A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [10]
To her despair, she was short, stout, and unlovely, and her invariably unflattering hairstyle should have nudged the wide nose and thick eyebrows into ugliness had it not been for the goodness and the gentle, self-deprecating humour that looked out from her brown eyes when she smiled. That bitterness had been new, and I wondered when it had crept in.
This upper portion of the house was much more the Veronica I knew. Here, the floors gleamed richly, the carpets were thick and genuine, the odd assortment of furniture and objets d’art—sleek, modern German chair and Louis XIV settee on a silken Chinese carpet, striped coarse Egyptian cloth covering a Victorian chaise longue, a priceless collection of seventeenth-century drawings on one wall contemplating a small abstract by, I thought, Paul Klee on the opposite wall— all nestled together comfortably and unobtrusively like a disparate group of dons in a friendly Senior Commons, or perhaps a gathering of experts on unrelated topics trading stories at a successful party. Veronica had a knack.
The house had been converted to electricity, and by its strong light I could see clearly the etched lines of desperate weariness on her face as my friend pulled off gloves, hat, and coat. She had been out most of the night—on a Good Work, her drab clothes said, rather than a social occasion—and a not entirely successful Good Work at that. I asked her about it when I came out of the WC (indoor, though I had seen the outside cubicles at the end of the yard below.)
“Oh, yes,” she said. She was assembling coffee. “One of the families I’ve adopted. The son, who’s thirteen, was arrested for picking the pocket of an off-duty bobby.”
I laughed, incredulous.
“You mean he couldn’t tell? He’s new to the game, then.”
“Apparently so. He’s not very bright, either, I’m afraid.”
She fumbled, taking a cup from the shelf and nearly dropping it from fingers clumsy with fatigue.
“Good heavens, Ronnie,” I said, “you’re exhausted. I ought to go and let you have some sleep.”
“No!” She did drop the cup then, and it shattered into a thousand shards of bone china. “Oh, damn,” she wailed. “You’re right, I am tired, but I so want to talk with you. There’s something… Oh, no, it’s useless; I can’t even begin to think about it.” She knelt awkwardly to gather up the pieces, drove a splinter of porcelain into her finger, and stifled a furious sob.
Something fairly drastic was upsetting this good woman, something considerably deeper than a sleepless night caused by an incompetent pickpocket. I had a fairly good idea what in general she wanted me for, and I sighed inwardly at the brevity of my freedom. Nonetheless, I went to help her.
“Ronnie, I’m tired, too. I’ve been on my feet—literally— for the last twelve hours. If you don’t mind my disreputable self on your sofa, we can both have a sleep, and talk later.”
The intensity of the relief that washed over her face startled me and did not bode well for my immediate future, but I merely helped her sweep up the broken cup, overrode her halfhearted protestations, and sent her to bed.
There was no need to disturb the chaise longue. She had a guest room; she had a marvellous bathtub long enough for me to soak the aches from both the shoulder and my legs; she had a nightdress and a dressing gown and a deep bed that welcomed me with loving softness and murmured soporific suggestions at me until I drifted off.
I woke at dusk, to complete the topsy-turvy day, and rose to crane my neck at the smudge of heavy, wet sky that was visible between the roofs. I put on the too-short quilted dressing gown that Ronnie had given me and went down to the kitchen, and while the water came to a boil, I tried to decide whether I was