Part 16 (1/2)
For an instant his face was perfectly sober, his blue eyes very clear, the lines of anxiety ironed out, and they shared a complete understanding. Both had seen the carnage of the battlefield and the long torture of wounds afterwards and the maimed lives. They knew the price of incompetence and bravado. It was an alien life from this house and its civilized routine and iron discipline of trivia, the maids rising at five to clean the fires, black the grates, throw damp tea leaves on the carpets and sweep them up, air the rooms, empty the slops, dust, sweep, polish, turn the beds, launder, iron dozens of yards of linens, petticoats, laces and ribbons, st.i.tch, fetch and carry till at last they were excused at nine, ten or eleven in the evening.
”You tell them about nursing,” he said at last, and quite openly took out the bottle and repositioned it more comfortably, then turned and left, walking with a lift in his step and a very slight swagger.
Upstairs Hester had just brought the tray for Beatrice and set it down, and was about to leave when Araminta came in.
”Good afternoon, Mama,” she said briskly. ”How are you feeling?” Like her father she seemed to find Hester invisible. She went and kissed her mother's cheek and then sat down on the nearest dressing chair, her skirts overflowing in mounds of darkest gray muslin with a lilac fichu, dainty and intensely flattering, and yet still just acceptable for mourning. Her hair was the same bright flame as always, her face its delicate, lean asymmetry.
”Exactly the same, thank you,” Beatrice answered without real interest. She turned slightly to look at Araminta, a pucker of confusion around her mouth. There was no sense of affection between them, and Hester was uncertain whether she should leave or not. She had a curious sense that in some way she was not intruding because the tension between the two women, the lack of knowing what to say to each other, already excluded her. She was a servant, someone whose opinion was of no importance whatever, indeed someone not really of existence.
”Well I suppose it is to be expected.” Araminta smiled, but the warmth did not reach her eyes.”I am afraid the police do not seem to be achieving anything. I have spoken to the sergeant-Evan, I think his name is-but he either knows nothing or he is determined not to tell me.” She glanced absently at the frill of the chair arm. ”Will you speak to them, if they wish to ask you anything?''
Beatrice looked up at the chandelier above the center of the room. It was unlit this early in the afternoon, but the last rays of the lowering sun caught one or two of its crystals.
”I can hardly refuse. It would seem as if I did not wish to help them.''
”They would certainly think so,” Araminta agreed, watching her mother intently. ”And they could not be criticized for it.'' She hesitated, her voice hard-edged, slow and very quiet, every word distinct. ”After all, we know it was someone in the house, and while it may be one of the servants-my own opinion is that it was probably Percival-”
”Percival?” Beatrice stiffened and turned to look at her daughter. ”Why?”
Araminta did not meet her mother's eyes but stared somewhere an inch or two to the left. ”Mama, this is hardly the time for comfortable pretenses. It is too late.''
”I don't know what you mean,” Beatrice answered miserably, hunching up her knees.
”Of course you do.” Araminta was impatient. ”Percival is an arrogant and presumptuous creature who has the normal appet.i.tes of a man and considerable delusions as to where he may exercise them. And you may choose not to see it, but Octavia was flattered by his admiration of her-and not above encouraging him now and then-”
Beatrice winced with revulsion. ”Really, Minta.”
”I know it is sordid,” Araminta said more gently, a.s.surance gathering in her voice. ”But it seems that someone in this house killed her-which is very hard, Mama, but we won't alter it by pretending. It will only get worse, until the police find whoever it is.”
Beatrice narrowed her shoulders and leaned forward, hugging her legs, staring straight ahead of her.
”Mama?” Araminta said very carefully. ”Mama-do you know something?”
Beatrice said nothing, but held herself even more tightly. It was an att.i.tude of absorption with inner pain which Hester had seen often before.
Araminta leaned closer. ”Mama-are you trying to protect me . . . because of Myles?”
Slowly Beatrice looked up, stiff, silent, the back of her bright head towards Hester, so similar in color to her daughter's.
Araminta was ashen, her features set, her eyes bright and hard.
”Mama, I know he found Tavie attractive, and that he was not above”-she drew in her breath and let it out slowly- ”above going to her room. I like to believe that because I am her sister, she refused him. But I don't know. It is possible he went again-and she rebuffed him. He doesn't take refusal well-as I know.''
Beatrice stared at her daughter, slowly stretched out her hand in a gesture of shared pain. But Araminta moved no closer, and she let her hand fall. She said nothing. Perhaps there were no words for what she either knew or dreaded.
”Is that what you are hiding from, Mama?'' Araminta asked relentlessly. ”Are you afraid someone will ask you if that is what happened?”
Beatrice lay back and straightened the covers around herself before replying. Araminta made no move to help her. ”It would be a waste of time to ask me. I don't know, and I certainly should not say anything of that sort.'' She looked up. ”Please, Minta, surely you know that?”
At last Araminta leaned forward and touched her mother, putting her thin, strong hand over hers. ”Mama, if it were Myles, then we cannot hide the truth. Please G.o.d it was not- and they will find it was someone else . . . soon-” She stopped, her face full of concern, hope struggling with fear, and a desperate concentration.
Beatrice tried to say something comforting, something to dismiss the horror on the edge of both their minds, but in the face of Araminta's courage and unyielding desire for truth, she failed, and remained wordless.
Araminta stood up, leaned over and kissed her very lightly, a mere brus.h.i.+ng of the lips on her brow, and left the room.
Beatrice sat still for several minutes, then slowly sank farther down in the bed.
”You can take the tray away, Hester; I don't think I want any tea after all.”
So she had not forgotten her nurse was there. Hester did not know whether to be grateful her status gave her such opportunity to observe or insulted that she was of such total unimportance that no one cared what she saw or heard. It was the first time in her life she had been so utterly disregarded, and it stung.
”Yes, Lady Moidore,” she said coolly, and picked up the tray, leaving Beatrice alone with her thoughts.
That evening she had a little time to herself, and she spent it in the library. She had dined in the servants' hall. Actually it was one of the best meals she had ever eaten, far richer and more varied than she had experienced in her own home, even when her father's circ.u.mstances were very favorable. He had never served more than six courses, the heaviest usually either mutton or beef. Tonight there had been a choice of three meats, and eight courses in all.
She found a book on the peninsular campaigns of the Duke of Wellington, and was deeply engrossed in it when the door opened and Cyprian Moidore came in. He seemed surprised to see her, but not unpleasantly so.
”I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Latterly.” He glanced at her book. ”I am sure you have well deserved a little time to yourself, but I wanted you to tell me candidly what you think of my mother's health.” He looked concerned, his face marked with anxiety and his eyes unwavering.
She closed the book and he saw the t.i.tle.
”Good heavens. Couldn't you find anything more interesting than that? We have plenty of novels, and some poetry-farther along to the right, I think.”
”Yes I know, thank you. I chose this intentionally.” She saw his doubt, then as he realized she was not joking, his puzzlement. ”I think Lady Moidore is deeply concerned over the death of your sister,” she hurried on. ”And of course having the police in the house is unpleasant. But I don't think her health is in any danger of breakdown. Grief always takes a time to run its course. It is natural to be angry, and bewildered, especially when the loss is so unexpected. With an illness at least there is some time to prepare-”
He looked down at the table between them.
”Has she said anything about who she thinks to be responsible?”
”No-but I have not discussed the subject with her-except, of course, I should listen to anything she wished to tell me, if I thought it would relieve her anxiety.”
He looked up, a sudden smile on his face. Given another place, away from his family and the oppressive atmosphere of suspicion and defense, and away from her position as a servant, she would have liked him. There was a humor in him, and an intelligence beneath the careful manners.
”You do not think we should call in a doctor?'' he pressed.
”I don't believe a doctor could help,” she said frankly. She debated whether to tell him the truth of what she believed, or if it would only cause him greater concern and betray that she remembered and weighed what she overheard.
”What is it?” He caught her indecision and knew there was something more. ”Please, Miss Latterly?”
She found herself responding from instinct rather than judgment, and a liking for him that was far from a rational decision.
”I think she is afraid she may know who it is who killed Mrs. Haslett, and that it will bring great distress to Mrs. Kel-lard,” she answered. ”I think she would rather retreat and keep silent than risk speaking to the police and having them somehow detect what she is thinking.” She waited, watching his face.
”d.a.m.n Myles!” he said furiously, standing up and turning away. His voice was filled with anger, but there was remarkably little surprise in it. ”Papa should have thrown him out, not Harry Haslett!” He swung back to face her. ”I'm sorry, Miss Latterly. I beg your pardon for my language. I-”
”Please, Mr. Moidore, do not feel the need to apologize,” she said quickly. ”The circ.u.mstances are enough to make anyone with any feeling lose his temper. The constant presence of the police and the interminable wondering, whether it is spoken or not, would be intensely trying to anyone but a fool who had no understanding.''
'' You are very kind.” It was a simple enough word, and yet she knew he meant it as no easy compliment.