The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [386]
Then she remembered the appalling events of the last month, which must have scarred his senses with a pain too overwhelming to take in. In one evening his father was dead and his mother distraught and filled with her own terrors and griefs, and within a fortnight she was arrested and forcibly taken from him. Did he even know why yet? Had anyone told him the full extent of the tragedy? Or did he believe it was an accident, and his mother might yet be returned to him?
Looking at his careful, wary face it was impossible to know, but he did not look terrified and there were no glances of appeal at anyone, even though he was with his family, and presumably knew all of them moderately well.
Had anyone taken him in their arms and let him weep? Had anyone explained to him what was happening? Or was he wandering in a silent confusion, full of imaginings and fears? Did they expect him to shoulder his grief like a full-grown man, be stoic and continue his new and utterly changed life as if it needed no answers and no time for emotion? Was his adult air merely an attempt to be what they expected of him?
Or had they not even thought about it at all? Were food and clothes, warmth and a room of his own, considered to be all a boy his age required?
The conversation continued desultorily and Hester learned nothing from it. They spoke of trivialities of one sort or another, acquaintances Hester did not know, society in general, government, the current events and public opinion of the scandals and tragedies of the day.
The last course had been cleared away and Felicia was taking a mint from the silver tray when Damaris at last returned to the original subject.
“I passed a newsboy this morning, shouting about Alex,” she said unhappily. “He was saying some awful things. Why are people so—so vicious? They don’t even know yet if she did anything or not!”
“Shouldn’t have been listening,” Randolf muttered grimly. “Your mother’s told you that before.”
“I didn’t know you were going out.” Felicia looked across the table at her irritably. “Where did you go?”
“To the dressmakers’,” Damaris replied with a flicker of annoyance. “I have to have another black dress. I’m sure you wouldn’t wish me to mourn in purple.”
“Purple is half mourning.” Felicia’s large, deep-set eyes rested on her daughter with disfavor. “Your brother is only just buried. You will maintain black as long as it is decent to do so. I know the funeral is over, but if I find you outside the house in lavender or purple before Michaelmas, I shall be most displeased.”
The thought of black all summer was plain in Damaris’s face, but she said nothing.
“Anyway, you did not need to go out,” Felicia went on. “You should have sent for the dressmaker to come to you.” A host of thoughts was plain in Damaris’s face, most especially the desire to escape the house and its environs.
“What did they say?” Edith asked curiously, referring to the newspapers again.
“They seemed to have judged already that she was guilty,” Damaris replied. “But it isn’t that, it was the—the viciousness of it.”
“What do you expect?” Felicia frowned. “She has confessed to the world that she has done something quite beyond understanding. It defies the order of everyone’s lives, like madness. Of course people will be … angry. I think vicious is the wrong word to choose. You don’t seem to understand the enormity of it.” She pushed her salmon mousse to the side of her plate and abandoned it. “Can you imagine what would happen to the country if every woman whose husband flirted with someone else were to murder him? Really, Damaris, sometimes I wonder where