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But in times of need, and the mutual caring for some cause, they had worked together in an understanding that ran deeper than words, or the need or time for explanations.
In one fearful hour in Edinburgh, when they had believed they faced death, it had seemed to be that kind of love which touches only a few lives, a depth of unity which is of the heart and mind and soul, and for one aching moment of the body also.
In the lurching of the cab and the hiss of wheels in the rain she could remember Edinburgh as if it had been yesterday.
But the experience had been too dangerous to the emotions, too demanding for either of them to dare again.
Or had it only been he who would not dare?
That was a question she did not want to ask herself; she had not meant to allow the thought into her mind … and there it was, hard and painful. Now she refused to express it. She did not know. She did not want to. Anyway, it was all irrelevant. There were parts of Monk she admired greatly: his courage; his strength of will; his intelligence; his loyalty to his beliefs; his passion for justice; his ability to face almost any kind of truth, no matter how dreadful; and the fact that he was never, ever, a hypocrite.
But she hated the streak of cruelty she knew in him, the arrogance, the frequent insensitivity. And he was a fool where judgment of character was concerned. He could no more read a woman’s wiles than a dog could read Spanish! He was consistently attracted to the very last sort of woman who could ever make him happy.
Unconsciously, she was clenching her hands as she sat in the cold.
He was bewitched, taken in again and again by pretty, softly spoken, outwardly helpless women who were shallow of nature, manipulative and essentially searching for comfortable lives far from turmoil of any kind. He would have been bored silly by any one of them within months. But their femininity flattered him, their agreement to his wildest assertions seemed like good nature and good sense, and their charming manners pleased his notion of feminine decorum. He fancied himself comfortable with them, whereas in truth he was only soothed, unchallenged, and in the end bored, imprisoned, and contemptuous.
They were pressed in on all sides by hansoms, drays, carriages. Drivers were shouting. A horse squealed.
Most recently Monk had fallen under the spell of the deliciously pretty and extremely shallow Countess Evelyn von Seidlitz. Monk had seen through the countess eventually, of course, but it had required unarguable evidence to convince him. And then he was angry—above all, it seemed, with Hester! She did not know why. She recalled their last meeting with twinges of pain which took her unexpectedly. It had been highly acrimonious, but then so had a great many of their meetings. Normally it caused her irritation that she had not managed to think of a suitable retaliation at the right moment, or satisfaction that she had. She was frequently furious with him, and he with her. It was not unpleasant; in fact, at times it was exhilarating. There was a kind of honesty in it, and it was without real hurt. She would never have struck at any part of him she felt might be genuinely vulnerable.
So why had their last encounter left her this ache, this feeling of being bruised inside? She tried to recall exactly what he had said. She could not now even remember what the quarrel had been about: something to do with her arbitrariness, a favorite subject with him. He had said she was autocratic, that she judged people too harshly and only according to her own standards, which were devoid of laughter or humanity.
The hansom lurched forward again.
He had said she knew how to nurse the sick and reform the dilatory, the incompetent or the feckless, but she had no idea how to live like an ordinary woman, how to laugh or cry and experience the feelings of anything but a hospital matron, endlessly picking up the disasters of other people’s lives but never having a life of her own. Her ceaseless min
ding of other people’s business, the fact that she thought she always knew better, made her a bore.
The sum of it had been that while her qualities were admirable, and socially very necessary, they were also personally unattractive; he could do very well without her.
That was what had hurt. Criticism was fair, it was expected, and she could certainly give him back as much in quality and quantity as she received. But rejection was another thing altogether.
And it was completely unfair. For once she had done nothing to warrant it. She had remained in London nursing a young man desperately damaged by paralysis. Apart from that, she had been occupied trying to save Oliver Rathbone from himself, in that he had undertaken the defense in a scandalous slander case and very nearly damaged his own career beyond repair. As it was, it had cost him his reputation in certain circles. Had he not been granted a knighthood shortly before the affair, he could certainly abandon all hope of one now! He had shed too ugly a light on royalty in general to find such favor anymore. He was no longer considered as “sound” as he had been all his life until then. He was suddenly “questionable.”
But she found herself smiling at the thought of him. Their last meeting had been anything but acrimonious. Theirs was not really a social acquaintance, rather more a professional friendship. He had surprised her by inviting her to accompany him to dinner and then to the theater. She had accepted, and had enjoyed the evening so much she recalled it now with a little shiver of pleasure.
At first she had felt rather awkward at the sudden shift in their relationship. What should she talk about? For once there was no cause in which they had a common interest. It was years since she had dined alone with a man for other than professional reasons.
But she had forgotten how sophisticated he was. She had seen the vulnerable side of him in the slander case. At dinner and at the theater he was utterly different. There he was in command. As always, he was immaculately dressed in the understated way of a man who knows he does not need to impress, his position is already assured. He had talked easily of all manner of things—art, politics, travel, a little philosophy and a touch of trivial scandal. He had made her laugh. She could picture him now, sitting back in his chair, his eyes looking at her very directly. He had unusual eyes, very dark in his lean, narrow face with its fairish hair, long nose and fastidious mouth. She had never known him so relaxed before, as if for a space of time duty and the law had ceased to matter.
Once or twice he had mentioned his father, a man Hester had met several times and of whom she was extraordinarily fond. He even told her a few stories about his student days and his first, disastrous cases. She had not been sure whether to sympathize or be amused. She had looked at his face and ended laughing. He had not seemed to mind in the least.
They had nearly been late for the theater and had taken their seats almost as the curtain rose. It was a melodrama—a terrible play. She had sat trying not to acknowledge to herself how bad it was. She must keep facing the stage. Rathbone, sitting beside her, would be bound to be aware if she gazed around or took more interest in the other members of the audience. She had sat rigidly facing forwards, trying to enjoy the play.
Then she had glanced at him, after one particularly dreadful sequence of lines, and saw him wince. A few moments later she had looked at him again, and this time found him looking back, his eyes bright with rueful amusement.
She had dissolved in giggles, and knew that when he pulled out a large handkerchief and held it to his mouth, it was for the same reason. Then he had leaned across to her and whispered, “Shall we leave before they ask us not to disrupt the performance?” and she had been delighted to agree.
Afterwards they had walked along the icy street still laughing, mimicking some of the worst lines and parodying the scenes. They had stopped by a brazier where a street peddler was selling roasted chestnuts, and Oliver had bought two packets. They had walked along together trying not to burn their fingers or their tongues.
It had been one of the happiest evenings she could remember, and curiously comfortable.
She was still smiling at its recollection when the hansom reached her destination in Ebury Street and set her down with her luggage. She paid the driver and presented herself at the side door, where a footman helped her in with her case and directed her to where she should wait to meet the mistress.
Hester had been told little about the circumstances of Rhys Duff’s injuries, only that they had been sustained in an attack in which his father had been killed. She had been far more concerned with the nature of his distress and what measure she could take to help him. She had seen Dr. Riley at the hospital, and he had professed a continuing interest in Rhys Duff’s case, but it was the family doctor, Corriden Wade, who had approached her. He had told her only that Rhys Duff was suffering from profound bruising, both external and internal. He was in a state of the most serious shock and had so far not spoken since the incident. She should not try to make him respond, except insofar as to make his wishes known regarding his comfort. Her task was to relieve his pain as far as was possible and to change the dressings of his minor external wounds. Dr. Wade himself would care for the more major ones. She must keep her patient clean and warm, and prepare for him such food as he was willing to take. This, of course, should be bland and nourishing.
She was also to keep his room warm and pleasant for him, and to read to him if he should show any desire for it. The choice of material was to be made with great care. There must be nothing disturbing, either to the emotions or the intellect, and nothing which would excite him or keep him from as much rest as he was able to find. In Hester’s view, that excluded almost everything that was worthy of either the time or effort of reading. If it did not stir the intellect, the emotions or the imagination, what point was there in it? Should she read him the railway timetable?
