AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Monk held his tongue with great difficulty. He tried to imagine her at sixteen, and resented the young man with the mustache simply for having been there.
“I wanted to impress him,” she went on ruefully. “The dress was very daring. He admired Lavinia Wentworth. She had black hair which curled. I thought the red dress would make the difference.” She laughed with a ripple of real humor, no pity or regret, her eyes bright. “I would have looked awful. I was so pale, and far too bony to wear red. Mama made me wear white and green. The young man with the mustache ignored me utterly. I don’t think he even saw me.”
“Lavinia Wentworth?” He had to ask.
“No—actually, Violet Grassmore.” She said it as if it still surprised her. “She told me afterwards that he had sticky hands and was the greatest bore she had ever met. Lavinia Wentworth went off with a young man in some sort of uniform. They became very close, but he was unsuitable, I don’t recall why. Lavinia’s mother took her away to Brighton or Hove or somewhere.”
She swung around to face him.
“That’s what you should look for! An association her mother stopped. That will be the one to pursue.”
“Thank you. I suppose it is better than nothing. But there is so little time.”
“Then you had better not waste any more of it,” she replied, but she did not stand up. “Would you like a cup of tea, and perhaps something to eat, before you begin to search?”
“Yes,” he accepted immediately. Actually, he was very hungry, and not in the least looking forward to what would almost certainly be a fruitless enquiry.
In any event, he joined Hester and Martha Jackson for cold game pie and pickle and a pot of fresh tea, and then a slice each of plum duff. They talked of several things of very general interest. Monk was acutely aware of his promise to Martha to search for her two nieces. He had not even begun, because he had no thought that it would produce anything but further sadness. But sitting at the wooden table in the housekeeper’s room with the two women, both so earnest, upright, square-shouldered, a trifle thin, both trusting him, he was trapped into doing it, whatever the result. Martha Jackson was far too honest to lie to. Rathbone’s case would not stretch on much longer. There was no defense, and he could not spin it out beyond another day or two. Then Monk could begin to look for the girls.
He smiled at Martha across the table, his conscience eased.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hester’s lips curve upward. She had read his expression and knew exactly what it meant. He grunted and took more plum duff. If it proved too difficult, or if he found the a
nswer and it was too harrowing, then he would not tell her. What good would it do for her to know if they had died alone, ill, unwanted? Better it remain a mystery, and leave her with her imagination and her hope.
He would not tell Hester either. She was no good at concealing anything.
He had another cup of tea, then thanked them and took his leave. He had perhaps two more days in which to find something useful about Zillah Lambert. Then Rathbone would have to concede defeat. There was nothing more Monk could do to help him. After that he would begin seriously to look for the two deformed children of Samuel Jackson.
At first he had not known where to begin with Zillah. Considering the time he had left, the whole idea was ludicrous. Then he remembered Mr. Burnham’s account of Barton Lambert and the aristocrat who had wanted to build the hall and dedicate it to Prince Albert. Apparently, milord’s son was enamored of Zillah, and at least for a while, she of him. If such a slip in discretion had ever taken place, this could be it.
It was not so easy to find records of the proposed building, nor of the collapse of the idea; perhaps its ignominy was the reason. He was several times rebuffed, and when he finally learned what he needed to know, he was perfectly sure he had spoken to sufficiently many people that word of his enquiries would be bound to leak back to Lambert himself. He would certainly know the reason for it, and what Monk hoped to find.
What he did find was rumor, gossip, and a little fact. Zillah had certainly flaunted her beauty, encouraged by Delphine, who seemed to get as much pleasure from it vicariously as did Zillah herself. She enjoyed all the usual pastimes: dancing, riding in carriages, swapping tales with other girls, and inventing stories, listening to music, walking, or rather parading, in the park. But she was a trifle more self-conscious than others and never lost her awareness of exactly how to dress to flatter her looks. She was never careless or ill groomed; her glorious hair was always beautifully done or undone. She watched scrupulously what she ate. Perhaps that was the sternest test of vanity. She did not ever allow herself to indulge in sweets or chocolates, rich pastries or cream cakes. If her mother guided her, it was so discreet it remained unobserved.
Yes, she had certainly flirted outrageously with Lord Tainbridge’s eldest son. It had very possibly gone beyond what could be regarded as innocent, although if it had been sufficient to sacrifice her virtue, no one was prepared to say.
Monk could only wonder. It might well have been. Young blood is hot, and passion and curiosity are potent forces. Perhaps Zillah was not the virgin she claimed. He could not find himself regarding that prospect with horror, only a sadness that the thought, the idea, should be enough to bring this public ruin on both herself and Melville. After all, it was a purely private matter … if, indeed, it was a matter at all.
He left at last to go to Rathbone’s rooms and admit that he had nothing certain, only innuendo which might and might not be a weapon if used sufficiently skillfully. He turned over in his mind the subjects of marriage and beauty, and the set of values by which it seemed society judged a woman and led her to judge herself. If a girl was pretty and at least reasonably agreeable, unless some appalling scandal attached to her, she was certain of finding a husband. The prettier she was, the wider her choice, until it came to the aristocracy, where only a ravishing beauty could hope to overcome the barrier of poverty or ignominious family background.
So much depended on appearance. Why? One might suppose man was a creature with only one sense, that of sight. Did one acquire a wife merely to look at? Certainly good looks were most pleasing, a clear complexion, lovely hair, fine eyes. Actually, a beautiful mouth was the feature that most woke Monk’s hungers—and his dreams.
But why? Did one imagine that the curve of a cheek or an eyelid actually had meaning? Did a lovely face always indicate a lovely character?
That was idiotic! Any man who still possessed the wits he was born with knew better than that.
In his mind—yes. But in his heart?
What of humor or courage, loyalty, gentleness, and for heaven’s sake, intelligence?
He pushed his hands into his pockets and strode across the busy street between hansoms, drays, a wagon piled with carpets, and a coal cart, and stepped smartly up onto the curb at the far side. Unconsciously, he increased his pace.
Hester had all the latter qualities. And yet when he had become enchanted by a woman in these last years that he could remember—and according to the evidence, before that as well—they had been lovely women with beautiful, vulnerable faces who looked as if they were gentle, pliable, as if they needed him and would lean on his strength: utterly feminine women who complemented his masculinity.
He did not like the picture of himself that that painted.
And yet how many other men were the same? Offered a charming figure that suggested passion concealed but waiting, a pretty face that seemed innocent, agreeable, easily pleased, not too critical or too challenging, and one was immediately attracted, seeing behind all this a perfect companion.
