William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

O’Hare, and she responded immediately.
    “You are most kind.”
    “Not at all, Mrs. Sandeman.” He waved his hand. “I assure you I am not. Did this amorous, greedy and conceited footman ever admire other ladies in the house? Mrs. Cyprian Moidore, for instance? Or Mrs. Kellard?”
    “I have no idea.” She was surprised.
    “Or yourself, perhaps?”
    “Well—” She lowered her eyelashes modestly.
    “Please, Mrs. Sandeman,” he urged. “This is not a time for self-effacement.”
    “Yes, he did step beyond the bounds of what is—merely courteous.”
    Several members of the jury looked expectant. One middle-aged man with side whiskers was obviously embarrassed.
    “He expressed an amorous regard for you?” Rathbone pressed.
    “Yes.”
    “What did you do about it, ma’am?”
    Her eyes flew open and she glared at him. “I put him in hisplace, Mr. Rathbone. I am perfectly competent to deal with a servant who has got above himself.”
    Beside Hester, Beatrice stiffened in her seat.
    “I am sure you are.” Rathbone’s voice was laden with meaning. “And at no danger to yourself. You did not find it necessary to go to bed carrying a carving knife?”
    She paled visibly, and her mittened hands tightened on the rail of the box in front of her.
    “Don’t be absurd. Of course I didn’t!”
    “And yet you never felt constrained to counsel your niece in this very necessary art?”
    “I—er—” Now she was acutely uncomfortable.
    “You were aware that Percival was entertaining amorous intentions towards her.” Rathbone moved very slightly, a graceful stride as he might use in a withdrawing room. He spoke softly, the sting in his incredulous contempt. “And you allowed her to be so alone in her fear that she resorted to taking a knife from the kitchen and carrying it to bed to defend herself, in case Percival should enter her room at night.”
    The jury was patently disturbed, and their expressions betrayed it.
    “I had no idea he would do such a thing,” she protested. “You are trying to say I deliberately allowed it to happen. That is monstrous!” She looked at O’Hare for help.
    “No, Mrs. Sandeman,” Rathbone corrected. “I am questioning how it is that a lady of your experience and sensitive observation and judgment of character should see that a footman was amorously drawn towards your niece, and that she had behaved foolishly in not making her distaste quite plain to him, and yet you did not take matters into your own hands sufficiently at least to speak to some other member of the household.”
    She stared at him with horror.
    “Her mother, for example,” he continued. “Or her sister, or even to warn Percival yourself that his behavior was observed. Any of those actions would almost certainly have prevented this tragedy. Or you might simply have taken Mrs. Haslett to one side and counseled her, as an older and wiser woman who had had to rebuff many inappropriate advances yourself, and offered her your assistance.”
    Fenella was flustered now.
    “Of course—if I had r-realized—” she stammered. “But I didn’t. I had no idea it—it would—”
    “Hadn’t you?” Rathbone challenged.
    “No.” Her voice was becoming shrill. “Your suggestion is appalling. I had not the slightest notion!”
    Beatrice let out a little groan of disgust.
    “But surely, Mrs. Sandeman,” Rathbone resumed, turning and walking back to his place, “if Percival had made amorous advances to you—and you had seen all his offensive behavior towards Mrs. Haslett, you must have realized how it would end? You are not without experience in the world.”
    “I did not, Mr. Rathbone,” Fenella protested. “What you are saying is that I deliberately allowed Octavia to be raped and murdered. That is scandalous, and totally untrue.”
    “I believe you, Mrs. Sandeman.” Rathbone smiled suddenly, without a vestige of humor.
    “I should think so!” Her voice shook a little. “You owe me an apology, sir.”
    “It would make perfect sense that you should not have any idea,” he went on. “If this observation of yours did not in fact cover any of these things you relate to us. Percival was extremely ambitious and of an arrogant nature, but he made no advances towards you, Mrs. Sandeman. You are—forgive me, ma’am—of an age to be his mother!”
    Fenella blanched with fury, and the crowd drew in an audible gasp. Someone tittered. A juryman covered his face with his handkerchief and appeared to