AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I think we would all prefer to go quickly,” she said, filling in the silence, glancing from one to the other of them.
“I hope it will not be for many years, Lady York,” Savidge responded. “But we shall miss Ingram, both personally and professionally.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She allowed her tone to suggest that the conversation could come to a close.
“I’m sorry,” Rathbone said as soon as Savidge was out of earshot. “I get so tired of polite nothings I forget who knows anything close to the truth, and who does not.”
“As far as Lord Justice Savidge is concerned, I look straight into his face, and I still have no idea,” she told him. “Do you think anyone…?” Then she changed her mind. It was unfair to ask him. What would he say if in fact Ingram had spoken of her disparagingly? But surely he would not wish his colleagues to hear him use the kind of language he had used to her, at his worst times? The explicit vulgarity of it made her cringe. Why had she never found the courage to fight back, to threaten to expose him, or even to leave him?
But then who would believe it of him? That is what he had said to her. He had taunted her with it. Such filthy language, such ideas! Who would have thought a beautiful woman, so calm and dignified on the outside, would ever have submitted herself to such bordello practices?
“Beata?” Rathbone said anxiously. He put out his hand and took her arm, holding her strongly. “Are you all right? You look very pale. Perhaps you have done enough, and it would now be perfectly acceptable for you to go home. It must have been a great strain….”
Not in the way he imagined. “No, thank you, Oliver,” she said gently, but not pulling away from his grip. She liked the warmth of it, the strength. “It is my duty, and I will feel better if I complete it. It won’t be more than another few minutes.” She glanced to where she could just see, beyond the trees, the group of solemn figures beside the grave, heads bowed, men with hats in their hands, wind ruffling their hair. “I think they are very nearly finished.”
“Then you have done all you need to,” he reassured. “I’ll take you as far as your carriage. Come.” He put his other hand over hers and she had little courteous choice but to go with him. She was actually pleased to be looked after, and she realized just how cold she had grown standing still.
“Are you all right alone?” he asked with some concern. “Is there someone who can be with you for a while? A relative, or a friend?”
“Thank you, but I will be quite happy alone. The hardest thing was listening to all those tributes, and wondering what they would have said if they were honest,” she admitted. She avoided meeting his eyes.
“They’re mostly lawyers, my dear,” he replied, turning the corner on the path. “They are used to putting up a convincing argument for whoever they represent.”
She wanted to laugh, but if she did someone might see her, and no decent woman laughed at her husband’s funeral, no matter what she felt. And it would be too easy to end up sounding a trifle hysterical.
They passed Aaron and Miriam Clive, walking along a path almost parallel to theirs. They were close together; he was leaning toward her, listening to what she was saying. Again, for a moment Beata envied her. She had not really known Miriam’s first husband, and Miriam had spent almost all her adult life with Aaron. He was clearly still as much in love with her as he had been in the beginning. What was it like to be so loved, so admired? So—so safe!
She wanted to be safe with Oliver Rathbone. But did he see her as a calmer woman than Margaret had been, gentler with him, even loyal? Had he even the faintest idea of the turbulence inside her, the woman she was, and the woman she wanted to be? Would he despise her, if he knew what she had permitted Ingram York to do to her, without fighting tooth and nail to stop him? Was she wise, obedient, loyal…or just a coward? Perhaps Oliver would understand and sympathize, but still be revolted by the picture the words would paint in his imagination. The thought that it would stain her forever in his mind—even in reality—was unbearable.
Rathbone had both prosecuted and defended some vile cases. He must be familiar with the dregs of life, the ugliest and the most brutal. But words about cases, professional matters, were nothing like the actuality, and letting it into your own home.
Many men were outraged that a woman should be raped. They had fury for the perpetrator and pity for the victim. Yet when their own women were assaulted, they felt them to be soiled, even ruined. It was a strange, complex, and yet bone-deep passion.
Of course, as Ingram had reminded her many times, you could not rape your wife. She was yours to do with as you pleased. You could kill her spirit, as long as you left her body breathing. The injuries he had left her with had no visible marks.
But Oliver never needed to know. She was being foolish even to remember it now. Ingram was dead. He was lying in a nailed-up coffin under the earth, a couple of hundred yards away, beyond the yew trees.
“Thank you,” she said gently to Rathbone. “But it would not be taken kindly by everyone, even if those we care about know that you are merely being courteous. I am quite able to ride home, and my maid will look after me. The fires will be burning and all will be warm. I think no one will disturb me with any more condolences for several days.” She smiled at him, and meant it. She was in control of herself again, at least for now.
“Are you certain?” They were standing at the roadside by her carriage. The footman held the door for her.
“Yes, thank you. I hope you will feel free to call at a later date, when there will be no shadow on your reputation.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “I mean to do this well.” He looked at her for a moment longer, and she saw the warmth in his eyes, and knew exactly what he meant.
She swallowed hard. “Thank you, Oliver.” She wanted to think of something else to say, but there was nothing that could not be misread.
Another carriage passed them, and through the window she saw Miriam Clive. For a moment their glances met, then the Clives’ carriage passed, and Beata accepted the footman’s hand and climbed into her own, leaving Rathbone on the path, watching her until she was out of sight.
MONK AND HOOPER WERE on the river on one of those unusual November days when the sky was almost cloudless and there were moments when it seemed as if the river were made of gray glass. Not a breath of wind stirred the surface. The only movement was the occasional wash of a boat going up or downstream, all but silently. The voices of lightermen calling to one another echoed, and the splash of an oar could be heard.
Now and then a water bird dived for a fish. It broke the smooth surface almost without sound, and then came up victorious. It was an hour short of high tide. Soon the river would brim its banks. An hour after that it would turn.
They rowed randan, that is, holding only one oar each, on two separate seats, one slightly in front of the other. It was swift, maneuverable, and when rowers were well matched they could keep up the pace for hours.
Hooper was a good partner and now that his injuries from the battle on the gun smugglers’ ship were almost healed, he was extremely strong. It was a challenge to keep up with him, but one that Monk enjoyed. They were returning from the successful solution to a robbery.
“Hear any more about the drowned man?” Hooper asked curiously. “The one that was shot.”
