failure or despair. What intolerable loneliness! And yet a loneliness without privacy.
Was she aware of the intimate facts of life? Looking at her bright innocence, and knowing a little of the tragic lives of some of his clients, he thought very possibly not. And even if she was, could any man live up to her expectations?
His own skin broke out in a prickle of sweat as he placed himself in Melville's situation for a moment. Now he understood only too sharply why the young architect could not bear it. With Delphine Lambert engineering everything, her clever, prying eyes seeing every fleeting expression of her daughter's face, nothing he said or did would go unknown. He could not ever fail in decent privacy.
And it had been arrogant of Rathbone to imagine he could not have found himself in the same position. He was at least twelve or fifteen years older than Melville, if not more. And yet he had been neatly enough maneuvered by Mrs. Ballinger.
'I imagine you will be very happy, Miss Lambert,' he said awkwardly. 'I certainly hope you will. But…'
She looked at him without the slightest comprehension. 'But what, Sir Oliver? Can you doubt my good fortune? You would not, if you knew Killian, I promise you.'
What could he possibly say to be even barely honest? What should he say to her? Melville had asked Rathbone to defend him in court, should the need arise, not to conduct any negotiations to break the engagement. He might change his mind. It might simply be the sort of nervousness many people experience before marriage.
'But nothing, Miss Lambert,' he said, shaking his head. 'Perhaps I merely envy you. I wish you every joy. Good evening.' And before he could find himself any further embroiled, he took his leave and made his way towards Lady Hardesty.
The following day Rathbone sent Melville a message saying that on further consideration he had changed his mind, and if Melville should, after all, find himself sued for breach of promise, Rathbone would be willing to represent him. Although he feared it would be a most difficult case, and his change was not based upon any alteration in his belief that the chances of success were very small. Still, he would do his best.
Chapter 2
While the thought of her had crossed Rathbone's mind during Lady Hardesty's ball, Hester Latterly herself was sitting quietly in the room she had been given for her accommodation during her stay in the elegant house at the northwest corner of Tavistock Square. It was the house of Lieutenant Gabriel Sheldon and his new young wife, Perdita. Lieutenant Sheldon had served honorably in the army in India. He had survived the hideous Mutiny, the siege of Cawnpore, and been one of the few survivors of that atrocity. He had remained in India afterwards, only to fall victim to appalling injuries just over two years later, in the winter of 1859-60. He had lost an arm, been severely disfigured, and at first was not expected to live.
By January his partial recovery was deemed sufficient for him to be shipped home to England and invalided out of the service. However, he was far from well enough to manage without skilled nursing, and the damage done to the skin and flesh of his face was such that it required a particular sensitivity, as well as medical knowledge of and experience with such wounds, to care for him. The stump of his arm was also far from satisfactory. The wound still was raw in places and not entirely free from infection. Even the danger of gangrene could not yet be disregarded.
Perdita Sheldon had been young and pretty and full of high spirits when her handsome husband of a few months had been obliged to return to his regiment and departed for India in the late autumn of 1856. She had wanted to go with him, but she had been newly with child and not at all well. She had miscarried in the spring. And then in 1857 the unimaginable had happened. The native sepoys had mutinied, and the revolt had spread like wildfire. Men, women and children were massacred. The tales that reached England were almost too monstrous to be believed. Daily, almost hourly, people rushed to read the latest news of the besieged cities of Cawnpore and Lucknow, the battles that raged across the country. The names of Nena Sahib, Koer Singh, Tanteea Topee, and the Ranee of Jhansi became familiar to everyone's lips. For two years the continent of India seethed with inconceivable violence. The question of whether Perdita Sheldon, or any other woman, should leave England to go there did not arise.
When it was over and calm had been restored once more, nothing could ever be the same again. The trust was shattered forever. Gabriel Sheldon was still on active service with his regiment, mostly in the rugged country of the northwest, near the borders of the Khyber Pass, leading through the Himalayas into Afghanistan. Perdita remained in England, dreaming of the day he would come back and she could once again have the life he had promised her, and which she had equally promised him.
The man who did return was unrecognizable to her either in body or in spirit. He was wounded too deeply, broken too far to pretend, and she had not the faintest idea even how to understand, let alone to help. She felt as abandoned as he did, confused and asked to bear a burden heavier than anything her life had designed her to face.
Hence Gabriel's brother, Athol Sheldon, had engaged the best nurse he could find, through the agency of his excellent man of affairs, and Hester Latterly was installed in Tavistock Square to nurse Gabriel for as long as should prove necessary.
Now it was late in the evening for the household of an invalid, and they had already dined: Perdita downstairs with her brother-in-law, Athol; Gabriel in his room with Hester's assistance. Hester herself had eaten only briefly, in the servants' hall, and then left as soon as his tray was ready to bring upstairs.
This was a time of day when she had no specific duties, simply to be available should she be required. Gabriel would ring the bell beside his bed when he was ready to retire or if he felt in need of assistance. There was no mending to do and her other duties had long since been attended to. She had borrowed a book from the library but was finding it tedious.
It was just after ten when at last the bell rang, and she was delighted to close the book, without bothering to mark her place, and walk the short distance along the landing to Gabriel's room. She knocked on the door.
'Come in!' he answered immediately.
It was the largest room on this floor, turned into a place where he could not only sleep at night but read or sleep during the day, and in time write letters, or receive visitors, and feel as much at ease as was possible in his circumstances.
She closed the door behind her. His bed was at the far end, a magnificent piece with elaborately carved mahogany headboard and footboard, and presently piled with pillows so he could sit up with some comfort. A special rest had been designed and made both to support his book or paper and to hold it open so he could read, or keep it from moving if he was writing. Fortunately he was right-handed, and it was his left arm he had lost.
But on first seeing him it was not the empty sleeve one noticed but the terrible disfigurement to his face, the left side of which was so deeply scarred from cheekbone to jaw that the flesh had not knitted and the features were distorted by the pull of the muscles and the healing skin. There was a raw red line which would never change, and white crisscross fine ridges where it had been stitched together hastily on the battlefield. After the initial shock it was possible to imagine quite easily how handsome he had been before the injury. It was a face almost beautiful in its simplicity of line, its balance between nose and cheek and jaw. The clear brow and hazel-gray eyes were unblemished even now. The dark brown, wavy hair was thick. His mouth was pinched with pain.
'I've had enough of this book,' he said ruefully. 'It's not very interesting.'
'Neither was mine.' She smiled at him. 'I didn't even bother to mark my place. Would you like me to find you something else for tomorrow?'
'Yes, please, although I don't know what.'
She took the book away and carefully removed the stand and folded it up. It was well designed and quite light to manage. His bed was rumpled where he had moved about restlessly. He was not only in physical distress from his amputation, the flesh not healing properly, the phantom pain of a limb which was not there; even more acute was the emotional distress of feeling both ugly and incomplete, powerless. He was without a role in a life which stretched interminably ahead of him containing nothing more than being dependent upon the help of others, an object of revulsion to the uninitiated in the horror of war, and one of pity to those familiar. Perhaps the greatest burden of all was the fact that he was unable to share his feelings with his wife. His existence shackled her to a
