Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

Callandra reached for a peach and began to peel it with her fruit knife and fork, a small smile on her face.
    No one moved. The silence deepened.
    "I believe it is going to be a hard winter," Lovel said at last. "Old Beckinsale was saying he expects to lose half his crop."
    "He says that every year," Menard grunted and finished the remnant of his wine, throwing it back without savor, merely as if he would not waste it.
    "A lot of people say things every year." Callandra cut away a squashy piece of fruit carefully and pushed it to the side of her plate. “It is forty years since we beat Napoleon at Waterloo, and most of us still think we have the same invincible army and we expect to win with the same tactics and the same discipline and courage that defeated half Europe and ended an empire.''
    "And by God, we shall, madame!" The general slammed down his palm, making the cutlery jump. "The British soldier is the superior of any man alive!"
    "I don't doubt it," Callandra agreed. "It is the British general in the field who is a hidebound and incompetent ass."
    "Callandra! For God's sake!" Fabia was appalled.
    Menard put his hands over his face.
    "Perhaps we should have done better had you been there, General Wadham," Callandra continued unabashed, looking at him frankly. "You at least have a very considerable imagination!"
    Rosamond shut her eyes and slid down in her seat. Lovel groaned.
    Hester choked with laughter, a trifle hysterically, and stuffed her napkin over her mouth to stifle it.
    General Wadham made a surprisingly graceful strategic retreat. He decided to accept the remark as a compliment.
    "Thank you, madame," he said stiffly. "Perhaps I might have prevented the slaughter of the Light Brigade."
    And with that it was left. Fabia, with a little help from Lovel, rose from her seat and excused the ladies, leading them to the withdrawing room, where they discussed such matters as music, fashion, society, forthcoming weddings, both planned and speculated, and were excessively polite to one another.
    When the visitors finally took their leave, Fabia turned
    upon her sister-in-law with a look that should have shriveled her.
    "Callandra—I shall never forgive you!"
    "Since you have never forgiven me for wearing the exact shade of gown as you when we first met forty years ago," Callandra replied, "I shall just have to bear it with the same fortitude I have shown over all the other episodes since."
    "You are impossible. Dear heaven, how I miss Josce-lin." She stood up slowly and Hester rose as a matter of courtesy. Fabia walked towards the double doors. "I am going to bed. I shall see you tomorrow." And she went out, leaving them also.
    "You are impossible, Aunt Callandra," Rosamond agreed, standing in the middle of the floor and looking confused and unhappy. "I don't know why you say such things."
    "I know you don't," Callandra said gently. "That is because you have never been anywhere but Middleton, Shelburne Hall or London society. Hester would say the same, if she were not a guest here—indeed perhaps more. Our military imagination has ossified since Waterloo." She stood up and straightened her skirts. "Victory—albeit one of the greatest in history and turning the tide of nations— has still gone to our heads and we think all we have to do to win is to turn up in our scarlet coats and obey the rules. And only God can measure the suffering and the death that pigheadedness has caused. And we women and politicians sit here safely at home and cheer them on without the slightest idea what the reality of it is."
    "Joscelin is dead," Rosamond said bleakly, staring at the closed curtains.
    "I know that, my dear," Callandra said from close behind her. "But he did not die in the Crimea." .
    "He may have died because of it!"
    "Indeed he may," Callandra conceded, her face suddenly touched with gentleness. "And I know you were extremely fond of him. He had a capacity for pleasure,
    both to give and to receive, which unfortunately neither Lovel nor Menard seem to share. I think we have exhausted both ourselves and the subject. Good night, my dear. Weep if you wish; tears too long held in do us no good. Composure is all very well, but there is a time to acknowledge pain also." She slipped her arm around the slender shoulders and hugged her briefly, then knowing the gesture would release the hurt as well as comfort, she took Hester by the elbow and conducted her out to leave Rosamond alone.
    * * * * *
    The following morning