daunting to the unsure or nervous.
Monk got home at quarter to three in the morning, exhausted. He had a clearer picture of both Zillah and her mother, but it was of no use whatever that he could see. Certainly they possessed no fault that Melville could complain of, and no characteristics that were not observable in the slightest of acquaintance.
He slept late and woke with a headache. He had a large breakfast and felt considerably better.
He saw the morning newspapers but decided he had no time to read them, and if there were anything of use Rathbone would know it anyway and would have sent an appropriate message.
He needed Hester's opinion. She bore little resemblance to Zillah Lambert, but she had been Zillah's age once. That might come to him as a surprise, but surely she would remember it. And as far back as that she would have been living at home with her parents, long before her father was ruined, before anyone even thought of the possibility of a war in the Crimea. Most people would not have had the slightest idea even of where it was. And Florence Nightingale herself would have been dutifully attending the balls and soirees and dinners in search of a suitable husband. So would Hester Latterly. She would know the game and its rules.
It was not far from Fitzroy Street to Tavistock Square and he walked briskly in the sun, passing ladies out taking the air, gentlemen stretching their legs and affecting to be discussing matters of great import but actually simply enjoying themselves, watching passersby, raising their hats to female acquaintances and generally showing off. Several people drove past in smart gigs or other light equipages of one sort or another, harnesses gleaming, horses high stepping.
When he reached the Sheldon house he was admitted by the footman, who remembered him and advised him that Miss Latterly was presently occupied but he was sure that Lieutenant Sheldon would be happy to see him in a short while, if he cared to wait.
Monk accepted because he very much wished to stay, and because he had developed a sincere regard for the young man and would hate to have him feel rejected, even though Monk's departure would have had nothing whatever to do with Lieutenant Sheldon's disfigurement.
'Thank you. That would be most agreeable.'
'If you will be good enough to warm yourself in the withdrawing room for a few minutes, sir, I shall inform Lieutenant Sheldon you are here.'
'Of course.'
Actually, he was not cold, and as it transpired, the footman returned before he had time to relax and conducted him upstairs.
Gabriel was up and dressed, although he looked extremely pale and it obviously had cost him considerable effort. He tired easily, and although he tried to mask it, the amputation still gave him pain. Monk had heard that people frequently felt the limb even after it was gone, exactly as though the shattered bone or flesh were still there. To judge from the pallor of Gabriel's face and the occasional gasp or gritted teeth, such was the case with him. Also, he had not yet fully accustomed himself to the alteration in balance caused by the lack of an arm.
However, he was obviously pleased to see Monk and rose to his feet, smiling and extending his right hand.
'Good morning, Mr. Monk. How are you? How nice of you to call.'
Monk took his hand and shook it firmly, feeling the answering grip.
'Excellent, thank you. Very good of you to allow me to visit Miss Latterly again. I am afraid this case is rapidly defeating me, and I think a woman's view on it is my last resort.'
'Oh, dear.' Gabriel sat down awkwardly and gestured to the other chair for Monk. 'Can you talk about it?'
'I have nothing to lose,' Monk confessed. It would be insensitive to speak of Gabriel's health. He must be exhausted with thinking of it, explaining, worrying, having to acknowledge with every breath that he was different.
'The suit for breach of promise…'
Gabriel gave his entire attention, and for nearly an hour Monk told him what he had done so far, tidying up his account of the previous evening's encounter with Mrs. Waterson to sound a little more favorable to her. Still, he thought from the amusement in Gabriel's eyes that perhaps he had not deceived him much.
'I am sorry,' Gabriel said when he concluded, 'but it seems as if Miss Lambert is probably exactly what she appears to be.
Why do you think she may not be… beyond hope for your client's sake?'
'I don't,' Monk confessed. 'It is only that I don't like to be beaten.'
Gabriel sighed with rueful humor. 'It isn't always such a bad thing. The fear of it is the worst part. Once it has happened, and you've survived, it can never frighten you quite the same again.'
Monk knew what he meant. He was not really speaking of cases, or even of Melville, but it was not necessary to acknowledge that.
'Oh, I've been beaten before,' Monk said quickly. 'And in more important cases than this. It is just that this is so stupid. It didn't have to have happened. The man has ruined himself… and it is tragic because he is a genius.'
'Is he?' Gabriel was interested.
'Oh, yes,' Monk replied without doubt. 'I was in one of his buildings. It was not quite finished, but even so it was all light and air.' He heard the enthusiasm in his own voice. 'Every line in it was pleasing. Not familiar, because it was different, and yet it gave the feeling that it was so right it should have been. Like hearing a perfect piece of music… not man created but merely discovered. It reveals something one recognizes instantly.' He tried to describe it. 'It is a kind of joy not quite like anything else. That is what infuriates me… the man has no right to destroy himself, and over something so stupid! An ounce of common sense and it could all have been avoided.'
Gabriel bit his lip. 'It is surely the essence of true tragedy, that it was avoidable. Someone will write a great play on it, perhaps.'
'It's not good enough,' Monk said in disgust. 'It's farcical and pointless.'
'You think Hester can still help?'
'Probably not.'
Gabriel smiled. If he thought perhaps Monk had come for some other reason, he was too tactful to say so.
They were speaking of other subjects when Perdita Sheldon came in. She was dressed in mid green with a wide skirt, which was very fashionable, the lace trimming on the bodice lightening it. Had she had a little more color in her cheeks and seemed less anxious, she would have looked lovely.
'Mrs. Harming has called. Will-will you see her? You don't have to…'
Gabriel obviously did not recognize the name. His face showed only the apprehension he might in seeing anyone.
'Hanning,' Perdita repeated. 'Major Hanning's wife.' She watched him tensely. Her back was stiff, her hands moving restlessly in front of her, smoothing her huge skirt as if she were about to meet someone of great importance, although it was only a nervous gesture because she did not look down to see what she had done. 'He was killed at Gwalior.'
'Oh…' Gabriel stared back at her, breathing in very slowly, his jaw tightening, his lips close together on the good side of his face, the scar curiously immobile. Oddly, it made his apprehension even more evident.
'I'll tell her you're not well enough,' Perdita said hastily.
'No…'
'She'll understand.' She did not move. She thought she knew what she should do to protect him, and yet even that decision was difficult. She had to resolve in order to make it and she watched him for approval. 'Perhaps… later… in a few weeks…'
'No. No, I'll see her today.' He too had to steel himself.
Monk wondered who Hanning had been and why his widow should call so soon. Was it duty, compassion, or some need of her own?
'I'll ask Miss Latterly.' Perdita swung around and hurried away. She had found an answer. If something ran out of control, Hester would be there to take care of it.
Something in Gabriel had relaxed at the mention of Hester's name. He too was relying on her.
Impatience welled up inside Monk. These people were adults, not children, to be needing someone else to deal with difficult encounters. Then he looked again at the lines of tiredness in Gabriel's face, the side that was undamaged. He needed all the strength he could find to battle physical pain and the terrible memories he could not share with his young wife who had no idea what he had seen or felt. India to her was a red area on the map, a
