William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

don’t ever mention death. People don’t die, they ‘pass over,’ or sometimes they ‘take the great journey.’ But it is always peaceful, as if they have fallen asleep. She will have to learn this … very slowly.”
    Hester reached for the jar of dried lavender flowers. “I don’t think there is time to be very slow,” she replied, realizing how little she knew of Perdita Sheldon or of the tenor of her marriage, the strength of her love for her husband. Hester could hardly ask Martha if Perdita was really only in love with the idea of love, of a handsome husband and a dream of happiness which simply moved, untrammeled by pain or reality, into an endless future. Asking Martha would be almost like making such an inquiry of her own mother.
    And yet if she did not she might be losing the only chance anyone had to help Perdita—and Gabriel. He was maimed; he was disfigured. He had seen horror he would never forget and had lost too many of the flower of his friends not to be reminded—with every hot day, every military tune, every buzzing of flies—of what he had seen.
    “Perhaps she should start with a history of India?” Hester suggested. “Begin forty or fifty years ago. Then the Mutiny would make more sense. By the time she reached it, she would understand at least a little of why it happened.” She smiled, remembering Schoolbook Latin.
“Peccavi,”
she said wryly. “That is what Clive said when he had conquered the province of Sind. He sent it in the dispatch home.”
    Martha blinked.
    “Peccavi,”
Hester repeated. “It is Latin…. It means ‘I have sinned.’ ”
    “Oh. I see.” Martha smiled back, some of the tension easing out of her face. “Of course. It is so long since I taught … and then it was mostly French, and a little Italian for music. I’m sorry.” She blushed, and began to buff the tortoiseshell gently. “Things have changed … but that has nothing to do with Miss Perdita now. Do you think Indian history would help? I suppose … she does have to know? You don’t thinkhe—Lieutenant Sheldon—would be better if he could forget it, bit by bit? Would it be easier if she didn’t know?”
    “If you were she, what would you want?” Hester asked, searching Martha’s face.
    Suddenly Martha’s eyes filled with tears and she turned away, wiping her hand quickly across her cheek. “I should want to know!” she said fiercely. “No matter what the truth was … I should want to know!” Her voice was tight and brittle with the power of her emotions, and for a moment some pain within her was naked.
    Hester could not pretend not to have noticed, but she could at least refrain from making any remark.
    “Then we had better find her some appropriate books,” she said, pulling down the next jar, which held comfrey leaves. It was less than half full. “And I think we should replenish our stock of herbs and oils before it gets too low.”
    Martha regained control of herself and continued polishing. “Yes, certainly, Miss Latterly,” she agreed. “I think that would be excellent. Thank you for your counsel.” She shot her a swift look of gratitude, and for a moment there was great understanding between them.
    In the afternoon Hester was upstairs with Gabriel, reading to him from a book of poetry, a world utterly removed from the physical immediacies or the emotional pains of reality. It was Keats’s epic “Endymion,” and its lovely cadences soothed without turmoil.
    There was a brisk knock on the door, and almost before Gabriel had spoken, it opened and Athol Sheldon came in. He was Gabriel’s height, but broader in shoulder and chest, and he walked on the balls of his feet, as if he were about to break into a run. He had a long, straight nose and an extremely direct stare.
    “Good afternoon, good afternoon,” he said cheerfully, looking first at Gabriel, then at Hester. “Getting on well? Good.” He always enquired after people’s well-being, but never waited for an answer, assuming it would be positive. Hehad extremely robust health himself, and regarded it as an attainable ideal for everyone, if not immediately, then certainly in time, with the right attitude. As a matter of principle, he never complained about anything.
    “Hello, Athol,” Gabriel replied guardedly. In his present state he found such vigor exhausting. “How are you?” He asked from habit.
    “Very well, very well,” Athol replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Saw Perdita