William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

the two terrified girls into it and made sure Monk had sufficient money for the fare to Tavistock Square.
    It was late afternoon and still raining hard. They were all filthy and shivering with cold. Perhaps it would have been more reasonable to go around to the back door, but Monk was so fired with triumph he did not even consider it. He paid the driver and helped the girls down onto the curb. He had actually given little thought as to what Martha would do with them, or what Gabriel Sheldon’s reaction would be to these two ragged and all but uncivilized creatures brought unannounced to his home. But surely he, of all people, would at least accept their deformities without mockery or revulsion.
    All the journey from the Surrey Docks, as he had sought to comfort and reassure the girls, his mind had been filled with the shattering realization that Delphine Lambert must be the same person as Dolly Jackson. The turmoil of emotions in her heart he could barely guess at! Now he set all thought of her aside and knocked on the door, then stood, holding the girls on either side of him, his arms around their shoulders. They were thin,undernourished, nothing like Zillah Lambert. But then Zillah was no blood relative, as he knew.
    The door was opened by Martha Jackson. At first she did not recognize Monk, let alone the two young women with him. Her face showed weariness and impatience, not unmixed with pity.
    “If you go to the kitchen door Cook will give you a hot cup of soup,” she offered with a shake of her head.
    “Miss Jackson,” Monk said clearly, grinning at her in spite of himself. He had meant to retain some dignity and detachment. “These are your nieces, Leda and Phemie.” He kept his arms around them. “They’ve had a bad experience, and they are cold and hungry and frightened, but I told them they were coming home and that you would be very pleased to see them.”
    Martha stared at him, unable to grasp or believe. She looked at the two girls in front of her, their faces wide with wonder, not daring to hope that Monk’s words were true. They were dazed with exhaustion and the speed with which things had happened. And they only heard part of what was said. They needed to see a face, read an expression. They had to have words said slowly and with clear enunciation.
    Martha searched their expressions, their features beneath the dirt, and slowly her eyes widened and filled with tears. She took a gulp of air and with a mighty effort controlled herself.
    “Phemie?” she whispered, swallowing again. “Leda?”
    They nodded, still clinging to Monk.
    “I’m … Martha…. I’m your papa’s sister.” The tears spilled over as she said it, a rush of memory overwhelming her.
    “M-Martha?” Phemie said awkwardly. Her voice was not unpleasant, but she found speech difficult as no one had taken the time to try to teach her to master her disability.
    “That’s right,” Monk encouraged her. He looked at Leda, the younger, and he already knew her the more serious, more conscious of her affliction.
    “M-Mar-tha?” Leda tried hard, licking her misshapen lip.
    Martha smiled through her tears, taking a step forwardinstinctively, then stopping. It was plain in her face she was afraid of moving too quickly. They did not know her. They might not wish to be touched by a stranger … and she was a stranger to them still.
    Phemie held out her hand in response, slowly at first.
    Martha took it gently, holding out her other hand to Leda.
    There was a moment’s silence as the lights inside the hallway shone out into the gray afternoon, reflecting in the drifting rain and the cabs and carriages splashing along the street behind the sodden man with hair plastered across his face in dark streaks, his clothes sticking to him, and two gaunt and ragged young women, hair like rats’ tails, clothes torn and thin.
    Then Leda stretched her hand and gave it to Martha, holding on to her with surprising strength.
    “Come inside,” Martha invited. “Get warm and dry … and have some hot soup.”
    Monk found himself grinning idiotically. He wanted to laugh with joy.
    “I think you had better come too, Mr. Monk,” Martha said in a very unbusinesslike tone. “You look terrible. I’ll find you some better clothes before you see Miss Latterly. I’m sure something of Mr. Gabriel’s will fit you, for the time being. Then I’ll let Miss Latterly know you are here.”
    He wanted to tell Hester himself, see her face when he