William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

the strength into relief. “But I won’t let anything drive me back. My children will not grow up there! And I won’t have Lord Ravensbrook feed them and clothe them, anddictate what manner of people they shall be. I won’t let him hug them, to fill Angus’s place.”
    “Would he do that?” Hester said slowly, picturing Ravensbrook’s dark, patrician face in her mind with its arrogance and charm.
    “I don’t know,” Genevieve confessed. “But I’m afraid of it. I feel terribly alone without Angus. You see, he understood me. He knew where I came from, and he didn’t mind my occasional mistakes.…”
    A whole vision of fear and humiliation opened up in front of Hester. With a breathtaking vividness she perceived what it would be like for Genevieve at Ravensbrook House night and day, watched at every meal, observed and quite soon criticized. Not only would Ravensbrook himself notice all the tiny errors in even the most carefully produced etiquette or grammar, but perhaps even worse, so would the staff, the careful butler, the supercilious housekeeper, the giggling maids. Only possibly Enid would not care.
    “Of course,” she said with intense feeling. “You must keep your own home. Mr.—”
    She was interrupted by a brisk knock at the door and the housekeeper walking in, her face grim, the keys at her belt jangling.
    “There is a person to see you, Miss Latterly,” she announced. “You had better use the butler’s pantry. Mr. Dolman says as he doesn’t mind. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Stonefield.”
    “What kind of a person?” Hester asked.
    The housekeeper’s face did not change in the slightest, not a flicker of her expression moved.
    “A male person, Miss Latterly. More than that you will have to find out for yourself. Please be advised we do not allow the female staff to have followers, and that also applies to you while you are resident here, whatever your purpose.”
    Hester was stunned.
    But Genevieve felt no such restrictions.
    “Miss Latterly is not a servant, Mrs. Gibbons,” she said smartly. “She is a professional person who has given her time freely out of regard for Lady Ravensbrook, who might well have died if it had not been for her treatment!”
    “If you can call nursing a profession,” Mrs. Gibbons retorted with a sniff. “And it is the good Lord who heals the sick, not any of us, Mrs. Stonefield. As a Christian woman, I’m sure you know that.”
    Thoughts flashed across Hester’s mind about the virtues of Christian women, beginning with charity, but this was not the time to enter into an argument she could not win.
    “Thank you for bringing me the message, Mrs. Gibbons,” she said, baring her teeth in a gesture that bore little resemblance to a smile. “How kind of you.” And with a nod to Genevieve, she rose to her feet and left the room.
    The butler’s pantry was two doors along the passage, and she went in without knocking.
    She was startled to see Monk standing there looking almost haggard. His face was pale and there were lines of strain unlike anything she had seen in him since the Grey case.
    “What is it?” she asked, closing the door behind her, her stomach sinking with dread. “It can’t be Stonefield, can it? It … it’s not Callandra.” Pain almost dizzied her. “Has something happened to Callandra?”
    “No!” His voice was strident. He controlled it with an effort. “No,” he repeated more calmly. His face was full of emotion and he was obviously finding it extremely difficult to frame the words to tell her.
    She forced back her impatience. She had seen both shock and fear before and she knew the signs. To have affected Monk this way it must be something very dreadful indeed.
    “Sit down and tell me,” she said gently. “What has happened?”
    Temper flared in his eyes, then died away, replaced by the fear again. The very fact that he did not retaliate chilled her even more. She sat down on the drab, overstuffed chairand folded her hands in her lap, under her apron, where he could not see that they were clenched together.
    “I have been accused of assault.” He said the words between his teeth, not looking at her.
    “And are you guilty?” she asked levelly, knowing his rage and his physical strength. She had not forgotten the body in Mecklenburg Square, beaten to death, and that Monk had once feared he had done it himself.
    His eyes widened, glaring at her, his features twisted with outrage.
    “No!” he shouted. “God in