William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

sometimes self-conscious, sometimes weary and frightened creature that you are, just as frail as they, but as some kind of cross between a genius and a saint, whose every thought bears examination and whose every act will be both wise and kind. One could never relax, never admit to weakness or doubt, never simply lose one’s temper or confess terror, failure or despair. What intolerable loneliness! And yet a loneliness without privacy.
    Was she aware of the intimate facts of life? Looking at her bright innocence, and knowing a little of the tragic lives of some of his clients, he thought very possibly not. And even if she was, could any man live up to her expectations?
    His own skin broke out in a prickle of sweat as he placed himself in Melville’s situation for a moment. Now he understood only too sharply why the young architect could not bear it. With Delphine Lambert engineering everything, her clever, prying eyes seeing every fleeting expression of her daughter’s face, nothing he said or did would go unknown. He could not ever fail in decent privacy.
    And it had been arrogant of Rathbone to imagine he could not have found himself in the same position. He was at least twelve or fifteen years older than Melville, if not more. And yet he had been neatly enough maneuvered by Mrs. Ballinger.
    “I imagine you will be very happy, Miss Lambert,” he said awkwardly. “I certainly hope you will. But …”
    She looked at him without the slightest comprehension. “But what, Sir Oliver? Can you doubt my good fortune? You would not, if you knew Killian, I promise you.”
    What could he possibly say to be even barely honest? What should he say to her? Melville had asked Rathbone to defendhim in court, should the need arise, not to conduct any negotiations to break the engagement. He might change his mind. It might simply be the sort of nervousness many people experience before marriage.
    “But nothing, Miss Lambert,” he said, shaking his head. “Perhaps I merely envy you. I wish you every joy. Good evening.” And before he could find himself any further embroiled, he took his leave and made his way towards Lady Hardesty.
    The following day Rathbone sent Melville a message saying that on further consideration he had changed his mind, and if Melville should, after all, find himself sued for breach of promise, Rathbone would be willing to represent him. Although he feared it would be a most difficult case, and his change was not based upon any alteration in his belief that the chances of success were very small. Still, he would do his best.

2
    W
HILE THE THOUGHT
of her had crossed Rathbone’s mind during Lady Hardesty’s ball, Hester Latterly herself was sitting quietly in the room she had been given for her accommodation during her stay in the elegant house at the northwest corner of Tavistock Square. It was the house of Lieutenant Gabriel Sheldon and his new young wife, Perdita. Lieutenant Sheldon had served honorably in the army in India. He had survived the hideous Mutiny, the siege of Cawnpore, and been one of the few survivors of that atrocity. He had remained in India afterwards, only to fall victim to appalling injuries just over two years later, in the winter of 1859–60. He had lost an arm, been severely disfigured, and at first was not expected to live.
    By January his partial recovery was deemed sufficient for him to be shipped home to England and invalided out of the service. However, he was far from well enough to manage without skilled nursing, and the damage done to the skin and flesh of his face was such that it required a particular sensitivity, as well as medical knowledge of and experience with such wounds, to care for him. The stump of his arm was also far from satisfactory. The wound still was raw in places and not entirely free from infection. Even the danger of gangrene could not yet be disregarded.
    Perdita Sheldon had been young and pretty and full of high spirits when her handsome husband of a few months had been obliged to return to his regiment and departed for India in thelate autumn of 1856. She had wanted to go with him, but she had been newly with child and not at all well. She had miscarried in the spring. And then in 1857 the unimaginable had happened. The native sepoys had mutinied, and the revolt had spread like wildfire. Men, women and children were massacred. The tales that reached England were almost too monstrous to be believed. Daily, almost hourly, people rushed to