William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

prison and would not have wished it on any living thing. He could remember the cold that ate into the bones, the damp of the walls as if they were forever weeping, the smell of mold and sour places that are never open to the air. One could taste the despair in it. He could close his eyes and see the men, shaven-headed, in the backbreaking exercises of passing the shot, endlessly, pointlessly moving cannon balls from one place to another, around in a ring, or the treadmill, the cages graphically known as the “cockchafers.” The enforced silence beat in his ears, where all human exchange was forbidden.
    “Was that my fault?” he demanded again with sudden violence, stopping Evan by grasping his arm so he winced and was forced to swing around to face him.
    “It was your doing,” Evan said without deviating his gaze at all. “But the man was guilty. The sentence was the judge’s to give, not yours. What Drusilla Buckingham could not forgive you for, I should imagine, was that you used her to catch Sallis. You told her he was betraying her with her own sister, Julia. In rage and hurt she gave you what you wanted.”
    Monk felt the cold bite into the core of his body. He was no longer aware of his feet on the pavement or the carriages coming and going along Guildford Street, the clink of harness.
    “And was he?”
    “I don’t know,” Evan answered him. “There’s nothing to suggest it.”
    Monk let out his breath slowly. He hated the misery in Evan’s eyes, the refusal to excuse him, but he had no argument. He felt the same revulsion for himself. The man might have been guilty, but why had he pushed the hurt so far? Was it worth using a woman’s jealousy to betray her lover to the Coldbath Fields, for a few pounds from the church funds, albeit the poor box?
    He wouldn’t do it now. He would let it go. The shame would be enough. If the vicar knew, even if Drusilla knew in her heart, was that not all it really needed?
    “It’s past,” Evan said quietly. “You can’t undo it. I wish I knew how to stop her now, but I don’t.”
    “I didn’t recognize her,” Monk said sincerely, as if it meant something. “I spent hours with her, and nothing returned in my memory at all.”
    Evan started to walk again and Monk kept up with him.
    “Nothing!” Monk said desperately.
    “It’s not so surprising.” Evan looked straight ahead of them. “She’s changed her name, and it was several years ago. Fashions are different now. I daresay she altered her appearance somewhat. Women can. It was a very trivial offense, to our eyes, but it was a scandal at the time. Sallis was trusted, and the romance came out too. Both girls’ reputations were ruined.”
    All sorts of thoughts boiled up inside Monk, excuses that died before they were formed, self-disgust, remorse, confusion. None of it found easy words, and perhaps they were better unsaid anyway.
    “I see.” He kept pace with Evan, their footsteps making a single sound on the pavement. “Thank you.”
    They crossed Guildford Street and turned down Lamb’s Conduit Street. Monk had no idea where they were going, he was simply following, but he was glad it was not Mecklenburg Square. He had too many nightmares already.
    *  *  *
    That evening Drusilla Wyndham, as she was now known, attended a musical soiree at the home of a lady of fashion. She had dressed with great care, to set off her considerable beauty, and she fully expected to create an effect. She swept in, head high, skin glowing with the inner triumph which burned in her mind, the knowledge that the cup of revenge was at her lips, the first taste on her tongue.
    And she did create an effect, but it was far from the one she had intended. A gentleman who had always shown her gallantry looked at her with alarm, and then turned his back as if he had suddenly seen someone else he must speak with immediately.
    She did not take it seriously, until Sir Percy Gainsborough also effected not to have seen her, when he quite plainly had done.
    The Honourable Gerald Hapsgood positively spilled his champagne in his urgency to avoid her, apologized in alarm to the lady next to him, and then in most unbecoming haste, trod on the edge of her gown and only saved his balance by catching hold of Lady Burgoyne.
    The Duchess of Granby gave her a stare which would have frozen cream.
    Altogether it was a most unpleasant evening, and she went home early, confused and very put out, not having said a word of what she had