'Well not egg custard or rice pudding!' Beatrice said with feeling. “It reminds me of the nursery. It is like being a child again.'
Hester had only just returned with the tray of cold mutton, fresh pickle, and bread and butter and a large slice of fruit flan with cream, to Beatrice's obvious approval, when there was a sharp rap on the door and Basil came in. He walked past Hester as if he had not seen her and sat down in one of the dressing chairs close to the bed, crossing his legs and making himself comfortable.
Hester was uncertain whether to leave or not. She had few tasks to do here, and yet she was extremely curious to know more of the relationship between Beatrice and her husband, a relationship which left the woman with such a feeling of isolation that she retreated to her room instead of running towards him, either for him to protect her or the better to battle it together. After all the affliction must lie in the area of family, emotions; there must be in it grief, love, hate, probably jealousy-all surely a woman's province, the area in which her skills mattered and her strength could be used?
Now Beatrice sat propped up against her pillows and ate the cold mutton with pleasure.
Basil looked at it disapprovingly. 'Is that not rather heavy for an invalid? Let me send for something better, my dear-' He reached for the bell without waiting for her answer.
“I like it,' she said with a flash of anger. “There is nothing wrong with my digestion. Hester got it for me and it is not Mrs. Boden's fault. She'd have sent me more rice pudding if I had let her.'
'Hester?' He frowned. 'Oh-the nurse.' He spoke as if she were not there, or could not hear him. 'Well-I suppose if you wish it.'
'I do.' She ate a few more mouthfiils before speaking again. 'I assume Mr. Monk is still coming?'
'Of course. But he seems to be accomplishing singularly little-indeed I have seen no signs that he has achieved anything at all. He keeps questioning the servants. We shall be fortunate if they do not all give notice when this is over.'' He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and put his fingertips together. 'I have no idea how he hopes to come to any resolution. I think, my dear, you may have to prepare yourself for facing the fact that we may never know who it was.' He was watching her and saw the sudden tightening, the hunch of her shoulders and the knuckles white where she held the knife. 'Of course I have certain ideas,' he went on. 'I cannot imagine it was any of the female staff-'
'Why not?' she asked. 'Why not, Basil? It is perfectly possible for a woman to stab someone with a knife. It doesn't take a great deal of strength. And Octavia would be far less likely to fear a woman in her room in the middle of the night than a man.'
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. 'Really, Beatrice, don't you think it is time to accept a few truths about Octavia? She had been widowed nearly two years. She was a young woman in the prime of her life-'
'So she had an affair with the footman!' Beatrice said furiously, her eyes wide, her voice cutting in its scorn. 'Is that what you think of your daughter, Basil? If anyone in this house is reduced to finding their pleasure with a servant, it is far more likely to be Fenella! Except that I doubt she would ever have inspired a passion which drove anyone to murder-unless it was to murder her. Nor would she have changed her mind and resisted at the last moment. I doubt Fenella ever declined anyone-' Her face twisted in distaste and incomprehension.
His expression mirrored an equal disgust, mixed with an anger that was no sudden flash but came from deep within him.
'Vulgarity is most unbecoming, Beatrice, and even this tragedy is no excuse for it. I shall admonish Fenella if I think the occasion warrants it. I take it you are not suggesting Fenella killed Octavia in a fit of jealousy over the attentions of the footman?'
It was obviously intended as sarcasm, but she took it literally.
'I was not suggesting it,' she agreed. 'But now that you raise the thought, it does not seem impossible. Percival is a good-looking young man, and I have observed Fenella regarding him with appreciation.' Her face puckered and she shuddered very slightly. 'I know it is revolting-' She stared beyond him to the dressing table with its cut glass containers and silver-topped bottles neatly arranged. 'But there is a streak of viciousness in Fenella-'
He stood up and turned his back to her, looking out of the window, still apparently oblivious of Hester standing in the dressing room doorway with a peignoir over her arm and a clothes brush in her hand.
'You are a great deal more fastidious than most women, Beatrice,' he said flatly. 'I think sometimes you do not know the difference between restraint and abstemiousness.'
'I know the difference between a footman and a gentleman,' she said quietly, and then stopped and frowned, a curious little twitch of humor on her lips. 'That's a lie-I have no idea at all. I have no familiarity with footmen whatsoever-'
He swung around, unaware of the slightest humor in her remark or in the situation, only anger and acute insult.
“This tragedy has unhinged your mind,'' he said coldly, his black eyes flat, seeming expressionless in the lamplight. 'You have lost your sense of what is fitting and what is not. I think it will be better if you remain here until you can compose yourself. I suppose it is to be expected, you are not strong. Let Miss-what is her name-care for you. Araminta will see to the household until you are better. We shall not be entertaining, naturally. There is no need for you to concern yourself; we shall manage very well.' And without saying anything further he walked out and closed the door very quietly behind him, letting the latch fell home with a thud.
Beatrice pushed her unfinished tray away from her and turned over, burying her face hi the pillows, and Hester could see from the quivering of her shoulders that she was weeping, although she made no sound.
Hester took the tray and put it on the side table, then wrung out a cloth in warm water from the ewer and returned to the bed. Very gently she put her arms around the other woman and held her until she was quiet, then, with great care, smoothed the hair off her brow and wiped her eyes and cheeks with the cloth.
It was the beginning of the afternoon when she was returning from the laundry with her clean aprons that Hester half accidentally overheard an exchange between the footman Per-cival and the laundry maid Rose. Rose was folding a pile of embroidered linen pillowcases and had just given Lizzie, who was her elder sister, the parlormaid's lace-edged aprons. She was standing very upright, her back rigid, her shoulders squared and her chin high. She was tiny, with a waist even Hester could almost have put her hands around, and small, square hands with amazing strength in them. Her cornflower-blue eyes were enormous in her pretty face, not spoiled by a rather long nose and overgenerous mouth.
'What do you want in here?' she asked, but her words were belied by her voice. It was phrased as a demand, but it sounded like an invitation.
'Mr. Kellard's shirts,' Percival said noncommittally.
'I didn't know that was your job. You'll have Mr. Rhodes after you if you step out of your duties!''
'Rhodes asked me to do it for him,' he replied.
'Though you'd like to be a valet, wouldn't you? Get to travel with Mr. Kellard when he goes to stay at these big houses for parties and the like-' Her voice caressed the idea, and listening, Hester could envision her eyes shining, her lips parted in anticipation, all the excitement and delights imagined, new people, an elegant servants' hall, food, music, late nights, wine, laughter and gossip.
'It'd be all right,' Percival agreed, for the first time a lift of warmth in his voice also. 'Although I get to some interesting places now.' That was the tone of the braggart, and Hester knew it.
It seemed Rose did too. 'But not inside,' she pointed out. 'You have to wait in the mews with the carriages.'
'Oh no I don't.' There was a note of sharpness in his voice, and Hester could imagine the glitter in his eyes and the little curl of his lips. She had seen it several times as he walked through the kitchen past the maids. 'I quite often go inside.'
'The kitchen,' Rose said dismissively. 'If you were a valet you'd get upstairs as well. Valet is better than a footman.'
They were all acutely conscious of hierarchy.
'Butler's better still,' he pointed out.
“But less fun. Look at poor old Mr. Phillips.'' She giggled. 'He hasn't had any fun in twenty years-and he looks as
