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Dagmar was silent for so long Hester thought she might not have heard.
“Who will benefit politically?” Hester asked again.
“I don’t see how anyone can,” Dagmar answered thoughtfully. “I have racked my head, but the situation doesn’t seem to affect anything that I can think of. I am afraid it is just a stupid mistake made by a woman who has allowed her imagination and her envy to overrule her sense, and it will destroy her. I am very sorry about it.”
Bernd’s opinion was quite different, when Hester managed to speak to him alone and introduce the subject, this time a trifle more skillfully. She had just returned from an errand in the rain and was brushing the water off her skirt where her cloak had not covered it when Bernd crossed the hall, a newspaper in his hand.
“Oh, good afternoon, Miss Latterly. I see you got wet. There is a good fire in the withdrawing room if you wish to warm yourself. I am sure Polly would bring you some tea, and perhaps crumpets if you wish.”
“Thank you,” she accepted eagerly. “Will I not disturb you?” She glanced at the newspaper.
“No, not at all.” He shook it absently. “I’ve finished. Full of scandal and speculation, mostly.”
“I am afraid now that the trial is nearing, people are beginning to wonder a great deal,” she said quickly. “The story is romantic, and although the charge seems unfounded, one cannot help wondering what is the truth behind it.”
“I should imagine revenge,” he replied with a frown.
“But how can she be revenged when she will lose the case?” Hester argued. “Could it have to do with the Queen?”
“In what way?” He looked puzzled.
“Well, apparently the Queen strongly dislikes Gisela. Is Zorah a great friend of the Queen’s?”
Bernd’s face hardened. “Not that I am aware.” He started towards the withdrawing room as though to end the conversation.
“You don’t think the Queen’s dislike could be behind this, do you?” Hester asked, hurrying after him. It was an idea which had a glimmer of sense. Ulrike had apparently never forgiven Gisela, and perhaps now she felt Gisela was somehow to blame for Friedrich’s death—if not directly, then indirectly. “After all,” she continued aloud as they went into the withdrawing room and Bernd pulled the bell rope, rather hard, “he might never have had the accident in the first place if he had not been in exile. And even if he had, he would have received different treatment had he been at home. Maybe, in her mind, she had convinced herself from one step to another, until now she really believes Gisela capable of murder. Maybe …” She swung around in front of him as he sat down, her wet skirts cold against her legs. “She has probably not seen Gisela for twelve years. She knows only what other people have told her and what she imagines.”
The maid answered the summons of the bell, and Bernd ordered afternoon tea for two and hot buttered crumpets.
“I think it unlikely,” he said when the maid had gone and closed the door. “It is a very unpleasant affair, but not one in which I have any part. I would prefer to discuss your opinion of how we may best help my son. He does appear in these last few days to be better in spirits … although I do not wish him to become too dependent on the young woman, Miss Stanhope. She is not strong enough to employ on any permanent basis, and also, I think, not suitable.”
“Why did the Queen hate Gisela even before she married Friedrich?” Hester said desperately.
His face froze. “I do not know, Miss Latterly, nor do I care. I have sufficient grief in my own family not to be concerned with the self-inflicted misfortune of others. I should appreciate your advice upon what sort of person to employ to be with Robert permanently. I thought you might know of a young man of good character, gentle disposition, perhaps one with a leaning towards reading and study, who would like a position which offers him a home and agreeable company in return for such help as Robert needs.”
“I shall make inquiries, if you wish,” she replied with a sinking heart, not only for Rathbone but for Victoria. “There may well be someone the job would suit very nicely. Is that what Robert wishes?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is that what Robert wishes?” she repeated.
“What Robert wishes cannot be obtained,” he said, his voice tight with pain. “This is what he requires, Miss Latterly.”
“Yes, Baron Ollenheim,” she conceded. “I will make inquiries.”
7
MONK SET OUT on his journey northward with far more pleasure than the situation warranted. Evelyn was on the same train, and he looked forward to time in her company. She was delightful, elegant, always feminine. She carried her enjoyment of life and people in such a manner it spilled over onto all around her. Her humor was infectious, and he found himself laughing as well.
He left Venice with regret. Its beauty made it unlike any other city, and he would never again see light on rippling water without thinking of it. But there was also a sadness there. It was a city in decay, and occupied by a foreign army, a society looking to the past and disturbed and angry, fighting for the future. The people were divided among Venetians, who were crushed and resentful, awaiting the moment to strike back; Austrians, who knew they were away from home, in an old and lovely culture which did not want them; and expatriates, who belonged nowhere and lived on memories and dreams which even they no longer believed.
He had tried to express this to Evelyn when he met her briefly at the train station, but she was concerned about the comfort of travel arrangements and had no interest in such reflections. Klaus was gloomy, his huge figure looming in the background, shoulders a little hunched, mind preoccupied with what he would do when he reached Felzburg. He was impatient with railway officials, short-tempered with his own servants, and did not appear even to see Monk.
Evelyn rolled her eyes expressively and gave Monk a dazzling smile, as if the whole performance were somehow funny. Then she followed after her husband with an outward semblance of duty, but also a little swagger to her step, and a glance backward over her shapely shoulder at Monk before stepping up into her carriage.
They were several hours north, and Monk drifted off to sleep watching the countryside roll past. He woke with a jolt, both physical and of memory. For a moment he could not recall where he was traveling to. He had Liverpool in mind. He was going there to do with shipping. Huge Atlantic clippers filled his inner vision, a tangle of spars against a windy sky, the slap of water at the dockside, the gray stretch of the Mersey River. He could see the wooden sides of ships riding on the tide, towering above him. He could smell salt and tar and rope.
There was immense relief in him, as of rescue after terrible danger. It had been personal. Monk had been alone in it. Someone else had saved him, and at considerable risk, trusting him when he had not earned it, and it was this trust which had made the difference to him between survival and disaste
