He remained standing, staring at the window and the budding branches moving in the wind, and the chimneys beyond.
'You still think Melville discovered something about her?' she asked.
'No, I don't think so at all. I think he just decided he couldn't face the prospect of marriage, the intimacy of it, the loss of his privacy, the responsibility for another human being, the-the sense of being crowded, watched, depended upon… just the'-he spread his hands-'the sheer… oppression of it!'
'Some people quite enjoy being married,' she said.
He heard the warning tone in her voice. For an instant, staring at her, he hovered between anger and laughter. Laughter won.
She stared at him. 'What is so funny?' she demanded, her eyes flashing.
'Don't force me to explain!' he retorted. 'You don't need it, Hester. You understand me perfectly-just as I understand you. None of it needs saying. I want to find something for Rathbone to use to help Melville out of this idiotic mess. I don't say Melville deserves it. That isn't the point anymore. He won't marry Zillah Lambert. He probably won't marry anyone. He has behaved like a fool; he doesn't deserve to be ruined for it. Rathbone won't use anything I find in court, simply to make Lambert negotiate before it is all too late.'
She took a deep breath. She was sitting upright, still as if she had a ruler to her back. 'Is it possible one of her flirtations went too far, overbalanced into something a trifle irresponsible?'
'How would I know?'
'Well, her parents wouldn't discuss it,' she said with certainty. 'Her father would probably have no idea, but her mother would. Mothers can read their daughters quite fright-eningly well. I don't know why it is, but we all tend to imagine our parents were never young or in love.' She shrugged. 'Which is probably stupid, when you come to think of it. If there is anybody at all one can be absolutely certain had some experience of intimacy, it is one's mother. Otherwise one would not be here. But at fifteen or sixteen we never see it. I thought my mother the most old-fashioned and tepid of creatures alive.' She smiled to herself, her thoughts far away. 'I wanted to wear a red dress. There was this young man I thought was marvelous. He had ginger hair and a wonderful mustache…'
Monk held his tongue with great difficulty. He tried to imagine her at sixteen, and resented the young man with the mustache simply for having been there.
“I wanted to impress him,' she went on ruefully. 'The dress was very daring. He admired Lavinia Wentworth. She had black hair which curled. I thought the red dress would make the difference.' She laughed with a ripple of real humor, no pity or regret, her eyes bright. 'I would have looked awful. I was so pale, and far too bony to wear red. Mama made me wear white and green. The young man with the mustache ignored me utterly. I don't think he even saw me.'
'Lavinia Wentworth?' He had to ask.
'No-actually, Violet Grassmore.' She said it as if it still surprised her. 'She told me afterwards that he had sticky hands and was the greatest bore she had ever met. Lavinia Wentworth went off with a young man in some sort of uniform. They became very close, but he was unsuitable, I don't recall why. Lavinia's mother took her away to Brighton or Hove or somewhere.'
She swung around to face him.
'That's what you should look for! An association her mother stopped. That will be the one to pursue.'
'Thank you. I suppose it is better than nothing. But there is so little time.'
'Then you had better not waste any more of it,' she replied, but she did not stand up. 'Would you like a cup of tea, and perhaps something to eat, before you begin to search?'
'Yes,' he accepted immediately. Actually, he was very hungry, and not in the least looking forward to what would almost certainly be a fruitless enquiry.
In any event, he joined Hester and Martha Jackson for cold game pie and pickle and a pot of fresh tea, and then a slice each of plum duff. They talked of several things of very general interest. Monk was acutely aware of his promise to Martha to search for her two nieces. He had not even begun, because he had no thought that it would produce anything but further sadness. But sitting at the wooden table in the housekeeper's room with the two women, both so earnest, upright, square-shouldered, a trifle thin, both trusting him, he was trapped into doing it, whatever the result. Martha Jackson was far too honest to lie to. Rathbone's case would not stretch on much longer. There was no defense, and he could not spin it out beyond another day or two. Then Monk could begin to look for the girls.
He smiled at Martha across the table, his conscience eased.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hester's lips curve upward. She had read his expression and knew exactly what it meant. He grunted and took more plum duff. If it proved too difficult, or if he found the answer and it was too harrowing, then he would not tell her. What good would it do for her to know if they had died alone, ill, unwanted? Better it remain a mystery, and leave her with her imagination and her hope.
He would not tell Hester either. She was no good at concealing anything.
He had another cup of tea, then thanked them and took his leave. He had perhaps two more days in which to find something useful about Zillah Lambert. Then Rathbone would have to concede defeat. There was nothing more Monk could do to help him. After that he would begin seriously to look for the two deformed children of Samuel Jackson.
At first he had not known where to begin with Zillah. Considering the time he had left, the whole idea was ludicrous. Then he remembered Mr. Burnham's account of Barton Lambert and the aristocrat who had wanted to build the hall and dedicate it to Prince Albert. Apparently, milord's son was enamored of Zillah, and at least for a while, she of him. If such a slip in discretion had ever taken place, this could be it.
It was not so easy to find records of the proposed building, nor of the collapse of the idea; perhaps its ignominy was the reason. He was several times rebuffed, and when he finally learned what he needed to know, he was perfectly sure he had spoken to sufficiently many people that word of his enquiries would be bound to leak back to Lambert himself. He would certainly know the reason for it, and what Monk hoped to find.
What he did find was rumor, gossip, and a little fact. Zillah had certainly flaunted her beauty, encouraged by Delphine, who seemed to get as much pleasure from it vicariously as did Zillah herself. She enjoyed all the usual pastimes: dancing, riding in carriages, swapping tales with other girls, and inventing stories, listening to music, walking, or rather parading, in the park. But she was a trifle more self-conscious than others and never lost her awareness of exactly how to dress to flatter her looks. She was never careless or ill groomed; her glorious hair was always beautifully done or undone. She watched scrupulously what she ate. Perhaps that was the sternest test of vanity. She did not ever allow herself to indulge in sweets or chocolates, rich pastries or cream cakes. If her mother guided her, it was so discreet it remained unobserved.
Yes, she had certainly flirted outrageously with Lord Tain-bridge's eldest son. It had very possibly gone beyond what could be regarded as innocent, although if it had been sufficient to sacrifice her virtue, no one was prepared to say.
Monk could only wonder. It might well have been. Young blood is hot, and passion and curiosity are potent forces. Perhaps Zillah was not the virgin she claimed. He could not find himself regarding that prospect with horror, only a sadness that the thought, the idea, should be enough to bring this public ruin on both herself and Melville. After all, it was a purely private matter… if, indeed, it was a matter at all.
He left at last to go to Rathbone's rooms and admit that he had nothing certain, only innuendo which might and might not be a weapon if used sufficiently skillfully. He turned over in his mind the subjects of marriage and beauty, and the set of values by which it seemed society judged a woman and led her to judge herself. If a girl was pretty and at least reasonably agreeable, unless some appalling scandal attached to her, she was certain of finding a husband. The prettier she was, the wider her choice, until it came to the aristocracy, where only a ravishing beauty could hope to overcome the barrier of poverty or ignominious family background.
So much depended on appearance. Why? One might suppose man was a creature with only one sense, that of sight. Did one acquire a wife merely to look at? Certainly good looks were most pleasing, a clear complexion, lovely hair, fine eyes. Actually, a beautiful mouth was the feature that most woke Monk's hungers-and his dreams.
But why? Did one imagine that the curve of a cheek or an eyelid actually had meaning? Did a lovely face always indicate a lovely character?
That was idiotic! Any man who still possessed the wits he was born with knew better than that.
In his mind-yes. But in his heart?
