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He bowed his head just enough to be courteous. “Ma’am.” Then he walked toward the door where the butler was waiting to usher him out.
Beata returned very slowly to the withdrawing room.
—
THE FOLLOWING DAY BEATA put on a plain black costume with a heavy jacket, partly to be inconspicuous among other pedestrians on Gray’s Inn Road, where she left her carriage and walked the short distance to Portpool Lane. There had been no way to ascertain before going that Hester Monk would be there at this time in the late morning. It was too early to have sent a note and receive a reply but it was as good a time as any to begin. If she had to make more than one journey it did not matter. She had nothing else of importance to do. That was one of the more miserable aspects of mourning, the slow boredom of it.
She turned into the lane, checking the name on the wall to be certain. The pavement was so narrow only one person could use it, and the stones were uneven and covered in ice from the water that dripped from the overhanging eaves above. The odor of wood rot and drains was everywhere.
But she must persist. Meeting Hester was important. If she loved Oliver, and ever dreamed of marrying him one day, if he asked her, then she must learn more of the woman he had once really loved. Margaret Ballinger she was not afraid of. That sadness had brought with it its own ending. Beata was not afraid of comparison with her.
Hester was different. Oliver still spoke of her with not just respect but admiration, and there was a softness in his eyes even at the thought of her. Her beauty was inside, not outside, which meant that it would never fade. In fact, it might in time grow even deeper.
Beata was beautiful on the outside; whatever Ingram had thought, she knew that. It was the inside that betrayed her, the weakness to give in rather than fight to defend herself, risk more violence, more humiliation. It was the degradation she had yielded to because she could see no way of evading it and surviving. Hester had survived the battlefield! Her courage must be insurmountable—supreme. How could any woman compare with her?
Beata hesitated on the pavement for a moment before going on. The brewery loomed huge and grim ahead of her. The row of houses that had once been a brothel and was now a clinic dominated the other side.
She went in through the door and approached the small table straight ahead of her. Would she be taken for a street woman in trouble? The thought was amusing. She found herself smiling in spite of the situation. Ingram would have a fit if he could see her now.
A plain, middle-aged woman came out of one of the several doors and approached her. Her face was calm and she had a unique dignity in the way she walked.
“Can I help you?” she asked quietly, apparently without any judgment as to whom Beata might be.
“Thank you…” Now that the moment was here, Beata found the words catching in her throat. This was absurd. She had come to offer help, not to beg for it. “My name is Beata York. I have come to see Mrs. Monk, to ask her if I might be of assistance in any way. I am newly widowed, and I have a great deal of time on my hands.”
The woman smiled with apparent surprise.
“Claudine Burroughs,” she replied with more warmth in her smile. “I’m sure Mrs. Monk will be happy to see you. Do you mind coming with me up to the medicine room? We are just checking supplies.”
“I should be happy to,” Beata answered, following Claudine as she turned and led the way back into the warren of corridors that twisted through the three houses that formed the clinic. They went up and down stairs and around corners until they found the medicine room, which was quite large and had a door that locked.
Hester was checking something on a piece of paper as Claudine came to the door.
“This is Mrs. York,” Claudine said, as if it were a sufficient introduction. Perhaps the fact that Beata was wearing entirely black clothes told all the rest that was necessary.
Beata had not known quite what to expect, but not the rather thin woman who stood in front of her, pencil in one hand, paper in the other. Hester was not traditionally beautiful, but even more than the grace in her, there was a burning vitality, an energy of spirit that commanded attention. In spite of the strength in her manner, there was a gentleness in her face, even a vulnerability.
“How do you do, Lady York?” she said warmly, and Claudine gave a nod of acknowledgment at her title. “Sir Oliver has spoken so well of you I feel as if I know you, at least in part.”
Beata felt some of the anxiety slip away. Oliver had spoken of her to Hester, and well!
“It is obligatory that I spend the appropriate time in mourning,” Beata replied. “But I believe it is not forbidden to be useful. It is surely better than sitting at home doing nothing. I have no skills of nursing, but I have not always lived an idle life. Long ago in California I did all kinds of things. Is there something I can do here?”
As if she understood all the layers of deeper need beneath the words, Hester answered without hesitation. “Oh, ce
rtainly! If you don’t mind chores like making beds, sweeping floors, carrying meals, and helping some people to eat, we will be grateful for all the help you can offer. If you are still willing after your mourning is over, we always need someone in certain social positions to help us raise funds to purchase medicines, let alone food and coal.” She gave a rueful smile. “I am terrible at it. I have a finite temper with hypocrites, and a sarcastic tongue. I’ve probably lost more sympathy than I’ve gained.”
Beata found herself smiling. “I’m afraid I have learned to be polite whatever I feel, sadly. I’m not at all sure it is a virtue…” She was apologizing for things Hester would never know, never even guess.
Hester shook her head a little. “I think it’s called good manners. I know compassion, but I don’t always have good sense. If you would really like to help, we would be grateful. I’ll find you a pinafore to protect your clothes, and I’ll introduce you to the people you’ll need to know, at least to begin with.”
She had committed herself. Beata smiled back, and accepted.
Claudine took over counting the medicines, and Beata followed Hester downstairs again to meet the bookkeeper, Squeaky Robinson. He was an irascible man of more than middle age, lean and black-coated, with a tangle of gray hair that looked as if it had never seen a brush, and wildly uneven teeth that made it impossible to tell if he was smiling or snarling.
He looked her up and down as if she had been presented for his inspection.
“Judge’s wife?” he said to Hester.
