William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

anything else, is there?” She moved another step away from him, her shoulders rigid, as if she would flinch were he to touch her. “I imagine I shall endure whatever it is. I shall have no alternative.”
    “You’re angry,” he said with a lift of surprise.
    “Nonsense!” He was missing the point entirely. It had nothing to do with Rhys Duff or who had beaten the women. It was his assumption that she could be treated like another man, that she could and should always look after herself. She could. But that was not the point either.
    “Hester!”
    She had her back to him but he sounded patient and reasonable. It was like vinegar on the wound.
    “Hester, I’m not choosing it to be Rhys. I’ll look for any other possibility as well.”
    “I know you will.”
    Now he was puzzled. “Then what the devil more do you want of me? I cannot alter what happened, nor will I settle for less than the truth. I can’t save Rhys from himself, and I can’t save his mother … if that is what you want.”
    She swung around.
    “It isn’t what I want! And I don’t expect anything of you. Heavens above! I’ve known you long enough now to be precisely aware of what I shall get from you.” The words poured out of her, and even as she heard them, she wished she had kept silent, not made herself so obvious and so vulnerable. He would read her plainly now. He would hardly be able to help it.
    He was dumbfounded and annoyed. His face showed the only too familiar marks of temper. A veil came over his eyes, the gentleness hidden.
    “Then our conversation seems to be pointless,” he said grimly. “We understand each other perfectly, and there is no more to be said.” He gave a little gesture, rather less than a bow. “Thank you for sparing your time. Good day.” He walked out, leaving her miserable and equally angry.
    Later in the afternoon Arthur Kynaston called again, this time accompanied by his elder brother, Duke. Hester saw them as they crossed the hall from the library to go upstairs.
    “Good afternoon, Miss Latterly,” Arthur said cheerfully. He glanced down at the book she was carrying. “Is that one for Rhys? How is he?”
    Duke was behind him, a larger and stronger version of his brother, heavier shouldered. He had walked in with more grace, something of a swagger. His face was broader boned, more traditionally handsome but perhaps less individual. He had the same soft, wavy hair with a touch of auburn in it. He was now regarding Hester with impatience. It was not she they had come to see.
    Arthur turned around. “Oh, Duke, this is Miss Latterly, who is looking after Rhys.”
    “Good,” Duke said abruptly. “We’ll carry the book up for you.” He held out his hand for it. It was rather more a demand than an offer.
    Hester felt an instant dislike for him. If these were indeed the young men Monk was looking for, then he was responsible not only for the brutal attacks on the women but for the ruin of his brother and of Rhys.
    “Thank you, Mr. Kynaston,” she replied coldly, making an immediate change of mind. “It is not for Rhys; I intend reading it myself.”
    He looked at it. “It is a history of the Ottoman Empire,” he said with a slight smile.
    “A most interesting people,” she observed. “Last time I was in Istanbul I found much of great beauty. I should like to know more about it. They were a generous people in many respects, with a culture of great subtlety and complexity.” It was also cruel beyond her understanding, but that was irrelevant just now.
    Duke looked taken aback. It was not the reply he had expected, but he regained his composure rapidly.
    “Is there much call for domestic servants in Istanbul? I would have thought most people would have employed natives, especially for fetching and carrying.”
    “I imagine they do.” She answered him without looking at Arthur. “I was too busy to think of such things. I left my own lady’s maid in London. I did not think it was any place for her, and it was quite unfair to ask her to go.” She smiled back at him. “I have always believed consideration for one’s servantsis the mark of the gentleman … or lady, as the case may be. Don’t you agree?”
    “You had a lady’s maid?” he said incredulously. “Whatever for?”
    “If you ask your mother, Mr. Kynaston, I am sure she will acquaint you with the duties of a lady’s maid,” she answered, tucking the book under her arm. “They are many and varied, and I am sure