Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [109]
The ride was terrible, not for anything Rose did but for what Hester feared she would do. They sped through the lamplit streets in the rain, the cobbles glistening, the gutters spilling over, the constant sound of drumming on the roof, splashing beneath, and the clatter of hooves and hiss of wheels. They lurched from side to side because they were going too fast, as the coachman was afraid Rose was ill and needed help.
Hester was dreading what Applegate would say. No words had been exchanged, but she felt he had trusted her to care for Rose. From the first time they had met, Hester had seen a protectiveness in him, as if he was aware of a peculiar vulnerability in his wife, one he could not share with others. Now it seemed that Hester had quite extraordinarily let them both down.
Except that she had had no idea how it had happened.
The carriage came to an abrupt halt, but Rose did not seem to wake up. There was shouting outside and more lights, then the carriage door opened and a footman appeared. He leaned in without even glancing at Hester, lifted Rose with great care, and carried her across the mews and in through the back door of the house.
The coachman handed Hester out and accompanied her across the yard and through the scullery. Her skirts were sodden around her ankles; her shoulders and hair were wet. Nothing had been further from her mind on leaving the memorial reception than sending someone to fetch her cloak—or to be more exact, Rose’s cloak.
Inside the warmth of the kitchen, she realized how very cold she was. Her body was shuddering, her feet numb. Her head was beginning to pound as if it were she who had drunk far too much.
The cook took pity on her and made her a hot cup of tea, but gave her nothing to go with it, no biscuit or slice of bread, as if Hester were to blame for Rose’s condition.
It was half an hour before Morgan Applegate came to the kitchen door. He was in his shirtsleeves, his face flushed but white about the lips, his hair tangled.
“Mrs. Monk,” he said with barely suppressed rage. “Will you be so good as to come with me?” It was a command rather than a question.
Hester rose and followed him. She was deeply sorry for his distress, but she had no intention of being spoken to like a naughty child.
He walked into the library, where there was a brisk fire burning. He held the door for her, then slammed it shut. “Explain yourself!” he said simply.
She looked at him with as much dignity as she could manage, being sodden wet, wearing borrowed clothes, and having endured one of the most embarrassing evenings of her life. She reminded herself that she had survived and been useful in fever hospitals and on battlefields. This was a minor tragedy. She refused even to be formal.
“I believe Rose has had too much to drink, Mr. Applegate. And although it cannot have been more than one or two glasses, she seems to be unusually susceptible to alcohol. Unless, of course, it was remarkably strong.”
He was breathing deeply, as if he could not immediately find words to retaliate.
“I am extremely sorry it happened,” Hester continued. “I’m afraid you know only the simplest part of it yet.” Better to get it over now rather than leave it for him to discover in the most acutely embarrassing way.
“There was a dismal musical trio playing, and Rose took the violin from the fiddler and played it herself, extremely well. Unfortunately, she soon changed to a funny but rather vulgar song from the music halls. The whole scene is something you would probably prefer not to know about, but it was…memorable.”
“Oh, God!” He went ash white. “How?”
She hesitated.
“How?” he repeated.
“She was very forthright over what people say about each other, and what they really mean. With names. I’m sorry.” She meant it deeply.
He stared at her, the anger draining out of him.