"Nothing," she said very quietly. "Nothing at all, except that he is human, and by hanging him we diminish ourselves as well."
"My dear Hester." Slowly and quite deliberately, his lashes lowered but his eyes open, he leaned forward until his lips touched hers, not with passion but with utmost gentleness and long, delicate intimacy.
When he drew away she felt both more and less alone than she ever had before, and she knew at once from his face that it had caught him in some way by surprise also.
He drew breath as if to speak, then changed his mind and turned away, going over to the window and standing with his back half towards her.
"I am truly sorry I could not do better for Percival," he said again, his voice a little rough and charged with a sincerity she could not doubt. “For him, and because you trusted me."
"You have discharged that trust completely," she said quickly. "I expected you to do all you could-I did not expect a miracle. I can see how passion is rising among the public. Perhaps we never had a chance. It was simply necessary that we try everything within our power. I am sorry I spoke so foolishly. Of course you could not have suggested Myles-or Araminta. It would only have turned the jury even more against Percival; I can see that if I free my mind from frustration and apply a little intelligence."
He smiled at her, his eyes bright. "How very practical."
"You are laughing at me," she said without resentment. "I know it is considered unwomanly, but I see nothing attractive in behaving like a fool when you don't have to."
His smile broadened. "My dear Hester, neither do I. It is extremely tedious. It is more than enough to do so when we cannot help ourselves. What are you going to do now? How will you survive, once Lady Moidore no longer considers herself in need of a nurse?''
"I shall advertise for someone else who does-until I am able to search for a job in administration somewhere."
"I am delighted. From what you say you have not abandoned your hope of reforming English medicine.''
"Certainly not-although I do not expect to do it in the lifetime your tone suggests. If I initiate anything at all I will be satisfied."
"I am sure you will." His laughter vanished. "A determination like yours will not be thwarted long, even by the Pom-eroys of the world.''
"And I shall find Mr. Monk and go over the whole case again," she added. "Just so I am sure there is nothing whatever we can still do."
"If you find anything, bring it to me." He was very grave indeed now. "Will you promise me that? We have three weeks in which it might still be possible to appeal."
"I will," she said with a return of the hard, gray misery inside her. The moment's ineffable warmth was gone, Percival remembered. "I will." And she bade him good-bye and took her leave to seek Monk.
Hester returned to Queen Anne Street light-footed, but the leaden feeling was at the edge of her mind waiting to return now that she was forced to think of reality again.
She was surprised to learn from Mary, as soon as she was in the house, that Beatrice was still confining herself to her room and would take her evening meal upstairs. She had gone
into the ironing room for a clean apron, and found Mary there folding the last of her own linen.
"Is she ill?" Hester said with some concern-and a pang of guilt, not only for what might be dereliction of her duty but because she had not believed the malady was now anything but a desire to be a trifle spoilt, and to draw from her family the attention she did not otherwise. And that in itself was something of a mystery. Beatrice was not only a lovely woman but vivid and individual, not made in the placid mold of Romola. She was also intelligent, imaginative and at times capable of considerable humor. Why should such a woman not be the very heartbeat of her home?
“She looked pale,'' Mary replied, pulling a little face.”But then she always does. I think she's in a temper, myself- although I shouldn't say that."
Hester smiled. The feet that Mary should not say something never stopped her, in fact it never even made her hesitate.
"With whom?" Hester asked curiously.
"Everyone in general, but Sir Basil in particular."
"Do you know why?"
Mary shrugged; it was a graceful gesture. "I should think over what they said about Miss Octavia at the trial." She scowled furiously.'' Wasn 't that awful! They made out she was so tipsy she encouraged the footman to make advances-" She stopped and looked at Hester meaningfully.”Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
"Was that not true?"
"Not that I ever saw." Mary was indignant. "She was tipsy, certainly, but Miss Octavia was a lady. She wouldn't have let Percival touch her if he'd been the last man alive on a desert island. Actually it's my belief she wouldn't have let any man touch her after Captain Haslett died. Which is what made Mr. Myles so furious. Now if she'd stabbed him, I'd have believed it!"
"Did he really lust after her?" Hester asked, for the first time using the right word openly.
Mary's dark eyes widened a fraction, but she did not equivocate.
"Oh yes. You should have seen it in his face. Mind, she was very pretty, you know, in a quite different way from Miss Araminta. You never saw her, but she was so alive-" Suddenly misery gripped hold of her again, and all the realization of loss flooded back, and the anger she had been trying to suppress. "That was wicked, what they said about her! Why do people say things like that?" Her chin came up and her eyes were blazing. "Fancy her saying all those wretched things about Dinah, and Mrs. Willis and all. They won't ever forgive her for that, you know. Why did she do it?"
"Spite?" Hester suggested. "Or maybe just exhibitionism. She loves to be the center of attention. If anyone is looking at her she feels alive-important.''
Mary looked confused.
"There are some people like that." Hester tried to explain what she had never put into words before. "They're empty, insecure alone; they only feel real when other people listen to them and take notice.''
"Admiration. "Mary laughed bitterly. "It's contempt. What she did was vicious. I can tell you, no one 'round here'll forgive her for it."
"I don't suppose that'll bother her," Hester said dryly, thinking of Fenella's opinion of servants.
Mary smiled. "Oh yes it will!" she said fiercely. "She won't get a hot cup of tea in the morning anymore; it will be lukewarm. We will be ever so sorry, we won't know how it happened, but it will go on happening. Her best clothes will be mislaid in the laundry, some will get torn, and no one will know who did it. Everyone will have found it like that. Her letters will be delivered to someone else, caught between the pages, messages for her or from her will be slow in delivery. The rooms she's in will get cold because footmen will be too busy to stoke the fires, and her afternoon tea will be late. Believe me, Miss Latterly, it will bother her. And Mrs. Willis nor Cook won't put a stop to it. They'll all be just as innocent and smug as the rest of us, and not have an idea how it happens. And Mr. Phillips won't do nothing either. He may have airs like he was a duke, but he's loyal when it comes down to it. He's one of us."
Hester could not help smiling. It was all incredibly trivial, but there was a kind of justice in it.
Mary saw her expression, and her own eased into one of satisfaction and something like conspiracy. "You see?" she said.
"I see," Hester agreed. "Yes-very appropriate." And still with a smile she took her linen and left.
Upstairs Hester found Beatrice sitting alone in her room in one of the dressing chairs, staring out of the window at the rain beginning to fall steadily into the bare garden. It was January, bleak, colorless, and promising fog before dark.