself.”
“A singular man, by your account,” Mary said with interest. “And it seems you know him very well. Is he aware of it?”
“Monk?” Hester asked with surprise. “I have no idea. Yes, I suppose so. We have seldom minced words with one another.”
“How interesting.” There was not the slightest sarcasm in Mary’s voice, only the most acute fascination. “And is he in love with you, this Monk?”
Hester’s face burned. “Certainly not!” She denied it hotly, and her throat tightened as she said the words. For one idiotic moment she thought she was going to cry. It would be mortifying, and thoroughly stupid. She must clear up the misapprehension which Mary quite obviously bore. “We have been friends in certain issues, because we believed in the same causes and were both prepared to fight against what was wrong,” she said firmly. “Where matters of love are concerned, he has no interest in women like me. He prefers”—she swallowed, memory sharp and peculiarly painful—“women like my sister-in-law, Imogen. She is very pretty indeed, very gentle, and knows how to be charming without clumsy flattery, but how to make one feel the desire to protect her. Not that she is ineffectual, you understand.”
“I see,” Mary agreed, nodding her head. “We have all known women like that at some time in our lives. They smile at a man, and instantly he feels better and handsomer, and definitely braver than before.”
“Exactly!”
“So your Monk is a fool where women are concerned.” It was a statement, not a question.
Hester chose not to answer that. “And I prefer someone like Oliver Rathbone,” she went on, not really sure how much truth there was in her words. “He is a most distinguished barrister….”
“Well-bred, no doubt,” Mary said flatly. “And respectable?”
“Not especially, that I know,” Hester replied defensively. “However, his father is one of the nicest people I have ever met. I feel comfortable merely to recall his face.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Indeed. I misunderstood. So Mr. Rathbone is not without interest. Tell me more.”
“He is also extremely clever, in a different kind of way. He is very sure of himself, and he has a dry sense of humor. He is never boring, and I admit I do not often know what he is really thinking, but I am quite certain it is not always what he says.”
“And is he in love with you? Or do you not know that either?”
Hester smiled smugly, that sudden impulsive kiss coming back as sharply as if it had been a week ago instead of a year. “I think that is too strong a term, but he has given me occasion to think he finds me not unattractive,” she replied.
