The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [61]
“And will you win?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he replied firmly. “This I will win …” He hesitated.
Suddenly she did not want him to say whatever it was that was on his tongue.
“How is your father?” she asked.
“Very well.” His voice dropped a little. “He has just returned from a trip to Leipzig, where he met a number of interesting people and, I gather, sat up half of every night talking with them about mathematics and philosophy. All very German. He enjoyed it immensely.”
She found herself smiling. She liked Henry Rathbone more each time she saw him. She had been happy the evenings she had spent in his house in Primrose Hill with its doors which opened onto the long lawn, the apple trees at the far end, the honeysuckle hedge and the orchard beyond. She remembered walking once with Oliver across the grass in the dark. They had spoken of other things, not connected with any case, personal things, hopes and beliefs. The moment did not seem so very far away. It was the same feeling of trust, of companionable ease. And yet there was something different now, an added quality between them which sharpened as if on the brink of some decision. She was not sure if she wanted it, or if perhaps she was not ready.
“I am glad he is well. It is a long time since I traveled anywhere.”
“Where would you like to go?”
She thought instantly of Venice, and then remembered Monk had been there so very recently with Evelyn von Seidlitz. It was the last place she wanted now. She looked up at him and saw the understanding of it in his eyes, and what might have been a flash of sadness, an awareness of some kind of loss or pain.
It cut her. She wanted to eradicate it.
“Egypt!” she said with a lift of enthusiasm. “I have just been hearing about Signore Belzoni’s discoveries … a trifle late, I know. But I should love to go up the Nile. Wouldn’t you?” Oh God. She had done it again … been far too forthright—and desperately clumsy. There was no retracting it. Again she felt the tide of color hot in her face.
This time Rathbone laughed outright. “Hester, my dear, don’t ever change. Sometimes you are so unknown to me I cannot possibly guess what you will say or do next. At others you are as transparent as the spring sunlight. Tell me, who is Signore Belzoni, and what did he discover?”
Haltingly at first, she did so, struggling to recall what Arthur Kynaston had said, and then as Rathbone asked her more questions, the conversation flowered again and the unease vanished.
It was nearly midnight when his carriage stopped in Ebury Street to return her home. The fog had cleared and it was a cloudless night, dry and bitterly cold. He alighted to help her down, offering his hand, steadying her on the icy cobbles with the other.
“Thank you,” she said, meaning it as far more than a mere politeness. It had been an island of warmth, both physical and of a deeper inward quality, a few hours when all manner of pain and struggle had been forgotten. They had talked of wonderful things, shared excitement, laughter and imagination. “Thank you, Oliver.”
He leaned forward, his hand tightening over hers and pulling her a little closer. He kissed her lips softly, gently, but without the slightest hesitation. She could not have pulled back, even if for an instant she had wanted to. It was an amazingly sweet and comfortable feeling, and as she was going up the steps, knowing he was standing in the street watching her, she could feel the happiness of it run through her, filling her whole being.
5
Evan found the Duff case increasingly baffling. He had had an artist draw likenesses of both Leighton and Rhys Duff, and he and Shotts had taken them around the