William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

result of rape. Perhaps she had been injured internally in some way, and Kristian had been repairing it—and not destroying the child at all.
    Of course. That was a very possible solution. She must find out—and set all her fears at rest forever.
    But how? If she were to ask him she would have to admit she had interrupted—and he would know she had suspected and indeed believed the worst.
    And why should he tell her the truth? She could hardly ask him to prove it. But the very act of asking would damage forever the closeness they shared—and however fragile that was, however without hope of ever being more, it was unreasonably precious to her.
    But the fear inside her, the sick doubt, was ruining it anyway. She could not meet his eyes or speak to him naturally as she used to. All the old ease, the trust, and the laughter were gone.
    She must see him. Win or lose, she must know.
    The opportunity came the day Lovat-Smith concluded his case. She had been discussing a pauper who had just been admitted and had persuaded the governors that the man was deserving and in great need. Kristian Beck was the ideal person to treat him. The case was too complex for the student doctors, the other surgeons were fully occupied, and of course Sir Herbert was absent for an unforeseeable time—perhaps forever.
    She knew Kristian was in his rooms from Mrs. Flaherty. She went to his door and knocked, her heart beating so violently she imagined her whole body shook. Her mouth was dry. She knew she would stumble when she spoke.
    She heard his voice invite her to enter, and suddenly she wanted to run, but her legs would not move.
    He called again.
    This time she pushed the door and went in.
    His face lit with pleasure as soon as he saw her and he rose from his seat behind the table.
    “Callandra! Come in—come in! I have hardly seen you for days.” His eyes narrowed a little as he looked at her more closely. There was nothing critical in him, just a gentleness that sent her senses lurching with the power of her own feelings. “You look tired, my dear. Are you not well?”
    It was on her lips to tell him the truth, as she always had,most particularly to him, but it was the perfect excuse to evade.
    “Not perhaps as I would like to be. But it is of no importance.” Her words came in a rush, her tongue fumbling. “I certainly don’t need a doctor. It will pass.”
    “Are you sure?” He looked anxious. “If you’d prefer not to see me, then ask Allington. He is a good man, and here today.”
    “If it persists, I will,” she lied. “But I have come about a man admitted today who most certainly does need your help.” And she described the patient in detail, hearing her own voice going on and on as if it were someone else’s.
    After several moments he held up his hand.
    “I understand—I will see him. There is no need to persuade me.” Again he looked at her closely. “Is something troubling you, my dear? You are not at all yourself. Have we not trusted one another sufficiently that you can allow me to help?”
    It was an open invitation, and she knew that by refusing she would not only close the door and make it harder to open again next time, but she would hurt him. His emotion was there in his eyes, and it should have made her heart sing.
    Now she felt choked with unshed tears. All the loneliness of an uncounted span, long before her husband had died, times when he was brisk, full of his own concerns—not unkind, simply unable to bridge a gulf of difference between them—all the hunger for intimacy of the heart was wide and vulnerable within her.
    “It’s only the wretched business of the nurse,” she said, looking down at the floor. “And the trial. I don’t know what to think, and I am allowing it to trouble me more than I should … I am sorry. Please forgive me for burdening everyone else with it when we all have sufficient to bear for ourselves.”
    “Is that all?” he said curiously, his voice lifted a little in question.
    “I was fond of her,” she replied, looking up at him becausethat at least was totally true. “And she reminded me of a certain young woman I care about even more. I am just tired. I will be much better tomorrow.” And she forced herself to smile, even though she felt it must look ghastly.
    He smiled back, a sad, gentle look, and she was not sure whether he had believed anything she had said. One thing was certain, she could not possibly ask him about Marianne Gillespie. She could