William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

apologize,” she said quickly. “The circumstances are enough to make anyone with any feeling lose his temper. The constant presence of the police and the interminable wondering, whether it isspoken or not, would be intensely trying to anyone but a fool who had no understanding.”
    “You are very kind.” It was a simple enough word, and yet she knew he meant it as no easy compliment.
    “I imagine the newspapers are still writing about it?” she went on, more to fill the silence than because it mattered.
    He sat down on the arm of the chair near her. “Every day,” he said ruefully. “The better ones are castigating the police, which is unfair; they are no doubt doing all they can. They can hardly subject us to a Spanish Inquisition and torture us until someone confesses—” He laughed jerkily, betraying all his raw pain. “And the press would be the first to complain if they did. In fact it seems they are caught either way in a situation like this. If they are harsh with us they will be accused of forgetting their place and victimizing the gentry, and if they are lenient they will be charged with indifference and incompetence.” He drew in his breath and let it out in a sigh. “I should imagine the poor devil curses the day he was clever enough to prove it had to be someone in the house. But he doesn’t look like a man who takes the easy path—”
    “No, indeed,” Hester agreed with more memory and heart than Cyprian could know.
    “And the sensational ones are speculating on every sordid possibility they can think up,” he went on with distaste puckering his mouth and bringing a look of hurt to his eyes.
    Suddenly Hester caught a glimpse of how deeply the whole intrusion was affecting him, the ugliness of it all pervading his life like a foul smell. He was keeping the pain within, as he had been taught since the nursery. Little boys are expected to be brave, never to complain, and above all never, never to cry. That was effeminate and a sign of weakness to be despised.
    “I’m so sorry,” she said gently. She reached out her hand and put it over his, closing her fingers, before she remembered she was not a nurse comforting a wounded man in hospital, she was a servant and a woman, putting her hand over her employer’s in the privacy of his own library.
    But if she withdrew it and apologized now she would only draw attention to the act and make it necessary for him to respond. They would both be embarrassed, and it would rob the moment of its understanding and create of it a lie.
    Instead she sat back slowly with a very slight smile.
    She was prevented from having to think what to say next by the library door opening and Romola coming in. She glanced at them together and instantly her face darkened.
    “Should you not be with Lady Moidore?” she said sharply.
    Her tone stung Hester, who kept her temper with an effort. Had she been free to, she would have replied with equal acerbity.
    “No, Mrs. Moidore, her ladyship said I might have the evening to do as I chose. She decided to retire early.”
    “Then she must be unwell,” Romola returned immediately. “You should be where she can call you if she needs you. Perhaps you could read in your bedroom, or write letters. Don’t you have friends or family who will be expecting to hear from you?”
    Cyprian stood up. “I’m sure Miss Latterly is quite capable of organizing her own correspondence, Romola. And she cannot read without first coming to the library to choose a book.”
    Romola’s eyebrows rose sarcastically. “Is that what you were doing, Miss Latterly? Forgive me, that was not what appearances suggested.”
    “I was answering Mr. Moidore’s questions concerning his mother’s health,” Hester said very levelly.
    “Indeed? Well if he is now satisfied you may return to your room and do whatever it is you wish.”
    Cyprian drew breath to reply, but his father came in, glanced at their faces, and looked inquiringly at his son.
    “Miss Latterly believes that Mama is not seriously ill,” Cyprian said with embarrassment, obviously fishing for a palatable excuse.
    “Did anyone imagine she was?” Basil asked dryly, coming into the middle of the room.
    “I did not,” Romola said quickly. “She is suffering, of course—but so are we all. I know I haven’t slept properly since it happened.”
    “Perhaps Miss Latterly would give you something that would help?” Cyprian suggested with a glance at Hester—and the shadow of a