A Breach Of Promise Part 12

"I am quite well, thank you. How are you? You look cold."

"I am cold!" he snapped. "It is raining outside. I'm soaked."

She regarded his trousers, biting her lip.

"Yes, I can see that. You would have been better advised to take a hansom. You must have walked some distance."

"I was thinking."

"So I see," she observed. "Perhaps you should have been watching where you were going." A tiny flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt touched the corner of her mouth.

"You have been nursing too long," he criticized. "It has become a habit with you to tell people what to do for their welfare. It is extremely unattractive. You remind me of one of the more miserable type of governess. n.o.body likes to be ordered around, even if the person doing it is correct."

Two spots of color burned on her cheeks. He had hurt her, and he saw it. There were times when her composure bordered on arrogance, and this was one of them. He was aware of having stepped in front of the hansom without looking. He was actually fortunate not to have been run over.

She lifted her eyebrows in sarcasm. "Is that what you waded through the gutter to tell me?"

"No, of course it isn't!" He had not meant to quarrel with her. Why did he allow her to make him feel so defensive? He would not have spoken to any other woman that way. The very familiarity of her face, the curious mixture of vulnerability, bravado and true strength, made him aware of how much she had woven herself into the threads of his life, and it frightened him. She could not leave without tearing it apart, and that knowledge left him open to more hurt than he had armor to deal with. And yet he was driving her out himself.

He breamed in and out slowly, making an effort to control his temper. Even if she could not do that, he could.

"I came because I thought you might be of some a.s.sistance in the case I am investigating for Rathbone," he explained. "The trial continues tomorrow, and he is in considerable difficulty."

Her concern was immediate, but who was it for, himself or Rathbone?

"You mean the architect who broke his word? What are you trying to learn?"

"The reason for it, of course," he replied.

She sat down, very straight-backed. He could imagine some governess in her childhood had come and poked the middle of her spine with a sharp ruler. She sat now as if there were a spike behind the padding of the chair.

"I meant what is wrong with him, or wrong with her," she explained patiently, as though he were slow-witted.

"Either," he answered. "He takes precedence, so if there is anything, at least Rathbone can be forewarned-if there is any defense." He sat down on the other chair.

She stared at him solemnly. "What did you learn?"

He was ashamed of his failure. The expectancy in her eyes stung him. She had no idea how difficult it was to acquire the sort of information Rathbone needed. It could take weeks, if it was possible at all. He was seeking the most intimate details of people's lives, things they told no one. It had been a hopeless request in the first place.

"Nothing that is not in the public domain," he replied with an edge to his voice. "I might know if Rathbone had asked me a month ago. I don't know what possessed him to take the case. He has no chance of winning. The girl's reputation is impeccable, her father's even better. He is a man of more than ordinary honor."

"And isn't Melville, apart from this?" she challenged.

"So far as I know, but this is a very large exception," he returned. He looked at her very directly. "I would have expected you to have more sympathy with a young woman publicly jilted by a man she had every reason to suppose loved her."

The color drained from her face, leaving her white to the lips.

He was overtaken with a tide of guilt for his clumsiness. The implication was not at all what he had intended; he had meant only that she was also a young woman. But it was too late to say that now. It would sound false, an artificial apology. He was furious with himself. He must think of something intelligent to say to contradict it, and quickly. But it must not be a retreat.

"I thought you might be able to imagine what she might have done to cause him to react this way," he said. He wanted to tell her not to be so idiotic! Of course he did not think she had been in this position herself. Any man who would jilt her this way was a fool not worthy of second thought, still less of grief, and certainly not worthy of her! If she applied an atom of sense to the matter, she would know what he had meant. And even if he thought it, he would not have said so. It was completely unjust of her even to entertain such an idea of him.

"Did you?" she said coldly. "I'm surprised. You never gave the impression you thought I had led a colorful life ... in that respect. In fact, very much the opposite."

He lost his temper. "For heaven's sake, Hester, don't be so childish! I never thought of your early life, painted scarlet or utterly drab! I thought that as a woman you might understand her feelings better than I, that's all. But I can see that I was clearly-" He stopped as the door opened and a burly, muscular man came in, his face agitated. He closed the door behind him, ignoring Monk and turning to Hester.

She stood up, Monk forgotten. The anger fled out of her eyes, her mouth, and was instantly replaced by concern.

"Is something wrong?"

The large man's eyes flickered at Monk.

"This is Mr. Monk," Hester said, introducing him perfunctorily as he too rose to his feet. "Mr. Athol Sheldon." She gave them no time to speak to each other but hurried on. "What is wrong? Is it Gabriel?"

Athol Sheldon relaxed a fraction, his powerful shoulders stopped straining his jacket and he let out his breath in a sigh. Apparently, having found her he already felt better, as if somehow the problem were in control.

"Yes-I'm afraid he fell asleep and seems to have had a nightmare. He is-quite unwell. I... I don't know what to do for him, and poor Perdita is dreadfully upset." He half swiveled on his foot to acknowledge Monk. "I am sorry to intrude," he said briefly; it was lip service to courtesy. He looked back instantly to Hester. It was not necessary to request she come; she was already moving towards the door.

Monk followed her because he could not simply ignore what was obviously an emergency of some sort. It was an unbecoming curiosity to go with them, and callous indifference to stay. The former was instinctive to him.

Athol led the way across the hall and up the stairs. If he found Monk's presence odd he was too involved in his own concern to remark it. There was a maid standing at the top of the stairs, a woman of perhaps forty or so, her thin face creased with worry, her eyes going swiftly not to Athol but to Hester. A younger woman with a lovely, frightened face stood a yard away from her, her cheeks pale, her lips trembling. She twisted her hands together, the light catching the gold of her wedding ring. She too looked at Hester desperately. She seemed on the verge of tears.

The door ahead of them was ajar, and Hester went past them after only the briefest hesitation, not as if she was undecided, certainly not afraid, but simply allowing herself time to be rea.s.sured. Then she went into the room, and Monk could see over her shoulder a wide bed with a young man lying crumpled over in it, his fair hair tousled, his face buried in the pillow. It was a moment before Monk realized his left sleeve was empty.

Hester did not speak at first. She sat on the bed and put her arms around her patient, her cheek against his hair, holding him tightly. It was a gesture which startled Monk; there was a spontaneity in it and a tenderness he had never seen in her before. She did not wait to be asked. It was a response to his need, not to any touch or plea he had made. It moved the whole scene to a new level of gravity.

Beside Monk, Athol Sheldon was also taken aback, but he seemed embarra.s.sed. He cleared his throat as if about to speak, then changed his mind and said nothing. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

"Gabriel," Hester said quietly, as if she were unaware of the group outside the open door. "Was it James Lovat again?"

Gabriel nodded.

Perdita looked questioningly at Athol.

"I've no idea," Athol said. He moved forward at last. "Really, my dear chap," he said to his brother, addressing the back of his head where he half lay in Hester's arms. "You must put all this behind you. It is a tragedy which cannot be helped now. You did your part, splendidly. Put it from your mind."

Hester looked up at him, her eyes wide and bright.

"One cannot forget at will, Mr. Sheldon. Some memories have to be faced and lived with."

"I think not," Athol contradicted, his voice firm. He stood very square on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet.

"Then if it should happen to you, Mr. Sheldon," Hester said without flinching, "we shall know what best to do for you. But for Gabriel we shall do as he wishes."

"Gabriel is ill!" Athol said angrily. He was frightened by emotion he could neither understand nor share; it was sharp in his voice. He had no idea what demons were in his brother's head. He was afraid of them for himself, and he did not want anyone to have to look at them. "It is our duty, as well as our- our love for him to make decisions in his interest. I would have thought as a nurse you would have perceived that!" That was an accusation.

Monk drew breath to defend Hester, then saw her face and realized it was her battle and she needed no a.s.sistance. She understood Athol better than he understood himself.

"If we want to help, we will listen to him," she answered, equally levelly. "Grief for the death of a friend should not be smothered. You wouldn't say that if James Lovat had died in an accident here in England instead of from gangrene in Cawnpore."

"I should not encourage dwelling on it!" Athol argued, his face pink. "But that is beside the point. He didn't die here, poor fellow. The whole matter of the Indian Mutiny is better not dwelt upon, and the siege of Cawnpore and its atrocities especially so." His voice was final, as if what he said were an order, but he did not move away. Suddenly Monk realized Athol depended upon Hester. He might condescend to her, his conscious mind might think of her as a woman and necessarily of inferior intellect and ability in almost everything, but he knew there was a strength in her to meet and deal with the horror and tragedies of life greater than anything within himself.

A ripple of ridiculous pride surged through Monk.

"Mr. Sheldon"-Hester let go of Gabriel gently and rose to her feet, straightening her rumpled skirts with one hand-"if it had been Gabriel who had died in Cawnpore, or a wife or child of yours-and there were hundreds of women and children among the dead-what would you think of their friends who chose to forget them?"

"Well, I-I think I would understand if it was to save their own minds from nightmare-" Athol began to answer.

"Oh, it's not to save Gabriel," she interrupted. "It is because you don't wish to hear about it... and because you think we don't."

"Nonsense!" he said too quickly. "I want Gabriel to get well, to be able to take up his life again here at home-at least... at least, as much as he can. And I want to protect Perdita from horrors no woman should have to know about. Really, Miss Latterly." His voice was growing stronger, his confidence gathering. He squared his shoulders. "We have discussed this before. I thought we had reached an understanding. This house is to be a refuge from the ugliness and violence of the world, a place where Gabriel, above all, will be at peace, may heal his mind and body from the tragedies of war and its barbarities, where he may feel utterly safe...." He was becoming enthusiastic now; his face was composed again, his body easily balanced. He even had the shadow of a smile on his lips. "It is Perdita's calling most properly to establish and master that, and ours to be of whatever a.s.sistance to her we may." He swung around and looked at Perdita, his lips parted, his eyes brighter. "And you may rest a.s.sured, my dear, we shall be equal to it!"

"Thank you, Athol," she said helplessly. It was impossible to judge from her expression whether she was relieved or terrified.

The maid beyond her was still looking at Hester.

Monk swiveled back to her.

The man in the bed was sitting up, turned towards them. His skin was flushed, his face appallingly disfigured. Monk felt a rush of pity for him that was almost physical.

"I know you will, Mr. Sheldon." Hester's voice was soft but very clear, very insistent. "And it will be a very safe place...."

"Good-good...." he began.

"But it will not help if you try to force Gabriel into it before he is ready," she continued. "A prison is simply a place you don't want to be and from which you cannot escape."

"Really! Miss Latterly-" Athol protested.

"Stop speaking about me as if I am not here, Athol."

Gabriel had spoken for the first time. His face was damaged beyond healing, but his voice was still beautiful, clear and of unusual character and timbre.

"I've lost an arm, not my wits. I don't want wrapping away from reality as if I were a case of nervous collapse or hysteria. Pretending Cawnpore never happened isn't going to take the nightmares out of my sleep, and I don't want to forget my friends as if they never lived or died. It would be a betrayal. They don't deserve that. G.o.d knows, they don't!" Suddenly the anger and the overwhelming pain drenched his voice and was raw in the room, silencing even Athol.

Only Hester had seen war as he had. Monk knew even he was excluded, for all the poverty and death and daily intolerable misery he had seen in the city slums not more than a mile from where they stood. But he felt grateful for it, not angry, not put aside.

He looked at Hester, not smiling at her with his lips, but willing her to understand that he knew what she was doing, and that she was right, and that he admired her intensely for it. Gabriel Sheldon must need desperately to speak openly to someone. One can wrap the truth in palatable euphemisms for only so long, then it chokes in the throat and the lies suffocate. One ends in hating those who force the deceit by their expectancy, their fear, their cowardice, their sheer lack of understanding of the reality of pain and loss.

"Perhaps we should go downstairs?" Monk said aloud. "I am sure the matters about which I consulted Miss Latterly can wait a while longer."

"Oh ..." Athol had apparently forgotten who he was. "Good ... good. Yes, perhaps we should. Talk about something else, what? Would you like a gla.s.s of whiskey, Mr...."

"Monk. Thank you." He turned and followed Athol across the landing and towards the stairs. He wanted to stay and talk to Hester, but he knew it was impossible now.

However, she surprised him. He had barely closed the withdrawing room door, and Perdita asked the butler to bring the decanter, when Hester came in as well.

"Is he all right?" Perdita said immediately, her voice rapid, the decanter forgotten.

"Yes," Hester a.s.sured her with a softness around her mouth which was almost a smile. "Don't worry for him. These memories are bound to intrude at times. They would with all of us."

Athol frowned and took half a step forward, but Perdita seemed unaware of him; her attention was entirely upon Hester.

"It isn't in me," She whispered. "I've never seen anything really terrible. I feel a thousand miles away from him, as if there were an ocean between us and I don't know how to cross it. I don't even understand. I don't have nightmares."

"Don't you?" Hester looked doubtful. "Didn't you feel shattered, terrified, broken inside-"

"Miss Latterly!" Athol said sharply.

"No!" Monk put his hand on Athol's arm, his fingers gripping hard enough to silence him.

"... when you saw Gabriel for the first time after he came home?" Hester finished.

"Well..." The memory was so clear in Perdita's face, her mouth pulled as if the pain were physical inside her. She struggled for words and did not know which to choose. "Well... I..." Her eyes rilled with tears. "Yes ... I felt... just like that."

"Haven't you forgotten sometimes, and woken up as if it were all just the same as before, then remembered?" Hester asked. "And had to live it all over again?"

"Yes!" Suddenly Perdita knew; she grasped the reality of it as if it could save her from drowning. "Yes, I have."

"Then you know what nightmares are like," Hester a.s.sured her. "It is that same shock of seeing and feeling all over again, just as sharp as the first time, only it happens again and again."

"Poor Gabriel. Do you think if I read"-she looked at Hester with desperate earnestness, stumbling towards knowledge-"if I read the history of India, as you said, that I shall be able to listen to him and be of some use?"

"I really don't think-" Athol began.

Perdita swung around on him. "Oh, be quiet!" she said sharply. "I don't want to hear about all their tortures and deaths. I'd much rather imagine the world is all as safe as we are here and nothing really unspeakable ever happens. But it isn't true, and in my heart I know that. If I try to stay a child forever, I shall lose Gabriel."

"Nonsense, my dear-"

"Don't tell me it's nonsense!" She stood still with her hands straight by her sides, her fists clenched. "He has to be able to speak properly to survive. If it isn't to me, it will be to Hester. It certainly won't be to you! You don't know anything more about India than I do! Not about the reality of it, the heat and dust and disease, the flies and the cruelty, the death. You don't know what happened to him. Neither do I... but I'm going to find out!"

"You are overtired," Athol said, nodding with a.s.surance. "It is hardly surprising. You have had a most distressing time. Any woman wouUi-"

"Stop it!" she said loudly, her voice cracking she was so close to tears. "Stop talking at me as if I were feeble! I am! I know I am! Hester has been out to the Crimea and nursed dying men, faced bullets and swords, seen atrocities we haven't even read about in our nice ironed newspapers the butler brings us on a tray. And what have I done? Sat at home painting silly pictures and st.i.tching samplers and mending the linen. Well, I refuse to stay useless! I'm-I'm terrified!"

Athol was appalled. He had no idea what to say or do. He stared at her, then at Hester with a mixture of anger and appeal. He loathed her for precipitating this crisis, and yet he needed her to cope with it, which he resented profoundly.

Monk was waiting for Hester to show her impatience with Perdita. She was quite right; she was useless and had been hiding from reality like a child.

"Being terrified doesn't matter," Hester said confidently, walking forward to stand beside Perdita. "So are most of us. It isn't what you feel, it's what you do that counts. Gabriel won't mind you being frightened, then he'll know you understand at least something of it. n.o.body understands it all."

"You do."

Hester laughed. "Nonsense! I simply know what it feels like to see pain you can't help, to be terrified yourself, overwhelmed and hideously uncomfortable in body, and so tired you haven't even the strength to weep. If you haven't felt that yet, one day you will." She took her by the arm. "Now have a stiff sherry or something and go up to him."

"But it's you he wants to talk to," Perdita protested. "You understand. He doesn't want to have to explain to someone who knows nothing." There was reluctance in every line of her.

"Frightened?" Hester said with a smile.

"Yes!" Perdita pulled back physically.