Funeral in Blue - Anne Perry [5]
“No, you have almost ignored me,” she said with a smile, trying to make light of it without contradicting him. “But then, I am equally guilty. I could easily have called upon you, or at least written, and I didn’t.”
“I suppose your life is too exciting.” There was a shadow of disapproval in his voice. He might not have intended it this moment, but it was too deeply ingrained in his habit of thought to get rid of it in an instant.
“Yes,” she agreed with a lift of her chin. It was the truth, but even if it had not been, she would have defended Monk and the life they shared to anyone. “America was extraordinary.”
“About the worst time you could choose to go,” he observed.
With an effort of will, she smiled at him. “We didn’t choose. We went in order to help someone in very desperate trouble. I am sure you can understand that.”
His face softened, and he blinked a little. “Yes, of course I can.” He colored with embarrassment. “Do you have the fare for a hansom for tomorrow?”
With a considerable effort, she resisted snapping. After all, it was possible she might not have. There had certainly been those times. “Yes, thank you.”
“Oh . . . good. Then I’ll . . . er . . .”
“I’ll come and see you when I have anything to say,” she promised.
“Oh . . . of course.” And still uncertain exactly how to conduct himself, he gave her a light kiss on the cheek and went to the door.
When Monk returned home in the evening, Hester said nothing of Charles’s visit. Monk had solved a small case of theft and collected the payment for it, and consequently was pleased with himself. He was also interested in her story of the trichobezoar.
“Why?” he said with amazement. “Why would anyone do something so . . . so self-destructive?”
“If she knows, she can’t or won’t tell us,” she answered, ladling mutton stew into bowls and smelling the fragrance of it. “More probably, she doesn’t know herself. Some pain too terrible for her to look at, even to acknowledge.”
“Poor creature!” he said with sudden, uncharacteristic pity, as if he had remembered suffering of his own and could too easily imagine drowning in it. “Can you help her?”
“Kristian will try,” she said, picking up the bowls to carry them to the table. “He has the patience, and he doesn’t dismiss all hysterics as hopeless, in spite of Fermin Thorpe.”
Monk knew the history of Kristian and Fermin Thorpe, and he said nothing, but his expression was eloquent. Silently, he followed her to the table and sat down, hungry, cold and ready to eat.
In the morning, Hester went back to the hospital, and found Mary Ellsworth in a great deal of pain as the laudanum wore off. But the wound was clean, and she was able to take a little beef tea and to rest with some ease of mind.
In the early afternoon, Hester returned home and changed from her plain blue dress into the best afternoon gown she owned. The weather was mild, so she did not need any kind of coat or cape, but a hat was absolutely necessary. The dress was a soft shade of bluish green and very becoming to her, although it was certainly not fashionable. She had never kept up with exactly how full a skirt should be, or how a sleeve or a neckline should lie. She had neither the money nor, to be honest, the interest, but now it was an issue of pride not to visit her sister-in-law looking like some poor relation, even though that was exactly what she was. Perhaps that was why it mattered.
It was also possible that Imogen might very well have other callers, and Hester would not wish to be an embarrassment to her. For one thing, it would get in the way of her purpose in being there.
She went out into the dusty street and walked the short journey to Endsleigh Gardens. She did not look at the facades along the London streets. She was barely aware of the sounds of hooves, of the passing traffic or the rattle of wheels