"I don't think it does," she said almost under her breath. "I see no reason to think of Myles…" She trailed off, her disbelief heavy in the air.
Araminta swung back to Monk.
"And what do you think, Mr. Monk?" she said levelly. "That is what matters, isn't it?"
"I don't know yet, ma'am. It is impossible to say until I have learned more about it."
"But it does concern my husband?" she insisted.
“I am not going to discuss the matter until I know much more of the truth," he replied. "It would be unjust-and mischief making."
Her curious, asymmetrical smile was hard. She looked from him to her mother again. "Correct me if I am unjust, Mama.'' There was a cruel mimicry of Monk's tone in her voice. "But does this concern Myles's attraction towards Octavia, and the thought that he might have forced his attentions upon her, and as a result of her refusal killed her?"
"You are unjust," Beatrice said in little more than a whisper. "You have no reason to think such a thing of him."
"But you have," Araminta said without hesitation, the words hard and slow, as if she were cutting her own flesh. "Mama, I do not deserve to be lied to."
Beatrice gave up; she had no heart left to go on trying to deceive. Her fear was too great; it could be felt like an electric presage of storm in the room. She sat unnaturally motionless, her eyes unfocused, her hands knotted together in her lap.
"Martha Rivett charged that Myles forced himself upon her," she said in a level voice, drained of passion. "That is why she left. Your father dismissed her. She was-" She stopped. To have added the child was an unnecessary blow. Araminta had never borne a child. Monk knew what Beatrice had been going to say as surely as if she had said it. "She was
irresponsible," she finished lamely. "We could not keep her in the house saying things like that."
"I see." Araminta's face was ashen white with two high spots of color in her cheeks.
The door opened again and Romola came in, saw the frozen tableau in front of her, Beatrice sitting upright on the sofa, Araminta stiff as a twig, her face set and teeth clenched tight, Hester still standing behind the other large armchair, not knowing what to do, and Monk sitting uncomfortably leaning forward. She glanced at the menu in Araminta's hand, then ignored it. It was apparent even to her that she had interrupted something acutely painful, and dinner was of little importance.
"What is wrong?" she demanded, looking from one to another of them. "Do you know who killed Octavia?"
"No we don't!" Beatrice turned toward her and spoke surprisingly sharply. "We were discussing the parlormaid who was dismissed two years ago."
"Whatever for?" Romola's voice was heavy with disbelief. "Surely that can hardly matter now?"
"Probably not," Beatrice agreed.
"Then why are you wasting time discussing it?" Romola came over to the center of the room and sat down in one of the smaller chairs, arranging her skirts gracefully. "You all look as if it were fearful. Has something happened to her?"
"I have no idea," Beatrice snapped, her temper broken at last. "I should think it is not unlikely."
"Why should it?" Romola was confused and frightened; this was all too much for her. "Didn't you give her a character? Why did you dismiss her anyway?'' She twisted around to look at Araminta, her eyebrows raised.
“No, I did not give her a character,'' Beatrice said flatly.
"Well why not?" Romola looked at Araminta and away again. "Was she dishonest? Did she steal something? No one told me!"
"It was none of your concern," Araminta said brusquely.
"It was if she was a thief! She might have taken something of mine!"
"Hardly. She charged that she had been raped!" Araminta glared at her.
"Raped?" Romola was amazed, her expression changed
from fear to total incredulity. "You mean-raped) Good gracious! '' Relief flooded her, the color returning to her beautiful skin. "Well if she was of loose morals of course you had to dismiss her. No one would argue with that. I daresay she took to the streets; women of that sort do. Why on earth are we concerned about it now? There is nothing we can do about it, and probably there never was."
Hester could contain herself no longer.
"She was raped, Mrs. Moidore-taken by force by someone heavier and stronger than herself. That does not stem from immorality. It could happen to any woman."
Romola stared at her as if she had grown horns. "Of course it stems from immorality! Decent women don't get violated- they don't lay themselves open to it-they don't invite it-or frequent such places in such company. I don't know what kind of society you come from that you could suggest such a thing.'' She shook her head a little. "I daresay your experiences as a nurse have robbed you of any finer feelings-I beg your pardon for saying such a thing, but you force the issue. Nurses have a reputation for loose conduct which is well known-and scarcely to be envied. Respectable women who behave moderately and dress with decorum do not excite the sort of passions you are speaking of, nor do they find themselves in situations where such a thing could occur. The very idea is quite preposterous-and repulsive."
"It is not preposterous," Hester contradicted flatly. "It is frightening, certainly. It would be very comfortable to suppose that if you behave discreetly you are in no danger of ever being assaulted or having unwelcome attentions forced upon you." She drew in her breath. "It would also be completely untrue, and a quite false sense of safety-and of being morally superior and detached from the pain and the humiliation of it. We would all like to think it could not happen to us, or anyone we know-but it would be wrong.'' She stopped, seeing Romola's incredulity turning to outrage, Beatrice's surprise and a first spark of respect, and Araminta's extraordinary interest and something that looked almost like a momentary flicker of warmth.
"You forget yourself!" Romola said. "And you forget who we are. Or perhaps you never knew? I am not aware what manner of person you nursed before you came here, but I
assure you we do not associate with the sort of people who assault women."
"You are a fool," Araminta said witheringly. "Sometimes I wonder what world it is you live in."
"Minta," Beatrice warned, her voice on edge, her hands clenched together again.”I think we have discussed the matter enough. Mr. Monk will pursue whatever course he deems appropriate. There is nothing more we can offer at the moment. Hester, will you please help me upstairs? I wish to retire. I will not be down for dinner, nor do I wish to see anyone until I feel better."
"How convenient," Araminta said coldly. "But I am sure we shall manage. There is nothing you are needed for. I shall see to everything, and inform Papa." She swung around to Monk. "Good day, Mr. Monk. You must have enough to keep you busy for some time-although whether it will serve any purpose other than to make you appear diligent, I doubt. I don't see how you can prove anything, whatever you suspect.''
"Suspect?'' Romola looked first at Monk, then at her sister-in-law, her voice rising with fear again. "Suspect of what? What has this to do with Octavia?"
But Araminta ignored her and walked past her out of the door.
Monk stood up and excused himself to Beatrice, inclined his head to Hester, then held the door open for them as they left, Romola behind them, agitated and annoyed, but helpless to do anything about it.