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Rathbone assisted him, partly because he did not enjoy seeing the man struggle-although he felt little liking for him-but mainly because he was impatient.
“Thank you for your offer, Mr. Latterly, but your financial help will not be necessary. My regard for Hester is sufficient recompense. The greatest boon you can offer her will be to go to her aid personally, comfort her, assure her of your loyalty, and above all, keep your spirits high so that she may draw strength from you. Never, in any circumstances, allow her to think you fear the worst.”
“Of course,” Charles said slowly. “Yes of course. Tell me where she is, and I shall go to her-that is, if they will allow me in?”
“Explain to them that you are her only family, and they will certainly allow you in,” Rathbone answered. “She is in Newgate.”
Charles winced. “I see. What am I permitted to take her? What might she need?”
“Perhaps your wife could find her some change of clothes and of personal linen? She will have no facilities for laundering.”
“My wife? No-no, I should not permit Imogen to go. And to such a place as Newgate. I shall keep as much of this from her as I am able to. It would distress her terribly. I shall find Hester some clothes myself.”
Rathbone was about to protest, but looking at Charles’s face, suddenly closed over, his mouth pursed, his eyes stubborn, he knew there were subtleties in the relationship he could not guess at, depths of Charles’s own character, and argument would be useless. An unwilling visit would do Hester no good, and Hester was all he really cared about.
“Very well, if that decision is final,” he said coolly. “You must do what you believe to be right.” He straightened his shoulders. “Again, Mr. Latterly, I am profoundly sorry to bring you such grave news, but please be assured I shall do everything that is possible to insure that Hester is cleared completely and that in the meantime she is treated as well as may be.”
“Yes-yes of course. Thank you, Mr. Rathbone. It is most courteous of you to have come in person. And…”
Rathbone waited, half turned towards the door, his eyebrows raised.
Charles looked uncomfortable.
“Thank you for undertaking Hester’s defense without fee. I-we-we are deeply grateful to you.”
Rathbone bowed very slightly. “My privilege, sir. Good day to you.”
“Good day, sir.”
By a quarter to nine Rathbone was at the railway station. It was quite pointless. There was nothing else he could tell Monk, yet he could not help himself from being there to speak to him a last time, even to make absolutely sure he was on the train.
The platform was noisy, crowded with people and baggage carts, porters shouting, carriage doors swinging wide one moment, slamming shut the next. Travelers stood shivering, some saying their last good-byes, others glancing one way and then another looking for a familiar missing face. Rathbone made his way through them, coat collar turned up against the wind. Where was Monk? Damn the man! Why did he have to be dependent on someone he liked so little?
He ought to be able to recognize him on the platform. His stance was individual enough, and he was that fraction taller than average. Where on earth was he? For the fifth time he glanced at the station clock. Ten to nine. Perhaps he was not here yet? It was still early. The best thing would be to go through the train itself.
He traced his steps to the end closest to the buffers, pushing his way through the thickening crowd, and boarded the train, looking into every compartment to see if Monk were there. Every so often he glanced out of the window as well, and it was on one of those occasions, about halfway along the length of the train, and already seven minutes past nine, that he saw Monk’s face for an instant as he passed by, outside, hurrying along the platform.
Rathbone swore in a mixture of anger and relief, and pushing past a large gentleman in black, flung open the carriage door and almost fell out.
“Monk!” he shouted loudly. “Monk!”
Monk turned. He was dressed as elegantly as if he were on the way to dine out. His coat was beautifully cut, slender and hanging without a wrinkle, his boots were polished to a satin gleam. He looked surprised to see Rathbone, but not discomforted.
“Have you found something?” he said in surprise. “Already? You can’t have heard back from Edinburgh, so what is it?”
“I haven’t found anything,” Rathbone said, wishing passionately that he had. “I merely came to see if there was anything else upon which we should confer while there is still the opportunity.”
A shadow of disappointment crossed Monk’s eyes, so slight that had Rathbone been less perceptive he would have missed it altogether. He almost forgave the perfect coat.
“I know of nothing,” Monk replied coldly. “I shall report to you by mail, whatever I learn of use. Impressions I shall keep until I return. It would be useful if you would do the same for me, assuming you do find anything. I shall inform you of my address as soon as I have lodgings. Now I am going to take my seat, before the train leaves without me. That would serve neither of us.” And without any further form of farewell, he turned and walked towards the nearest carriage door and climbed in, slamming it behind him, leaving Rathbone standing on the platform swearing under his breath, feeling offended, inadequate, and as if there were something else he should have said.
Chapter 5
Monk did not enjoy the journey in any respect at all. The encounter on the platform with Rathbone gave him some sense of satisfaction because it demonstrated how acutely concerned Rathbone was. It would have taken an emotional involvement of extraordinary depth to cause him to abandon his dignity sufficiently to come on such a completely pointless errand. Normally, if nothing else, his awareness of Monk’s perception of it would have been enough to keep him at home.
But the comfort all that gave him very quickly wore off as the train steamed and rattled its way out of the station and through the rain-soaked darkness of the London rooftops and the occasional glimpse in gaslight of emptying streets, wet cobbles gleaming, lamps haloed in mist, here and there a hansom about to do business.
He imagined Rathbone returning to his office to sit behind his desk shuffling papers uselessly and trying to think what to do that would help, and Hester alone in the narrow cell in Newgate, frightened, huddling beneath the thin blankets, hearing the hard sound of boot heels on the stone floor and the clang of keys in the lock, seeing the hatred in the wardresses’ faces. And he had no illusions about that. They thought her guilty of a despicable crime; there would be no pity. The fact that she had not yet been tried would weigh little with them.
Why couldn’t Hester be like other women, and choose a more sensible occupation? What normal woman traveled all over the place, alone, to nurse people she had never even met? Why did he bother himself with her? She was bound to meet with disaster some time or other. It was only extraordinary good luck she had not encountered it already in the Crimea. And he was stupid to allow his feelings to be engaged at all. He did not like the kind of woman she was, he never had. Almost everything about her irritated him in one way or another.
But then common humanity required that he do everything he could to help. People trusted Mm, and so far as he knew, he had never betrayed a trust in his life. At least not intentionally. He had failed his mentor, years ago, that much he now remembered. But that was different It was a failure through lack of ability, not in any way because he had not tried everything he could. It was not kindness; every evidence he had discovered about himself showed he was not a kind man. But he was honorable. And he had never suffered injustice.