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He glanced at Miriam, then back again at Beata. “I wish two professors to be appointed who will treat the law as a high ideal, with the strength of a great sword that has been hammered out of white-hot metal, and annealed in the pure ice water of logic and impartiality. I hope that you will think that a worthy thing to do for the future and a fitting tribute to your husband, so his memory may last and bear fruit in future years.”
Miriam moved very slightly in her seat, as if she had cramped a muscle.
Beata wanted to look at her, and dared not.
“No one could have a more excellent memorial,” she replied. What else could she say? That Ingram was totally unworthy of it? That perhaps he had once been a good jurist? The last thing on earth she wanted to do was make his private obscenities public! The lie would have to be lived to perfection if she were to keep any dignity at all. She had a right to privacy; indeed she needed it if she were to survive.
She forced herself to meet Aaron Clive’s gaze and make herself smile at him. “It is a wonderful thing to do. Forgive me if I am overwhelmed.”
“Of course,” he said gently, moving his hand onto the white linen of the tablecloth to touch her. “I’m sorry it is so hasty. I should have left you time to mourn, and then asked you, but I want to do it as soon as possible. Perhaps even for the new academic year, if that is within reach?” He turned to Finch.
“I see no reason why not,” Finch replied. “With Lady York’s approval?”
“You have it, and my gratitude,” she replied.
Miriam rose to her feet, looking at Beata. “Then shall we leave the gentlemen to their port? We could take tea in the withdrawing room, and perhaps a few chocolates? Do you still care for chocolates? Truffles? I have some from Belgium. I always think they are the best, don’t you?”
Twenty years vanished and Beata recalled perfectly sitting with Miriam in the home she had lived in in San Francisco, watching the wind ruffle the bay and seeing the shadows chase one another over the water. They had had a box of chocolates between them. In between laughing and talking, and sharing secrets, they had eaten all but a few of them. It brought those wild and yet oddly innocent days back as if they had been last week.
Beata rose also, steadying herself for a moment against the table, and then turned to Miriam. “I still love them just as much.”
The withdrawing room was warm, and extremely pleasant because there were only the two of them. Had there been others, Beata would not have felt it suitable to come this soon after Ingram’s death. Mourning was not really a choice, and as such it was a miserable time. The last thing some people wish is continuing to wear drab clothes so you look as wretched as you feel, and sit about in a house with mirrors turned to the wall. There was nothing whatever to do but contemplate your aloneness, and write a few unnecessary letters. She would much rather have been busy, even if it were only with some manual tasks such as arranging flowers or mending the finer linens where embroidery needed restoring.
Oliver Rathbone had often spoken to her of Hester Monk’s clinic in Portpool Lane, and now when Miriam asked her how she meant to fill her days, she answered honestly.
“I would rather scrub floors than do nothing at all. Perhaps I shall find something worthy to do.” She used the word with self-mockery, and yet she actually meant it. What was anyone, without purpose?
Miriam’s eyes widened with interest. “Really? You can hardly scrub your own floors! Where did you have in mind?” There was laughter in her eyes, which she was trying to conceal. Had she already read Beata so well? They had known each other twenty years ago, but that had been in another world, thousands of miles away, and in another age.
“A woman I don’t know personally, but about whom I have heard much, keeps a clinic for women off the street, who are injured or ill….”
Miriam shrugged and shook her head. “She sounds frightful! Does she stop for prayers every hour, and preach to them of virtue?”
“Good heavens!” Beata nearly laughed. “I don’t think so. She used to be an army nurse in the Crimea, and I have heard that she is highly opinionated. I would doubt that virtue, to her, means abstinence. It is far more likely to mean courage, compassion, and the integrity to be brutally honest, first with yourself and then with others, and never to run away just because you are exhausted or afraid.”
“Then I deserve to be fed a large portion of humble pie,” Miriam said, reaching for another chocolate and pushing the box toward Beata.
Beata also took another. They really were very good.
The conversation continued pleasantly, a mixture of memories and current interest. Without being aware of exactly how it happened, Beata found herself telling Miriam about Oliver Rathbone, and about William Monk. In answer to Miriam’s questions, she described what she knew of him, which was mostly what Oliver had said.
Miriam listened with great interest as if it were important to her, not simply a subject of courtesy. Or possibly it was merely to take Beata’s mind off her recent loss. It was a relief to be able to speak of someone else, of interesting things that had not emotionally involved her. She described Monk as vividly as she could, painting a picture in words for Miriam, based mostly on Oliver’s description of Monk’s nature, his persistence, and his skill in deduction.
“He sounds formidable,” Miriam said with pleasure. “There was a chase of an escaped prisoner near Aaron’s warehouse on the river a few days ago. Four of them ended up in the water, one fugitive, one customs officer, and two Thames River Police. From what Aaron told me, it was a fearful event, a disaster. The fugitive escaped, the customs man drowned, and the two policemen were left to do the explaining. But Aaron told me one of the police was the commander. I think he said his name was Monk. Could that be he? Apparently he was the one who jumped in and pulled the customs man out of the water, but couldn’t save him even so.”
“That sounds like him,” Beata agreed.
Miriam shook her head, smiling. “Not everyone would jump into the Thames in November to save anyone from drowning. He sounds most interesting—in fact a little like a young man I remember in San Francisco, years ago. Lean and very strong, dark hair and a clever face, all bones, and a sense of humor that was quick and very dry. I liked him, although he frightened me a little.” She looked at the rich folds of the curtains, as if into another world. “I had the feeling that when he made up his mind to do something, nothing on earth would stop him. He left after a year or so, and I never knew what happened to him. It couldn’t be the same man, could it?” She looked back suddenly at Beata.
“I don’t think so,” Beata replied. “That would probably describe a fair number of adventurers at that time. Did he seem to you like someone who would make a good policeman?”
Miriam laughed. “Not in the slightest! I just found him interesting. I always liked dangerous men.”
“Well, as I recall, San Francisco was full of them then!”
/> They were both laughing when the butler came to tell Miriam that a Mr. McNab had called to see her, and could she spare him a few minutes.
She looked surprised and somewhat taken aback.
