argument. “I will see you to the stairs. Come!”
Obediently, leaning a little on his arm, she left, muttering “Excuse me” over her shoulder.
Edith began eating again and gradually the table returned to normal. A few moments later Peverell came back and made no comment as to Damaris, and the episode was not referred to again.
They were beginning dessert of baked apple and caramel sauce when Edith caused the second violent disruption.
“I am going to find a position as a librarian, or possibly a companion to someone,” she announced, looking ahead at the centerpiece of the table. It was an elaborate arrangement of irises, full-blown lupins from some sheltered area of the garden, and half-open white lilac.
Felicia choked on her apple.
“You are what?” Randolph demanded.
Hargrave stared at her, his face puckered, his eyes curious.
“I am going to seek a position as a librarian,” Edith said again. “Or as a companion, or even a teacher of French, if all else fails.”
“You always had an unreliable sense of humor,” Felicia said coldly. “As if it were not enough that Damaris has to make a fool of herself, you have to follow her with idiotic remarks. What is the matter with you? Your brother's death seems to have deprived all of you of your wits. Not to mention your sense of what is fitting. I forbid you to mention it again. We are in a house of mourning, and you will remember that, and behave accordingly.” Her face was bleak and a wave of misery passed over it, leaving her suddenly older and more vulnerable, the brave aspect that she showed to the world patently a veneer. “Your brother was a fine man, a brilliant man, robbed of the prime of his life by a wife who lost her reason. Our nation is the poorer for his loss. You will not make our suffering worse by behaving in an irresponsible manner and making wild and extremely trying remarks. Do I make myself clear?”
Edith opened her mouth to protest, but the argument died out of her. She saw the grief in her mother's face, and pity and guilt overrode her own wishes, and all the reasons she had been so certain of an hour ago talking to Hester in her own sitting room.
“Yes, Mama, I…” She let out her breath in a sigh.
“Good!” Felicia resumed eating, forcing herself to swallow with difficulty.
“I apologize, Hargrave,” Randolph said with a frown. “Family's hit hard, you know. Grief does funny things to women-at least most women. Felicia's different-remarkable strength-a most outstanding woman, if I do say so.”
“Most remarkable.” Hargrave nodded towards Felicia and smiled. “You have my greatest respect, ma'am; you always have had.”
Felicia colored very slightly and accepted the compliment with an inclination of her head.
The meal continued in silence, except for the most trivial and contrived of small talk.
When it was over and they had left the table and Hester had thanked Felicia and bidden them farewell, she and Edith went upstairs to the sitting room. Edith was thoroughly dejected; her shoulders were hunched and her feet heavy on the stairs.
Hester was extremely sorry for her. She understood why she had offered no argument. The sight of her mother's face so stripped, for an instant, of all its armor, had left her feeling brutal, and she was unable to strike another blow, least of all in front of others who had already seen her wounded once.
But it was no comfort to Edith, and offered only a long, bleak prospect ahead of endless meals the same, filled with little more than duty. The world of endeavor and reward was closed off as if it were a view through a window, and someone had drawn the curtains.
They were on the first landing when they were passed, almost at a run, by an elderly woman with crackling black skirts. She was very lean, almost gaunt, at least as tall as Hester. Her hair had once been auburn but now was almost white; only the tone of her skin gave away her original coloring. Her dark gray eyes were intent and her brows drawn down. Her thin face, highly individual, was creased with temper.
“Hallo, Buckie,” Edith said cheerfully. “Where are you off to in such a rush? Been fighting with Cook again?”
“I don't fight with Cook, Miss Edith,” she said briskly. “I simply tell her what she ought to know already. She takes it ill, even though I am right, and loses her temper. I cannot abide a woman who cannot control her temper- especially when she's in service.”
Edith hid a smile. “Buckie, you don't know my Mend, Hester Latterly. Miss Latterly was in the Crimea, with Florence Nightingale. Hester, this is Miss Buchan, my governess, long ago.”
“How do you do, Miss Buchan,” Hester said with interest.
“How do you do, Miss Latterly,” Miss Buchan replied, screwing up her face and staring at Hester. “The Crimea, eh? Well, well. I'll have to have Edith tell me all about it. Right now I 'm off up to see Master Cassian in the schoolroom.”
“You're not going to teach him, are you, Buckie?” Edith said in surprise. “I thought you gave up that sort of thing years ago!”
“Of course I did,” Miss Buchan said tartly. “Think I'm going to take up lessons again at my age? I'm sixty-six, as you well know. I taught you to count, myself, and your brother and sister before you!”
“Didn't Dr. Hargrave go up with him, to show him the globe?”
Miss Buchan's face hardened, a curious look of anger in her eyes and around her mouth.
“Indeed he did. I'll go and find out if he's there, and make sure nothing gets broken. Now if you will excuse me, Miss Edith, I'll be on my way. Miss Latterly.” And without waiting to hear anything further she almost pushed past them, and walked very briskly, her heels clicking on the floor, and took the second flight of stairs to the schoolroom at something inelegantly close to a dash.
Chapter 7
Monk was finding the Carlyon case, as Rathbone had said, a thankless one. But he had given his word that he would do all he could for as long as it was asked of him. There were over two weeks yet until the trial, and so far he had found nothing that could be of use in helping even to mitigate the case against Alexandra, let alone answer it. It was a matter of pride not to give up now, and his own curiosity was piqued. He did not like to be beaten. He had not been beaten on a serious case since the accident, and he thought seldom before it.
And there was also the perfectly practical fact that Rathbone was still paying him, and he had no other case pending.
In the afternoon Monk went again to see Charles Hargrave. He had been the Carlyon family doctor for many years. If anyone knew the truth, or the elements from which the truth could be deduced, it would be he.
He was received courteously, and as soon as he explained why he believed Hargrave could help, he was led through into the same pleasing room as before. Hargrave instructed the servants he was not to be interrupted except for an emergency, and then offered Monk a seat and made himself available to answer any questions he was free to.
“I cannot tell you any personal facts about Mrs. Carlyon, you understand,” he said with an apologetic smile. “She is still my patient, and I have to assume that she is innocent until the law says otherwise, in spite of that being patently ridiculous. But I admit, if I thought there was anything at all that would be of help in your case, I should break that confidence and give you all the information I had.” He lifted his shoulders a trifle. “But there is nothing. She has had only the very ordinary ailments that most women have. Her confinements were without incident. Her children were born normally, and thrived. She herself recovered her health as soon and as happily as most women do. There is really nothing to tell.”
“Not like Sabella?”
His face shadowed.”No-no, I am afraid Sabella was one of those few who suffer profoundly. No one knows why
