William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

such an air of virtue, and come away as if we’ve solved all their problems, and we’ve hardly touched them.” Her voice caught for an instant. “I’m thirty-three, and I’m behaving like an old woman. Hester, I’m terrified that one day I’m going to wake up and I will be old—and I’ll have done nothing at all that was worth doing. I’ll never have accomplished anything, served any purpose, helped anyone more than was purely convenient, never felt anything really deeply once Oswald died—been no real use at all.” She kept her back to them, and stood very straight and still.
    “Then you must find work of some sort to do,” Hester said firmly. “Even if it is hard or dirty, paid or unpaid, even thankless—it would be better than waking up every morning to a wasted day and going to bed at night knowing you wasted it. I have heard it said that most of what we regret is not what we did but what we did not do. I think on the whole that iscorrect. You have your health. It would be better to wait on others than do nothing at all.”
    “You mean go into service?” Edith was incredulous and there was a frail, slightly hysterical giggle under the surface of her voice.
    “No, nothing quite so demanding—it would really be more than your mother deserves. I meant helping some poor creature who is too ill or too mithered to help herself.” She stopped. “Of course that would be unpaid, and that might not work …”
    “It wouldn’t. Mama would not permit it, so I would have to find lodgings of my own, and that requires money—which I don’t have.”
    Major Tiplady cleared his throat.
    “Are you still interested in Africa, Mrs. Sobell?”
    She turned around, her eyes wide.
    “Go to Africa? How could I do that? I don’t know anything about it. I hardly think I should be of any use to anyone. I wish I were!”
    “No, not go there.” His face was bright pink now. “I—er—well, I’m not sure, of course …”
    Hester refused to help him, although with a sweet surge of pleasure she knew what he wanted to say.
    He threw an agonized glance at her, and she smiled back charmingly.
    Edith waited.
    “Er …” He cleared his throat again. “I thought—I thought I might … I mean if you are serious about people’s interest? I thought I might write my memoirs of Mashonaland, and I—er …”
    Edith’s face flooded with understanding—and delight.
    “Need a scribe. Oh yes, I should be delighted. I can think of nothing I should like better!
My Adventures in Mashonaland
, by Major—Major Tiplady. What is your given name?”
    He blushed crimson and looked everywhere but at her.
    Hester knew the initial was
H
, but no more. He had signed his letter employing her only with that initial and his surname.
    “You have to have a name,” Edith insisted. “I can see it, bound in morocco or calf—nice gold lettering. It will be marvelous! I shall count it such a privilege and enjoy every word. It will be almost as good as going there myself—and in such splendid company. What is your name, Major? How will it be styled?”
    “Hercules,” he said very quietly, and shot her a look of total pleading not to laugh.
    “How very fine,” she said gently. “
My Adventures in Mashonaland
, by Major Hercules Tiplady. May we begin as soon as this terrible business is over? It is the nicest thing that has happened to me in years.”
    “And to me,” Major Tiplady said happily, his face still very pink.
    Hester rose to her feet and went to the door to ask the maid to prepare luncheon for them, and so that she could give rein to her giggles where she could hurt no one—but it was laughter of relief and a sudden bright hope, at least for Edith and the major, whom she had grown to like remarkably. It was the only good thing at the moment, but it was totally good.

11
    M
onk began the weekend
with an equal feeling of gloom, not because he had no hope of finding the third man but because the discovery was so painful. He had liked Peverell Erskine, and now it looked inevitable it was he. Why else would he have given a child such highly personal and useless gifts? Cassian had no use for a quill knife, except that it was pretty and belonged to Peverell—as for a silk handkerchief, children did not use or wear such things. It was a keepsake. The watch fob also was too precious for an eight-year-old to wear, and it was personal to Peverell’s profession, nothing like the Carlyons’, which would have been