The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [250]
7
ARAMINTA WAS very composed as she stood in front of Monk in the boudoir, that room of ease and comfort especially for the women of the house. It was ornately decorated with lush French Louis XVI furniture, all scrolls and curlicues, gilt and velvet. The curtains were brocade and the wallpaper pink embossed in gold. It was an almost oppressively feminine room, and Araminta looked out of place in it, not for her appearance, which was slender and delicately boned with a flame of hair, but for her stance. It was almost aggressive. There was nothing yielding in her, nothing soft to compliment all the sweetness of the pink room.
“I regret having to tell you this, Mr. Monk.” She looked at him unflinchingly. “My sister’s reputation is naturally dear to me, but in our present stress and tragedy I believe only the truth will serve. Those of us who are hurt by it will have to endure the best we may.”
He opened his mouth to try to say something at once soothing and encouraging, but apparently she did not need any word from him. She continued, her face so controlled there was no apparent tension, no quiver to the lips or voice.
“My sister, Octavia, was a very charming person, and very affectionate.” She was choosing her words with great care; this was a speech which had been rehearsed before he came. “Like most people who are pleasing to others, she enjoyed admiration, indeed she had a hunger for it. When her husband, Captain Haslett, was killed in the Crimea she was, of course, deeply grieved. But that was nearly two years ago, and that is a long time for a young woman of Octavia’s nature to be alone.”
This time he did not interrupt, but waited for her to continue, only showing his total attention by his unwavering gaze.
The only way her inner feelings showed was a curious stillness, as if something inside her dared not move.
“What I am endeavoring to say, Mr. Monk, much as it pains me, and all my family, is that Octavia from time to time would encourage from the footman an admiration that was personal, and of a more familiar nature than it should have been.”
“Which footman, ma’am?” He would not put Percival’s name in her mouth.
A flash of irritation tweaked her mouth. “Percival of course. Do not affect to be a fool with me. Mr. Monk. Does Harold look like a man to have airs above his station? Besides which, you have been in this house quite long enough to have observed that Harold is taken with the parlormaid and not likely to see anyone else in that light—for all the good it will do him.” She jerked her shoulders sharply, as if to shrug off the distasteful idea. “Still, she is very likely not the charming creature he imagines, and he may well be better served by dreams than he would be by the disillusion of reality.” For the first time she looked away from him. “I daresay she is very bland and tedious once you are tired of looking at her pretty face.”
Had Araminta been a plain woman Monk might have suspected her of envy, but since she was in her own way quite remarkably fine it could not be so.
“Impossible dreams always end in awakening,” he agreed. “But he may grow out of his obsession before he meets with any reality. Let us hope so.”
“It is hardly important,” she said, swinging back to face him and recall him to the subject that mattered. “I have come to inform you of my sister’s relationship with Percival, not Harold’s moonings after the parlormaid. Since it seems inescapable that someone in this house murdered Octavia, it is