Hester smiled. “And your third reason?”
“You need a position!” Callandra said simply.
It was true. Since her father’s ruin and death Hester had no means of her own, and she refused to be dependent upon her brother; therefore, she must earn her own living as her skills allowed. Not that it was an issue she resented. It gave her both independence and interest, both of which she prized highly. The financial urgency of it was less pleasant, but common to most people.
“I should be happy to do what I can,” she said sincerely. “If you feel that Baron and Baroness Ollenheim would find me acceptable.”
“I have already seen to that,” Callandra replied decisively. “The sooner you can take up the position, the better.”
Hester rose to her feet.
“Oh,” Callandra added with bright eyes. “By the way, Oliver Rathbone has taken up the case of the Countess Rostova.”
“What?” Hester stopped abruptly and stood motionless. “I beg your pardon. What did you say?”
Callandra repeated herself.
Hester swung around to stare at her.
“Then I can only believe there must be more to the case than there seems. And pray so!”
“And William is investigating it for him,” Callandra added. “Which, of course, is how I know about it.” Callandra was also William Monk’s patroness, tiding him through his leaner times.
Hester merely said “I see.” But she did not see at all. “Then, if you are sure the Baron and Baroness Ollenheim are expecting me, I had better pack a case and make myself available.”
“I shall be happy to take you,” Callandra said generously. “The house is on Hill Street, near Berkeley Square.”
“Thank you.”
Callandra had prepared the way well, and Baron and Baroness Ollenheim welcomed Hester’s professional services. The burden of caring for their son had fallen heavily upon them, as their emotions were so deeply involved. Hester found the Baroness Dagmar a charming woman who in times less stressful, when not exhausted and strained with grief and anxiety, would have been beautiful. Now she was pale with fatigue, sleepless nights had left deep shadows under her eyes, and she had no time or interest to dress more than simply.
Baron Bernd was also disturbed by feelings which harrowed him profoundly, but he made a greater effort to conceal them, as was expected of a man and an aristocrat. Nevertheless, he was more than courteous to Hester and permitted her to see his relief at her presence.
Robert Ollenheim himself was a young man of perhaps twenty, with a fair face and thick, light brown hair which fell forward over the left side of his brow. In normal health he would have been most handsome; lying wasted by the recent fever, weak and still aching, he nevertheless managed a certain grace in greeting Hester when she made herself known to him and began her duties. He must have been aware of the seriousness of his situation, and the possibility of permanent disability had to have crossed his mind, but no mention was made of it.
She found caring for him easy in its physical work. It was simply a matter of nursing, keeping him as comfortable as possible, trying to reduce his distress and discomfort, seeing that he drank broth and beef tea frequently and gradually began to take greater nourishment. The doctor called very regularly, and she was left no important decisions to make. The difficulty lay in the concern for him and the fear that lay at the back of all their minds as to how complete his recovery would be. No one spoke of paralysis, but as each day went by, and still he felt no sensation and gained no power of movement below the waist, the fear grew.
She did not forget the extraordinary case with which Monk and Rathbone were involved, and once or twice she overheard Bernd and Dagmar discussing it when they were not aware she was close by.
“Will Prince Friedrich’s death make a great deal of political difference?” she asked one day about a week after her arrival. She and Dagmar were putting away clean linen the laundry maid had brought up. Ever since she first met Monk and became involved in the murder of Joscelin Gray, she had asked questions almost as of second nature.
“I think so,” Dagmar replied, examining the embroidered corner of a pillow slip. “There is considerable talk of uniting all the German states under one crown, which would naturally mean our being swallowed up. We are far too small to become the center of such a new nation. The King of Prussia has ambitions in that direction, and, of course, Prussia is very military. And then there are Bavaria, Moravia, Hannover, Bohemia, Holstein, Westphalia, Wurtemberg, Saxony, Silesia, Pomerania, Nassau, Mecklenburg and Schwerin, not to mention the Thuringian states, the Electorate of Hesse, and above all Brandenburg. Berlin is an immensely tedious city, but it is very well placed to become the capital for all of us.”
“You mean all the German states as one country?” Hester had never really thought of such a thing.
“There is much talk of it. I don’t know if it will ever happen.” Dagmar picked out another of the slips. “This needs mending. If one caught a finger in this it would ruin it. Some of us are for unification, others against. The King is very frail now, and possibly will not live more than another year or two. Then Waldo will be king, and he is in favor of unification.”
“Are you?” Perhaps it was an intrusive question, but she asked it before thinking. It seemed to spring naturally from the statement.
Dagmar hesitated several moments before replying, her hands motionless on the linen, her brow furrowed.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I’ve thought about it. One has to be reasonable about these things. To begin with, I was utterly against it. I wanted to keep my identity.” She bit her lip, as if laughing at her own foolishness, looking directly at Hester. “I know that may seem silly to you, since you are British and at the heart of the largest empire in the world, but it mattered to me.”
“It’s not foolish at all,” Hester said sincerely. “Knowing who you are is part of happiness.” Unexpectedly, a sharp thought of Monk came to her mind, because he had been injured three years before in an accident and had lost every shred of his memory. Even his own face in the glass woke no familiarity in him at all. She had watched him struggle with remnants of his past as they flashed to his mind, or some event forced upon him evidence of who
