The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [60]
He stared at the light reflecting through the wine in the glass. “Are you sure you want to continue nursing? In an ideal situation, if you did not have to provide for yourself, would you not rather work for hospital reform, as you originally intended?”
She found herself sitting very still, suddenly aware of the crackling of the fire and the sharp edges of the crystal on the glass in her hands. He was not looking at her. Perhaps there was no deeper meaning behind what he had said? No … of course there wasn’t. She was being ridiculous. The warmth of the room and the glow of the wine were addling her wits.
“I haven’t thought about it,” she replied, trying to sound light and casual. “I fear reform will be a very slow process, and I have not the influence necessary to make anyone listen to me.”
He looked up, his eyes gentle and almost black in the candlelight.
Instantly she could have bitten her tongue out. It sounded exactly as if she were angling for the greater influence he had obliquely referred to … perhaps … or perhaps not. It was the last thing she had meant. It was not only crass, it was clumsily done. She could feel the color burning up her cheeks.
She rose to her feet and turned away. She must say something quickly, but it must be the right thing. Haste might even make it worse. It was so easy to talk too much.
He had risen when she did and now he was behind her, closer than when they were sitting. She was sharply aware of him.
“I don’t really have that kind of skill,” she said very measuredly. “Miss Nightingale has. She is a brilliant administrator and arguer. She can make a point so that people have to concede she is correct, and she never gives up.…”
“Do you?” he said with laughter in his voice. She could hear it, but she did not look around.
“No, of course I don’t.” There were too many shared memories for that to need an answer. They had fought battles together against lies and violence, mystery, fear, ignorance. They had faced all kinds of darkness and found their way through to at least what justice there was left, if not necessarily any resolution of tragedy. The one thing they had never done was give up.
She swung around to face him now. He was only a yard away, but she was confident of what she was going to say. She even smiled back at him.
“I have learned a few tricks of a good soldier. I like to choose my own battlefield and my own weapons.”
“Bravo,” he said, answering softly, his eyes studying her face.
She stood still for a moment, then moved to the table and sat in one of the chairs, her skirts draped unusually dramatically. She felt elegant, even feminine, although she had never seemed to herself stronger or more alive.
He hesitated, looking down at her for several moments.
She was aware of him, and yet now she was not uncomfortable.
The servant came in and announced the first course of the meal.
Rathbone accepted, and it was brought and dished.
Hester smiled across at him. She felt a little fluttering inside, but curiously warm, excited.
“What cases are you engaged in that need no detection?” she asked. For a second Monk came to her mind, and the fact that Rathbone had chosen issues where he did not use him. Could it be intentional? Or was that a shabby thought?
As if he too had seen Monk’s face in his inner vision, Rathbone looked down at the plate.
“A society paternity suit,” he said with a half smile. “There is really very little to prove. It is an exercise in diplomacy.” He raised his eyes to hers and again they were brilliant with inner laughter. “I am endeavoring to judge discretion to the precise degree of knowing how much pressure I can exert before there will be war. If I succeed, you will never hear anything about it. There will simply be a great exchange of money.” He shrugged. “If I fail, there will be the biggest scandal since …” He took a deep breath and his expression became rueful, self-mocking.
“Since Princess Gisela,” she finished for him.
They both laughed. Their laughter was crowded with memories,