"I'd have fits of the vapors myself if my stays were as tight as hers," Hester said wryly. "Her maid must lace them with one foot on the bedpost. Poor soul. And of course her mother's trying to marry her off to Sydney Ab-ernathy-he has plenty of money and a fancy for wraith-like fragility-it makes him feel masterful."
"I shall have to see if I can find a suitable homily for her on vanity." Imogen ignored the basket and led the way through to the withdrawing room and threw herself into one of the large chairs. "I am hot and tired. Do have Martha bring us some lemonade. Can you reach the bell?"
It was an idle question, since Hester was still standing.
Absently she pulled the end. "It isn't vanity," she said, still referring to Miss Wentworth. "It's survival. What is the poor creature to do if she doesn't marry? Her mother and sisters have convinced her the only alternative is shame, poverty and a lonely and pitiful old age."
"That reminds me," Imogen said, pushing her boots off. "Have you heard from Lady Callandra's hospital yet? I mean the one you want to administer."
"I don't aim quite so high; I merely want to assist," Hester corrected.
"Rubbish!" Imogen stretched her feet luxuriously and sank a little further into the chair. "You want to order around the entire staff."
The maid came in and stood waiting respectfully.
"Lemonade, please, Martha," Imogen ordered. "I'm so hot I could expire. This climate really is ridiculous. One day it rains enough to float an ark, the next we are all suffocated with heat."
"Yes ma'am. Would you like some cucumber sandwiches as well, ma'am?"
"Oh yes. Yes I would-thank you."
"Yes ma'am." And with a whisk of skirts she was gone.
Hester filled the few minutes while the maid was absent with trivial conversation. She had always found it easy to talk to Imogen and their friendship was more like that of sisters than of two women related only by marriage, whose patterns of life were so different. When Martha had brought the sandwiches and lemonade and they were alone, she turned at last to the matter which was pressing so urgently on her mind.
"Imogen, that policeman, Monk, was here again yesterday-"
Imogen's hand stopped in the air, the sandwich ignored, but there was curiosity in her face and a shadow of amusement. There was nothing that looked like fear. But then Imogen, unlike Hester, could conceal her feelings perfectly if she chose.
"Monk? What did he want this time?"
"Why are you smiling?"
"At you, my dear. He annoys you so much, and yet I think part of you quite likes him. You are not dissimilar in some ways, full of impatience at stupidity and anger at injustice, and perfectly prepared to be as rude as you can."
"I am nothing like him whatever," Hester said impatiently. "And this is not a laughing matter." She could feel an irritating warmth creep up in her cheeks. Just once in a while she would like to take more naturally to feminine arts, as Imogen did as easily as breathing. Men did not rush to protect her as they did Imogen; they always assumed she was perfectly competent to take care of herself, and it was a compliment she was growing tired of.
Imogen ate her sandwich, a tiny thing about two inches square.
"Are you going to tell me what he came for, or not?"
"Certainly I am." Hester took a sandwich herself and bit into it; it was lacily thin and the cucumber was crisp and cool. "A few weeks ago he had a very serious accident, about the time Joscelin Grey was killed."
"Oh-I'm sorry. Is he ill now? He seemed perfectly recovered."
"I think his body is quite mended," Hester answered, and seeing the sudden gravity and concern in Imogen's face felt a gentleness herself. "But he was struck very severely on the head, and he cannot remember anything before regaining his senses in a London hospital."
"Not anything." A flicker of amazement crossed Imogen's fece. "You mean he didn't remember me-I mean us?"
"He didn't remember himself," Hester said starkly. "He did not know his name or his occupation. He did not recognize his own face when he saw it in the glass."
"How extraordinary-and terrible. I do not always like myself completely-but to lose yourself! I cannot imagine having nothing at all left of all your past-all your experiences, and the reason why you love or hate things."
"Why did you go to him, Imogen?"
"What? I mean, I beg your pardon?"
"You heard what I said. When we first saw Monk in St. Marylebone Church you went over to speak to him. You knew him. I assumed at the time that he knew you, but he did not. He did not know anyone."
Imogen looked away, and very carefully took another sandwich.
"I presume it is something Charles does not know about," Hester went on.
"Are you threatening me?" Imogen asked, her enormous eyes quite frank.
"No I am not!" Hester was annoyed, with herself for being clumsy as well as Imogen for thinking such a thing. "I didn't know there was anything to threaten you with. I was going to say that unless it is unavoidable, I shall not tell him. Was it something to do with Joscelin Grey?"
Imogen choked on her sandwich and had to sit forward sharply to avoid suffocating herself altogether.
“No,'' she said when at last she caught her breath. “No it was not. I can see that perhaps it was foolish, on reflection. But at the time I really hoped-"
"Hoped«what? For goodness sake, explain yourself."
Slowly, with a good deal of help, criticism and consolation from Hester, Imogen recounted detail by detail exactly what she had done, what she had told Monk, and why.
Four hours later, in the golden sunlight of early evening, Hester stood in the park by the Serpentine watching the light dimple on the water. A small boy in a blue smock carrying a toy boat under his arm passed by with his nursemaid. She was dressed in a plain stuff dress, had a starched lace cap on her head and walked as uprightly as any soldier on parade. An off-duty bandsman watched her with admiration.
Beyond the grass and trees two ladies of fashion rode along Rotten Row, their horses gleaming, harnesses jingling and hooves falling with a soft thud on the earth.
Carriages rattling along Knightsbridge towards Piccadilly seemed in another world, like toys in the distance.
She heard Monk's step before she saw him. She turned when he was almost upon her. He stopped a yard away; their eyes met. Lengthy politeness would be ridiculous between them. There was no outward sign of fear in him- his gaze was level and unflinching-but she knew the void and the imagination that was there.
She was the first to speak.
"Imogen came to you after my father's death, in the rather fragile hope that you might discover some evidence that it was not suicide. The family was devastated. First George had been killed in the war, then Papa had been shot in what the police were kind enough to say might have been an accident, but appeared to everyone to be suicide. He had lost a great deal of money. Imogen was trying to salvage something out of the chaos-for Charles's sake, and for my mother's." She stopped for a moment, trying to keep her composure, but the pain of it was still very deep.
Monk stood perfectly still, not intruding, for which she was grateful. It seemed he understood she must tell it all without interruption in order to be able to tell it at all.
She let out her breath slowly, and resumed.
"It was too late for Mama. Her whole world had collapsed. Her youngest son dead, financial disgrace, and then her husband's suicide-not only his loss but the shame of the manner of it. She died ten days later-she was simply broken-" Again she was obliged to stop for several minutes. Monk said nothing, but stretched out his hand and held hers, hard, firmly, and the pressure of his fingers was like a lifeline to the shore.
In the distance a dog scampered through the grass, and a small boy chased a penny hoop.
"She came to you without Charles's knowing-he would not have approved. That is why she never mentioned it to you again-and of course she did not know you hadj forgotten. She says you questioned her about everything that had happened prior to Papa's death, and on successive meetings you asked her about Joscelin Grey. I shall tell you what she told me-"