William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

again.
    “No,” Beatrice said flatly. “Octavia knew about it ages ago. So did Minta. We didn’t tell Basil because we despised it but understood. It is surprising what one will do when one has no money. We devise little ways, and usually they are not attractive, sometimes not even honorable.” She started to fid-diewith a perfume bottle, pulling the stopper out. “We are such cowards at times. I wish I couldn’t see that, but I can. But Fenella would not encourage a footman beyond silly flattery. She’s vain and cruel, and terrified of growing old, but she is not a whore. At least—I mean, she does not take men simply because she enjoys it—” She gave a convulsive little shudder and jammed the perfume stopper in so hard she could not remove it again. She swore under her breath and pushed the bottle to the back of the dressing table.
    “I used to think Minta didn’t know about Myles having forced himself on the maid, but perhaps she did? And perhaps she knew that Myles was more than properly attracted to Octavia. He is very vain too, you know? He imagines all women find him pleasing.” She smiled with a downward curl of her mouth, a curiously expressive gesture. “Of course a great many do. He is handsome and charming. But Octavia didn’t like him. He found that very hard to take. Perhaps he was determined to make her change her mind. Some men find force quite justifiable, you know?”
    She looked at Hester, then shook her head. “No, of course you don’t know—you are not married. Forgive me for being so coarse. I hope I have not offended you. I think it is all a matter of degree. And Myles and Tavie thought very differently about it.”
    She was silent for a moment, then pulled her gown closer around her and stood up.
    “Hester—I am so afraid. One of my family may be guilty. And Monk has gone off and left us, and I shall probably never know. I don’t know which is worse—not knowing, and imagining everything—or knowing, and never again being able to forget, but being helpless to do anything about it. And what if they know I know? Would they murder me? How can we live together day after day?”
    Hester had no answer. There was no possible comfort to give, and she did not belittle the pain by trying to find something to say.
       It was another three days before the servants’ revenge really began to bite and Fenella was sufficiently aware of it to complain to Basil. Quite by chance Hester overheard much of the conversation. She had become as invisible as the rest of theservants, and neither Basil nor Fenella was aware of her through the arch of the conservatory from the withdrawing room. She had gone there because it was the nearest she could come to a walk alone outside. She was permitted to use the ladies’ maids’ sitting room, which she did to read, but there was always the chance of being joined by Mary or Gladys and having to make conversation, or explain her very intellectual choice of reading.
    “Basil.” Fenella swept in, bristling with anger. “I really must complain to you about the servants in this house. You seem to be quite unaware of it, but ever since the trial of that wretched footman, the standards have declined appallingly. This is three days in a row my morning tea has been almost cold. That fool of a maid has lost my best lace peignoir. My bedroom fire has been allowed to go out. And now the room is like a morgue. I don’t know how I am supposed to dress in it. I should catch my death.”
    “Appropriate for a morgue,” Basil said dryly.
    “Don’t be a fool,” she snapped. “I do not find this an occasion for humor. I don’t know why on earth you tolerate it. You never used to. You used to be the most exacting person I ever knew—worse even than Papa.”
    From where Hester was she could see only Fenella’s back, but Basil’s face was clearly visible. Now his expression changed and became pinched.
    “My standards are as high as his ever were,” he said coldly. “I don’t know what you mean, Fenella. My tea was piping hot, my fire is blazing, and I have never missed anything in the laundry all the years I have lived here.”
    “And my toast was stale on my breakfast tray,” she went on. “My bed linen has not been changed, and when I spoke to Mrs. Willis about it, all I got was a lot of limp excuses, and she barely even listened to what I said. You have not the command of the house you should have, Basil. I wouldn’t tolerate it a moment. I know