The William Monk Mysteries Read online

  She was highly intelligent, with a gift for logical thought which many people found disturbing—especially men, who did not expect it or like it in a woman. That gift had enabled her to be invaluable in the administration of hospitals for the critically injured or desperately ill—but there was no place for it in the domestic homes of gentlemen in England. She could have run an entire castle and marshaled the forces to defend it, and had time to spare. Unfortunately no one desired a castle run—and no one attacked them anymore.

  And she was approaching thirty.

  The realistic choices lay between nursing at a practical level, at which she was now skilled, although more with injury than the diseases that occur most commonly in a temperate climate like that of England, and, on the other hand, a post in the administration of hospitals, junior as that was likely to be; women were not doctors, and not generally considered for more senior posts. But much had changed in the war, and the work to be done, the reforms that might be achieved, excited her more than she cared to admit, since the possibilities of participating were so slight.

  And there was also the call of journalism, although it would hardly bring her the income necessary to provide a living. But it need not be entirely abandoned—?

  She really wished for advice. Charles would disapprove of the whole idea, as he had of her going to the Crimea in the first place. He would be concerned for her safety, her reputation, her honor—and anything else general and unspecified that might cause her harm. Poor Charles, he was a very conventional soul. How they could ever be siblings she had no idea.

  And there was little use asking Imogen. She had no knowledge from which to speak; and lately she seemed to have half her mind on some turmoil of her own. Hester had tried to discover without prying offensively, and succeeded in learning nothing at all, except close to a certainty that whatever it was Charles knew even less of it than she.

  As she stared out through the window into the street her thoughts turned to her mentor and friend of pre-Crimean days, Lady Callandra Daviot. She would give sound advice both as to knowledge of what might be achieved and how to go about it, and what might be dared and, if reached, would make her happy. Callandra had never given a fig for doing what was told her was suitable, and she did not assume a person wanted what society said they ought to want.

  She had always said that Hester was welcome to visit her either in her London house or at Shelburne Hall at any time she wished. She had her own rooms there and was free to entertain as pleased her. Hester had already written to both addresses and asked if she might come. Today she had received a reply most decidedly in the affirmative.

  The door opened behind her and she heard Charles’s step. She turned, the letter still in her hand.

  “Charles, I have decided to go and spend a few days, perhaps a week or so, with Lady Callandra Daviot.”

  “Do I know her?” he said immediately, his eyes widening a fraction.

  “I should think it unlikely,” she replied. “She is in her late fifties, and does not mix a great deal socially.”

  “Are you considering becoming her companion?” His eye was to the practical. “I don’t think you are suited to the position, Hester. With all the kindness in the world, I have to say you are not a congenial person for an elderly lady of a retiring nature. You are extremely bossy—and you have very little sympathy with the ordinary pains of day-to-day life. And you have never yet succeeded in keeping even your silliest opinions to yourself.”

  “I have never tried!” she said tartly, a little stung by his wording, even though she knew he meant it for her well-being.

  He smiled with a slightly twisted humor. “I am aware of that, my dear. Had you tried, even you must have done better!”

  “I have no intention of becoming a companion to anyone,” she pointed out. It was on the tip of her tongue to add that, had she such a thing in mind, Lady Callandra would be her first choice; but perhaps if she did that, Charles would question Callandra’s suitability as a person to visit. “She is the widow of Colonel Daviot, who was a surgeon in the army. I thought I should seek her advice as to what position I might be best suited for.”

  He was surprised. “Do you really think she would have any useful idea? It seems to me unlikely. However do go, by all means, if you wish. You have certainly been a most marvelous help to us here, and we are deeply grateful. You came at a moment’s notice, leaving all your friends behind, and gave your time and your affections to us when we were sorely in need.”

  “It was a family tragedy.” For once her candor was also gracious. “I should not have wished to be anywhere else. But yes, Lady Callandra has considerable experience and I should value her opinion. If it is agreeable to you, I shall leave tomorrow early.”

  “Certainly—” He hesitated, looking a trifle uncomfortable. “Er-”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you—er—have sufficient means?”

  She smiled. “Yes, thank you—for the time being.”

  He looked relieved. She knew he was not naturally generous, but neither was he grudging with his own femily. His reluctance was another reinforcement of the observations she had made that there had been a considerable tightening of circumstances in the last four or five months. There had been other small things: the household had not the complement of servants she remembered prior to her leaving for the Crimea; now there were only the cook, one kitchen maid, one scullery maid, one housemaid and a parlor maid who doubled as lady’s maid for Imogen. The butler was the only male indoor servant; no footman, not even a bootboy. The scullery maid did the shoes.

  Imogen had not refurbished her summer wardrobe with the usual generosity, and at least one pair of Charles’s boots had been repaired. The silver tray in the hall for receiving calling cards was no longer there.

  It was most assuredly time she considered her own position, and the necessity of earning her own way. Some academic pursuit had been a suggestion; she found study absorbing, but the tutorial positions open to women were few, and the restrictions of the life did not appeal to her. She read for pleasure.

  When Charles had gone she went upstairs and found Imogen in the linen room inspecting pillow covers and sheets. Caring for them was a large task, even for so modest a household, especially without the services of a laundry maid.

  “Excuse me.” She began immediately to assist, looking at embroidered edges for tears or where the stitching was coming away. “I have decided to go and visit Lady Callandra Daviot, in the country, for a short while. I think she can advise me on what I should do next—” She saw Imogen’s look of surprise, and clarified her statement. “At least she will know the possibilities open to me better than I.”

  “Oh.” Imogen’s face showed a mixture of pleasure and disappointment and it was not necessary for her to explain. She understood that Hester must come to a decision, but also she would miss her company. Since their first meeting they had become close friends and their differences in nature had been complementary rather than irritating. “Then you had better take Gwen. You can’t stay with the aristocracy without a lady’s maid.”

  “Certainly I can,” Hester contradicted decisively. “I don’t have one, so I shall be obliged to. It will do me no harm whatsoever, and Lady Callandra will be the last one to mind.”

  Imogen looked dubious. “And how will you dress for dinner?”

  “For goodness sake! I can dress myself!”

  Imogen’s face twitched very slightly. “Yes my dear, I have seen! And I am sure it is admirable for nursing the sick, and fighting stubborn authorities in the army—”

  “Imogen!”

  “And what about your hair?” Imogen pressed. “You are likely to arrive at table looking as if you had come sideways through a high wind to get there!”

  “Imogen!” Hester threw a bundle of towels at her, one knocking a front lock of her hair askew and the rest scattering on the floor.

  Imogen threw a sheet back, achieving the same result. They looked at each other
’s wild appearance and began to laugh. Within moments both were gasping for breath and sitting on the floor in mounds of skirts with previously crisp laundry lying around them in heaps.

  The door opened and Charles stood on the threshold looking bemused and a trifle alarmed.

  “What on earth is wrong?” he demanded, at first taking their sobs for distress. “Are you ill? What has happened?” Then he saw it was amusement and looked even more confounded, and as neither of them stopped or took any sensible notice of him, he became annoyed.

  “Imogen! Control yourself!” he said sharply. “What is the matter with you?”

  Imogen still laughed helplessly.

  “Hester!” Charles was growing pink in the face. “Hester, stop it! Stop it at once!”

  Hester looked at him and found it funnier still.

  Charles sniffed, dismissed it as women’s weakness and therefore inexplicable, and left, shutting the door hard so none of the servants should witness such a ridiculous scene.

  Hester was perfectly accustomed to travel, and the journey from London to Shelburne was barely worth comment compared with the fearful passage by sea across the Bay of Biscay and through the Mediterranean to the Bosporus and up the Black Sea to Sebastopol. Troopships replete with terrified horses, overcrowded, and with the merest of accommodations, were things beyond the imagination of most Englishmen, let alone women. A simple train journey through the summer countryside was a positive pleasure, and the warm, quiet and sweet-scented mile in the dog cart at the far end before she reached the hall was a glory to the senses.

  She arrived at the magnificent front entrance with its Doric columns and portico. The driver had no time to hand her down because she had grown unaccustomed to such courtesies and scrambled to the ground herself while he was still tying the reins. With a frown he unloaded her box and at the same moment a footman opened the door and held it for her to pass through. Another footman carried in the box and disappeared somewhere upstairs with it.

  Fabia Shelburne was in the withdrawing room where Hester was shown. It was a room of considerable beauty, and at this height of the year, with the French windows open onto the garden and the scent of roses drifting on a warm breeze, the soft green of the rolling parkland beyond, the marble-surrounded fireplace seemed unnecessary, and the paintings keyholes to another and unnecessary world.

  Lady Fabia did not rise, but smiled as Hester was shown in.

  “Welcome to Shelburne Hall, Miss Latterly. I hope your journey was not too fatiguing. Why my dear, you seem very blown about! I am afraid it is very windy beyond the garden. I trust it has not distressed you. When you have composed yourself and taken off your traveling clothes, perhaps you would care to join us for afternoon tea? Cook is particularly adept at making crumpets.” She smiled, a cool, well-practiced gesture. “I expect you are hungry, and it will be an excellent opportunity for us to become acquainted with each other. Lady Callandra will be down, no doubt, and my daughter-in-law, Lady Shelburne. I do not believe you have met?”

  “No, Lady Fabia, but it is a pleasure I look forward to.” She had observed Fabia’s deep violet gown, less somber than black but still frequently associated with mourning. Apart from that Callandra had told her of Joscelin Grey’s death, although not in detail. “May I express my deepest sympathy for the loss of your son. I have a little understanding of how you feel.”

  Fabia’s eyebrows rose. “Have you!” she said with disbelief.

  Hester was stung. Did this woman imagine she was the only person who had been bereaved? How self-absorbed grief could be.

  “Yes,” she replied perfectly levelly. “I lost my eldest brother in the Crimea, and a few months ago my father and mother within three weeks of each other.”

  “Oh—” For once Fabia was at a loss for words. She had supposed Hester’s sober dress merely a traveling convenience. Her own mourning consumed her to the exclusion of anyone else’s. “I am sorry.”

  Hester smiled; when she truly meant it it had great warmth.

  “Thank you,” she accepted. “Now if you permit I will accept your excellent idea and change into something suitable before joining you for tea. You are quite right; the very thought of crumpets makes me realize I am very hungry.”

  The bedroom they had given her was in the west wing, where Callandra had had a bedroom and sitting room of her own since she had moved out of the nursery. She and her elder brothers had grown up at Shelburne Hall. She had left it to marry thirty years ago, but still visited frequently, and in her widowhood had been extended the courtesy of retaining the accommodation and the hospitality that went with it.

  Hester’s room was large and a little somber, being hung with muted tapestries on one entire wall and papered in a shade that was undecided between green and gray. The only relief was a delightful painting of two dogs, framed in gold leaf which caught the light. The windows faced westward, and on so fine a day the evening sky was a glory between the great beech trees close to the house, and beyond was a view of an immaculately set-out walled herb garden with fruit trees carefully lined against it. On the far side the heavy boughs of the orchard hid the parkland beyond.

  There was hot water ready in a large blue-and-white china jug, and a matching basin beside it, with fresh towels, and she wasted no time in taking off her heavy, dusty skirts, washing her face and neck, and then putting the basin on the floor and easing her hot, aching feet into it.

  She was thus employed, indulging in the pure physical pleasure of it, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Who is it?” she said in alarm. She was wearing only a camisole and pantaloons and was at a considerable disadvantage. And since she already had water and towels she was not expecting a maid.

  “Callandra,” came the reply.

  “Oh—” Perhaps it was foolish to try to impress Callandra Daviot with something she could not maintain. “Come in!”

  Callandra opened the door and stood with a smile of delight in her face.

  “My dear Hester! How truly pleased I am to see you. You look as if you have not changed in the slightest—at the core at least.” She closed the door behind her and came in, sitting down on one of the upholstered bedroom chairs. She was not and never had been a beautiful woman; she was too broad in the hip, too long in the nose, and her eyes were not exactly the same color. But there was humor and intelligence in her face, and a remarkable strength of will. Hester had never known anyone she had liked better, and the mere sight of her was enough to lift the spirits and fill the heart with confidence.

  “Perhaps not.” She wriggled her toes in the now cool water. The sensation was delicious. “But a great deal has happened: my circumstances have altered.”

  “So you wrote to me. I am extremely sorry about your parents—please know that I feel for you deeply.”

  Hester did not want to talk of it; the pain was still very sharp. Imogen had written and told her of her father’s death, although not a great deal of the circumstances, except that he had been shot in what might have been an accident with a pair of dueling pistols he kept, or that he might have surprised an intruder, although since it had happened in the late afternoon it was unlikely, and the police had implied but not insisted that suicide was probable. In consideration to the family, the verdict had been left open. Suicide was not only a crime against the law but a sin against the Church which would exclude him from being buried in hallowed ground and be a burden of shame the family would carry indefinitely.

  Nothing appeared to have been taken, and no robber was ever apprehended. The police did not pursue the case.

  Within a week another letter had arrived, actually posted two weeks later, to say that her mother had died also. No one had said that it was of heartbreak, but such words were not needed.

  “Thank you,” Hester acknowledged with a small smile.

  Callandra looked at her for a moment, then was sensitive enough to see the hurt in her and understand that probing would only injure further, discussion was no longer any
part of the healing. Instead she changed the subject to the practical.

  “What are you considering doing now? For heaven’s sake don’t rush into a marriage!”

  Hester was a trifle surprised at such unorthodox advice, but she replied with self-deprecatory frankness.

  “I have no opportunity to do such a thing. I am nearly thirty, of an uncompromising disposition, too tall, and have no money and no connections. Any man wishing to marry me would be highly suspect as to his motives or his judgment.”

  “The world is not short of men with either shortcoming,” Callandra replied with an answering smile. “As you yourself have frequently written me. The army at least abounds with men whose motives you suspect and whose judgment you abhor.”

  Hester pulled a face. “Touché,” she conceded. “But all the same they have enough wits where their personal interest is concerned.” Her memory flickered briefly to an army surgeon in the hospital. She saw again his weary face, his sudden smile, and the beauty of his hands as he worked. One dreadful morning during the siege she had accompanied him to the redan. She could smell the gunpowder and the corpses and feel the bitter cold again as if it were only a moment ago. The closeness had been so intense it had made up for everything else—and then the sick feeling in her stomach when he had spoken for the first time of his wife. She should have known—she should have thought of it—but she had not.

  “I should have to be either beautiful or unusually helpless, or preferably both, in order to have them flocking to my door. And as you know, I am neither.”

  Callandra looked at her closely. “Do I detect a note of self-pity, Hester?”

  Hester felt the color hot up her cheeks, betraying her so no answer was necessary.