A Breach of Promise - Anne Perry [101]
She smiled slowly.
He put his arm around her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her through the thick gray-blue stuff dress. She was stiff and too thin, but then that was how she was. She had been thin the very first time he had seen her in the church with her sister-in-law. He had thought Josephine so much the more beautiful then. She probably still was, and until this moment he had forgotten her.
“How can I help with your case?” she asked, moving away and opening the door to the sitting room.
“I don’t suppose you can,” he answered, following her in. “Zillah Lambert seems to be a perfectly normal pretty young woman who flirts a little but whose reputation is blemishless. I don’t even know what to look for.”
Hester sat down on one of the chintz-covered chairs and concentrated.
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 frighteningly 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,