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“The suit for breach of promise …”
Gabriel gave his entire attention, and for nearly an hour Monk told him what he had done so far, tidying up his account of the previous evening’s encounter with Mrs. Waterson to sound a little more favorable to her. Still, he thought from the amusement in Gabriel’s eyes that perhaps he had not deceived him much.
“I am sorry,” Gabriel said when he concluded, “but it seems as if Miss Lambert is probably exactly what she appears to be. Why do you think she may not be … beyond hope for your client’s sake?”
“I don’t,” Monk confessed. “It is only
that I don’t like to be beaten.”
Gabriel sighed with rueful humor. “It isn’t always such a bad thing. The fear of it is the worst part. Once it has happened, and you’ve survived, it can never frighten you quite the same again.”
Monk knew what he meant. He was not really speaking of cases, or even of Melville, but it was not necessary to acknowledge that.
“Oh, I’ve been beaten before,” Monk said quickly. “And in more important cases than this. It is just that this is so stupid. It didn’t have to have happened. The man has ruined himself … and it is tragic because he is a genius.”
“Is he?” Gabriel was interested.
“Oh, yes,” Monk replied without doubt. “I was in one of his buildings. It was not quite finished, but even so it was all light and air.” He heard the enthusiasm in his own voice. “Every line in it was pleasing. Not familiar, because it was different, and yet it gave the feeling that it was so right it should have been. Like hearing a perfect piece of music … not man created but merely discovered. It reveals something one recognizes instantly.” He tried to describe it. “It is a kind of joy not quite like anything else. That is what infuriates me … the man has no right to destroy himself, and over something so stupid! An ounce of common sense and it could all have been avoided.”
Gabriel bit his lip. “It is surely the essence of true tragedy, that it was avoidable. Someone will write a great play on it, perhaps.”
“It’s not good enough,” Monk said in disgust. “It’s farcical and pointless.”
“You think Hester can still help?”
“Probably not.”
Gabriel smiled. If he thought perhaps Monk had come for some other reason, he was too tactful to say so.
They were speaking of other subjects when Perdita Sheldon came in. She was dressed in mid green with a wide skirt, which was very fashionable, the lace trimming on the bodice lightening it. Had she had a little more color in her cheeks and seemed less anxious, she would have looked lovely.
“Mrs. Hanning has called. Will—will you see her? You don’t have to….”
Gabriel obviously did not recognize the name. His face showed only the apprehension he might in seeing anyone.
“Hanning,” Perdita repeated. “Major Hanning’s wife.” She watched him tensely. Her back was stiff, her hands moving restlessly in front of her, smoothing her huge skirt as if she were about to meet someone of great importance, although it was only a nervous gesture because she did not look down to see what she had done. “He was killed at Gwalior.”
“Oh …” Gabriel stared back at her, breathing in very slowly, his jaw tightening, his lips close together on the good side of his face, the scar curiously immobile. Oddly, it made his apprehension even more evident.
“I’ll tell her you’re not well enough,” Perdita said hastily.
“No …”
“She’ll understand.” She did not move. She thought she knew what she should do to protect him, and yet even that decision was difficult. She had to resolve in order to make it and she watched him for approval. “Perhaps … later … in a few weeks …”
“No. No, I’ll see her today.” He too had to steel himself.
Monk wondered who Hanning had been and why his widow should call so soon. Was it duty, compassion, or some need of her own?
“I’ll ask Miss Latterly.” Perdita swung around and hurried away. She had found an answer. If something ran out of control, Hester would be there to take care of it.
Something in Gabriel had relaxed at the mention of Hester’s name. He too was relying on her.
Impatience welled up inside Monk. These people were adults, not children, to be needing someone else to deal with difficult encounters. Then he looked again at the lines of tiredness in Gabriel’s face, the side that was undamaged. He needed all the strength he could find to battle physical pain and the terrible memories he could not share with his young wife who had no idea what he had seen or felt. India to her was a red area on the map, a word without reality. All he had been taught about the roles of men and women, about courage and duty, responsibility and honor, demanded he support her, protect her, even keep from her the harsher and uglier sides of life. Men did not weep. Good men did not even permit others to know of their wounds.
And it was not Perdita’s fault that she was confused and frightened. She had been protected all her short life. She had not chosen to be, it was her assigned role. A few women, like Hester, broke out of it, but it was a long and painful series of choices, and it left them too often alone—and for all the words of praise and gratitude, still faintly despised, because they were different … and perhaps threatening. Both Gabriel and Perdita could rely on her now, in their time of need. They would possibly even love her, after a fashion. Perhaps part of them would also resent the very fact that she knew their vulnerability and their failures.
When they were recovered she would leave, and they would choose to forget her as part of their time of pain. And she would begin again, and alone. He had never appreciated her courage in quite that light before. It was an inner thing, a knowledge she would hold inside herself, knowing its cost but for her pride’s sake not sharing it.
