he may have taken your carriage for his own purposes.' Other far darker thoughts came to his mind, but it was too soon to speak of them yet. There were many other simpler answers of everyday private tragedy which were more likely, the most probable being that Miriam Gardiner had simply changed her mind about the marriage but had lacked the courage to face young Lucius Stourbridge and tell him so.
Lucius leaned forward. 'But do you believe Miriam is safe, Mr. Monk? If she is, why has she not contacted me?' His throat was so tight his words were half strangled. 'I have done everything I can think of. I have spoken with every one of my friends she might have gone to. I have searched my mind for anything I could have said or done to cause her to mistrust me, and I can think of nothing. We were so close, Mr. Monk. I am as certain of that as of anything on earth. We were not only in love, but we were the best of friends. I could speak to her of anything, and she seemed to understand, indeed, to share my views and tastes in a way which made her at once the most exciting and yet the most comfortable person to be with.' He colored faintly. 'Perhaps that sounds absurd to you —'
'No,' Monk said quickly, too quickly. He had spoken it from the heart, and he was not accustomed to revealing so much of himself, certainly not to a prospective client in a case he did not really want and which he believed impossible to see to a happy solution.
Lucius Stourbridge was gazing at him intensely, his wide, brown eyes deeply troubled.
'No,' Monk repeated with less emphasis. 'I am sure it is possible to feel such an affinity with someone.' He hurried on, away from emotion to facts. 'Perhaps you would tell me something of your family and the circumstances of your meeting Mrs. Gardiner.'
'Yes, yes, of course.' Lucius seemed relieved to have something definite to do. 'My father is Major Harry Stourbridge. He is now retired from the army, but he served with great distinction in Africa, and particularly in Egypt. He spent much time there early in his career. In fact, he was there when I was born.'
A faint smile touched his face. 'I should like to go there someday myself. I have listened to him speak of it with the greatest pleasure.' He dismissed the thought ruefully. 'Our family comes from Yorkshire—the West Riding. That is where our land is. All entailed on the male line, of course, but most substantial. We go there occasionally, but my mother prefers to spend the season in town. I daresay most people do, especially women.'
'Do you have brothers or sisters?' Monk interrupted.
'No. Regrettably, I am an only child.'
Monk did not remark that Lucius would thus inherit this very considerable property, but it was evident in the young man’s face that he, too, had taken the point, and his lips tightened, a faint flush marked his cheeks.
'My family has no objections to my marriage,' the younger man said with a slight edge of defensiveness. He sat perfectly still in the chair, looking straight at Monk, his eyes unblinking. 'My father and I are close. He is happy for my happiness, and indeed, he is fond of Miriam, Mrs. Gardiner, himself. He sees no fault in her character or her reputation. The fact that she has no dowry or property to bring to the marriage is immaterial. I shall have more than sufficient for our needs, and physical possessions are of no importance to me compared with the prospect of spending my life in the companionship of a woman of courage, virtue and good humor, and whom I love more than anyone else on earth.' His voice cracked a little on the last few words, and the effort it cost him to keep his composure was apparent.
Monk felt the other man’s distress with a reality far greater than he could have imagined even a few weeks before. In spite of his intention to concentrate entirely upon Lucius Stourbridge’s situation, his mind re-created pictures of himself and Hester walking side by side along a quiet beach in the late-evening sunlight, the color blazing across the northern sky, shadowing the hills purple in the distance and filling the air with radiance. They had not needed to speak to each other, knowing wordlessly that they saw the same beauty and felt the same desire to keep it—and the knowledge that it was impossible. And yet the fact that they had shared it gave the moment a kind of immortality.
And there had been other times: laughter shared at the antics of a dog with a paper bag in the wind; the pleasure of a really good sandwich of fresh bread and cheese after a long walk, the climb to the top of a hill; the gasp of wonder at the view, and the relief at not having to go any farther.
If Lucius had had any such happiness in his life, and lost it for no reason he could understand, no wonder he was at his wits’ end to find the answer. However ugly or shattering to his dreams the truth might be, he could not begin to heal until he knew it.
'Then I shall do all I can to discover what happened,' Monk said aloud. 'And if she is willing to return to you —'
'Thank you!' Lucius said eagerly, his face brightening. 'Thank you, Mr. Monk! Cost will be no consideration, I promise you. I have more than sufficient means of my own, but my father is also determined to find out what has happened to Miriam. What may I do to assist you?'
'Tell me the story of your acquaintance, and all you know about Mrs. Gardiner,' Monk replied with a sinking feeling inside him.
'Of course.' Lucius’s face softened, the strain eased out of it as if merely remembering their meeting were enough to fill him with happiness. 'I had called upon a friend of mine who lived in Hampstead, and I was walking back across the Heath. It was about this time of year, and quite beautiful. There were several people around, children playing, an elderly couple quite close to me, just smiling together in the sun.' He smiled to himself as he described it. 'There was a small boy rolling a hoop, and a puppy chasing a stick. I stopped and watched the dog. It was so full of life, bounding along with its tail wagging, and returning the stick, immensely pleased with itself. I found I was laughing at it. It was a little while before I realized it was a young woman who was throwing the stick. Once it landed almost at my feet, and I picked it up and threw it back again, just for the pleasure of watching. Of course, she and I fell into conversation. It all happened so naturally. I asked her about the dog, and she told me it actually belonged to a friend of hers.'
His eyes were far away, his memory sharp. 'One subject of conversation led to another, and before I realized it I had been talking with her for nearly an hour. I made it my business to return the following day, and she was there again.' He gave a very slight shrug of self-mockery. 'I don’t suppose for a moment she thought it was chance, nor did I feel any inclination to pretend. There was never that between us. She seemed to perceive what I meant as naturally as if she had had the same thoughts and feelings herself. We laughed at the same things, or found them beautiful, or sad. I have never felt so totally at ease with anyone as I did with her.'
Monk tried to imagine it. It was certainly not as he had felt with Hester. Invigorated, tantalized, furious, amused, admiring, even awed, but not very often comfortable.
No—that was not entirely true. Now that he had at last acknowledged to himself that he loved her, and had stopped trying to force her into the mold of the kind of woman he used to imagine he wanted, but accepted her more or less as herself, he was comfortable more often than he was not.
