"Do you want a trial?" he asked with amusement. His eyes were extraordinarily dark, and he watched her intently.
She had thought she would find it disconcerting, but although perhaps it was, it was also unquestionably pleasant, even if it made her skin a little warm, and very slightly disturbed her concentration. In a subtle way it was like being touched.
"I would very much like the offenders caught and punished," she said vehemently. "It is one of the worst cases I have seen. Often I think I can see some sort of reason for things, but this seems to be simply the most bestial violence.”
"What happened?”
"A young man and his father were attacked in St. Giles, and appallingly beaten. The father died, the young man, whom I am nursing, is very badly injured, and cannot speak." Her voice dropped unintentionally. "I have watched him have nightmares when it is quite obvious he is reliving the attack. He is agonised with terror, hysterical, trying over and over to scream, but his voice won't come.
He is in great physical pain, but the anguish in his mind is even worse.”
"I'm sorry," he said, regarding her gravely. "It must be very difficult for you to watch. Can you help him at all?”
"A little… I hope.”
He smiled across at her, the warmth in his eyes praise enough. Then his brow puckered. "What were they doing in St. Giles? If they can afford a private nurse for him, they don't sound like residents, or even visitors, of such a place.”
"Oh, they aren't!" she said quickly with a lift of amusement which vanished at once. "They live in Ebury Street. Mr. Duff was a senior solicitor, in property conveyancing. I have no idea what they were doing in St. Giles. That is one of the problems the police are trying to solve. It is John Evan by the way. I feel odd behaving as if I do not know him.”
"But it is best, I'm sure," he agreed. "I'm sorry you have such a distressing case." The servant had left a decanter of wine, and he offered it to her, and when she accepted, poured a glassful and passed it to her. He raised his own glass to his lips in an unspoken toast.
"I suppose many of your cases are trying, one way or another?”
She had not thought of it in that light. "Yes… I suppose they are!
Either the person is very ill, and to watch suffering is hard, or they are not, and then I feel I am not challenged enough, not really necessary." She smiled suddenly with real laughter this time. "I'm impossible to please!”
He stared at the light reflecting through the wine in the glass. "Are you sure you want to continue nursing? In an ideal situation, if you did not have to provide for yourself, would you not rather work for hospital reform, as you originally intended?”
She found herself sitting very still, suddenly aware of the crackling of the fire and the sharp edges of the crystal on the glass in her hands. He was not looking at her. Perhaps there was no deeper meaning behind what he had said? No… of course there wasn't! She was being ridiculous. The warmth of the room and the glow of the wine were addling her wits.
"I haven't thought about it," she replied, trying to sound light and casual. "I fear reform will be a very slow process, and I have not the influence necessary to make anyone listen to me.”
He looked up, his eyes gentle and almost black in the candlelight.
Instantly she could have bitten her tongue out. It sounded exactly as if she were angling for the greater influence he had obliquely referred to… perhaps… or perhaps not. It was the last thing she had meant. It was not only crass, it was clumsily done! She could feel the colour burning up her cheeks.
She rose to her feet and turned away. She must say something quickly, but it must be the right thing! Haste might even make it worse. It was so easy to talk too much.
He had risen when she did and now he was behind her, closer than when they were sitting. She was sharply aware of him.
"I don't really have that kind of skill," she said very measuredly.
"Miss Nightingale has. She is a brilliant administrator and arguer.
She can make a point so that people have to concede she is correct, and she never gives up…”
"Do you?" he said with laughter in his voice. She could hear it, but she did not look around.
"No, of course I don't." There were too many shared memories for that to need an answer. They had fought battles together against lies and violence, mystery, fear, ignorance. They had faced all kinds of darkness, and found their way through to at least what justice there was left, if not necessarily any resolution of tragedy. The one thing they had never done was give up.
She swung round to face him now. He was only a yard away, but she was confident of what she was going to say. She even smiled back at him.
"I have learned a few tricks of a good soldier. I like to choose my own battlefield, and my own weapons.”
"Bravo," he said softly, his eyes studying her face.
She stood still for a moment, then moved to the table and sat in one of the chairs, her skirts draped unusually dramatically. She felt elegant, even feminine, although she had never seemed to herself stronger or more alive.
He hesitated, looking down at her for several moments.
She was aware of him, and yet now she was not uncomfortable.
The servant came in and announced the first course of the meal.
Rathbone accepted, and it was brought and dished.
Hester smiled across at him. She felt a little fluttering inside, but curiously warm, excited.
"What cases are you engaged in that need no detection?" she asked. For a second Monk came to her mind, and the fact that Rathbone had chosen issues where he did not use him. Could it be intentional? Or was that a shabby thought?
As if he too had seen Monk's face in his inner vision, Rathbone looked down at the plate.
"A society paternity suit," he said with a half-smile. "There is really very little to prove. It is largely a matter of negotiation to limit the scandal. It is an exercise in diplomacy." He raised his eyes to hers and again they were brilliant with inner laughter. "I am endeavouring to judge discretion to the precise degree of knowing how much pressure I can exert before there will be war. If I succeed, you will never hear anything about it. There will simply be a great exchange of money.”
He shrugged. "If I fail, there will be the biggest scandal since…
." He took a deep breath and his expression became rueful, self-mocking.
"Since Princess Gisela," she finished for him.
They both laughed. It was crowded with memories, mostly of the appalling risk he had taken, and her fear for him, her efforts and ultimately her success in saving at least the truth, if not unmixed honour from the issue. He had been vindicated, that was probably the best that could be said, and the truth, or at least a good deal of it, had been laid bare. But there had been a vast number of people who would have preferred not to know, not to be obliged to know.
"And will you win?" she asked him.
"Yes," he replied firmly. "This I will win…" he hesitated.
Suddenly she did not want him to say whatever it was that was on his tongue.
"How is your father?" she asked.
"Very well," his voice dropped a little. "He has just returned from a trip to Leipzig where he met a number of interesting people, and, I gather, sat up half of every night talking with them, about mathematics and philosophy. All very German. He enjoyed it immensely.”
She found herself smiling. She liked Henry Rathbone more each time she saw him. She had been happy the evenings she had spent in his house in Primrose Hill with its doors which opened on to the long lawn, the apple trees at the far end, the honeysuckle hedge and the orchard beyond. She remembered walking once with Oliver across the grass in the dark. They had spoken of other things, not connected with any case, personal things, hopes and beliefs. The moment did not seem so very far away. It was the same feeling of trust, of companionable ease. And yet there was something different now, an added quality between them which sharpened as if on the brink of some decision. She was not sure if she wanted it, or if perhaps she was not ready.