A Breach of Promise

Her voice was rising high and becoming louder. The servants must have been able to hear her as far as the kitchen. "Well, I'll tell you something, Miss Perfect Nurse! Nobody wants a woman who is never wrong. You can't love somebody who doesn't need you, who's never vulnerable or frightened or makes mistakes. I may not be half as clever as you are, or as brave, or know anything about Indian history or soldiers or what it is like to see real war… but I know that."

Hester stood very stiff, her back like a ramrod, her shoulders clenched so tight Monk felt as if he could see the bones of them pulling against her dress. He was not certain, but he thought she was shivering. This was what she had wanted, what she had intended to happen when she had provoked Perdita… at least he thought it was. But that did not stop it from hurting. There was too much truth in it, and yet it was also so terribly wrong.

"You are lashing out in anger, Mrs. Sheldon," he said in a low, controlled voice. "And you don't know what you are talking about. You know nothing of Miss Latterly except what you have seen in this house. There are many kinds of men and many kinds of love. Sometimes we imagine what we must hunger for is a sweet and clinging creature who will feed our vanity and hang upon our words, dependent upon our judgment all the time." He took a breath. "And then we meet the harder realities of life, and a woman who has the courage, the fire and the intelligence to be our equal, and we discover that those joys far outweigh the irritations and discomforts." He stared at her very hard. "You must be true to the best in yourself, Mrs. Sheldon, but you have no grounds and no right to insult where you do not know the facts. Miss Latterly may not be loved widely, but she is loved very deeply indeed, more than most women can aspire to or dare to accept."

The color burned up in Perdita's cheeks. She was furious and overwhelmed with embarrassment. She did not know what to say, and the rage boiling inside her was only too apparent in her eyes.

Hester, on the other hand, stood as if frozen.

Monk could barely believe he had said what he had. His first instinct, almost taking his breath away, was to deny it, somehow qualify it all so it did not apply to him. The desire to escape was so urgent it was like a physical compulsion.

He saw Hester's back and shoulders, the dress still pulled tight, her neck muscles stiff. As clearly as if he could see her eyes, he knew she was waiting for him to deny his words, to withdraw or disclaim.

If he did, would it be because they were untrue or because he was an emotional coward?

She would not know the answer to that, but he did. What he had revealed was not untrue.

"If you offer Miss Latterly an apology, I am sure she will accept it," he said more stiffly than he intended.

Hester took a deep breath.

"Oh…" Perdita sighed. "Oh… yes. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'm behaving very badly." Her eyes filled with tears.

Hester moved forward. "Not nearly as badly as you think. And you are at least partly right. We do love people for their vulnerabilities as well as their strengths. We must have both, even to understand each other, never mind anything more. Just keep trying. Remember how important it is." Her voice dropped. "Killian Melville is dead. It was probably suicide. Last night."

Perdita stared at her in horror, then her eyes flew to Monk's.

"Oh…I'm so sorry! Because of the case? Because of what he was, and because it is illegal?"

"More than that," he answered her. "Actually, Melville wasn't a man at all; her name was Keelin, and she was a woman. She dressed as a man and behaved as one in all respects, except towards Isaac Wolff, because it was the only way she would be allowed to practice her profession and use the talents God gave her." He used the word God without thinking about it until he had said it. Then it was too late to take it back, and perhaps it was what he meant.

Perdita did not move. Her face was filled, and changed with growing realization of what he had said, and something of what it meant. Then she shook her head, at first minutely, then a little more, then more again. Then she turned around and went to the door.

"I'm going back to Gabriel. I'll tell him. He'll be terribly sorry. It really is so-so final. It's too late to get anything back now, to… say anything, mend anything." And she went out quickly, hand fumbling on the knob to turn it.

Hester finally turned to look at Monk. Her eyes searched his.

He tried to think of something to say which would not be evasive, or banal, nor yet commit him to anything he would regret. His mind filled with Keelin Melville, and Zillah Lambert, and the tragic, destructive farce of beauty and the urge to be suitably married, or if that failed, to be married at all costs, anything but remain single.

"Now you are free to look for Martha's brother's children," Hester said quietly. "But don't run up a debt she ca

"I wasn't going to charge her!" he said a little sharply. Why had she thought he would? Did she not know him better than that?

"And be careful what you tell her," she added anxiously. "It is almost certain to be very bad."

"Are you paying me?" he asked sarcastically.

"No…"

"Then stop giving me orders!" he retorted. He jammed his hands into his pockets. This was going to get worse if he remained. He was not saying what he wanted to, what he meant. He was raw inside with the knowledge of failure, of life and opportunity and brilliance and love wasted forever. Perhaps Hester was too, and it frightened her. "I'll tell you what I find out, if there is anything," he said aloud. "In a day or two."

"Thank you."

He went to the door and turned. He half smiled at her, then went out.

Chapter 9

Monk set about the task of searching for the two children with a feeling of self-disgust for having been stupid enough to accept such a ludicrous case. His chances of learning anything provable were remote, and even if he did it would be something poor Martha Jackson would be infinitely better not knowing. But there was no escape now. It was his own fault for listening to his emotions rather than his intelligence. His fault-and Hester's.

There was only one place to begin: the last news Martha herself knew of them, which was the house where they were born and had lived until their father died. It was in Coopers Arms Lane, off Putney High Street, south of the river. It was quite a long journey, and rather than waste time in traveling back and forth he had packed a light bag and taken with him sufficient funds to stay overnight at an i

It was a very pleasant day, warm and bright, and if undertaken for any other reason, he would have enjoyed the journey. He arrived in Putney a little before half past ten and found Coopers Arms Lane without having to ask anyone for directions. The tavern after which it had taken its name looked a promising place for luncheon-and for picking up any relevant gossip.

First he would try the house itself, simply to exclude it from his investigations. After twenty-one years no one would remember anything. Probably they would not have after twenty-one weeks.

He found the right house, a modest residence of the sort usually occupied by two or three families behind its shabby, well-cared-for walls. The step was scrubbed and whitened, the pathway swept. The curtains at the front windows were clean, and even from the outside he could see where they had been carefully mended. It all spoke of ordinary, decent lives lived on the razor's edge between poverty and respectability, always aware that the future could change, illness strike with its unpayable bills, or employment vanish.