She shook her head, but it was to close out the vision, to defend herself from it, not because she could deny its possibility.
This time he did put his hands on her shoulders, very gently, not to hold her, simply to touch.
She stared at the floor, refusing to look up at him.
"Or perhaps some men of the area, husbands or lovers of the last victim, brothers, or even friends, caught up with them. They had stopped running for too long… and it was they who beat them both.
Rhys cannot tell us… even if he wanted to.”
There was nothing to say. The impulse was to deny it, and that was pointless.
"I don't know any way to find out," she said defensively.
"I know." He smiled very slightly. "And if you did, you wouldn't…
until you had to know, for yourself. You would have to prove him innocent… and when you proved him guilty, you would say nothing, and I would know anyway.”
She raised her eyes quickly. "No, you wouldn't! Not if I chose to conceal it.”
He hesitated, then stepped back half a pace.
"I would know," he repeated. "Why? Would you defend him for it? I should take you to see these women, beaten by poverty, dirt, ignorance, and now beaten by three young gentlemen who are bored by their comfortable lives and want a little more dangerous entertainment, something to make the heart beat a trifle faster and bring the blood to the head." His voice was hard in his throat with outrage, a deep and abiding hurt he felt for the injured. "Some of them are no more than children. At their age you were in the schoolroom wearing a pinafore and doing your sums, and your most urgent distress was being forced to eat your rice pudding!" He was exaggerating and he knew it, but it hardly mattered. The essence was real. "You wouldn't defend that, Hester… you couldn't! You have more honour, more imagination than that!”
She turned away. "Of course I do! But you haven't seen Rhys's pain now. Judgement is fine when you only know one side. It is much harder when you know the offender, and, like him, feel his pain too.”
He stood close behind her. "I was not concerned with ease, only what was right. Sometimes we cannot have both. I know some people don't understand that, or accept it, but you do. You have always been able to face the truth, no matter what it was. You will do it this time.”
There was certainty in his voice, no doubt at all. She was Hester, reliable, strong, virtuous Hester. No need to protect her from pain or danger. No need even to worry about her!
She wanted to lash out angrily at him for taking her for granted.
She was exactly like anybody else inside, any other woman. She ached to be protected sometimes, to be cherished and have ugliness and danger warded off by someone else, not because they thought she could not bear it, but because they did not wish her hurt.
But she could not possibly say that to him… not to Monk, of all people. To be worth anything at all, it had to be offered, freely. It must be his wish, even his need. If she had been one of the fragile, warm, feminine women he so admired, he would have done it instinctively.
What could she say? She was so angry and confused and hurt, words tumbled over each other in her mind, and all of them were useless, only betraying what she felt, which was the last thing she wished him to know. She could protect herself at least as much as that.
"Of course," she said stiffly, her voice thick in her throat. "There is little point in doing anything else, is there?" She moved another step away from him, her shoulders rigid, as if she would flinch were he to touch her. "I imagine I shall endure whatever it is. I shall have no alternative.”
"You're angry," he said with a lift of surprise.
"Nonsense!" she snapped. He was missing the point entirely. It had nothing to do with Rhys Duff, or who had beaten the women. It was his assumption that she could be treated like another man, that she could and should always look after herself. She could! But that was not the point either!
"Hester!”
She had her back to him but he sounded patient and reasonable. It was like vinegar on the wound.
"Hester, I'm not choosing it to be Rhys. I'll look for any other possibility as well.”
"I know you will!”
Now he was puzzled. "Then what the devil more do you want of me? I cannot alter what happened, nor will I settle for less than the truth!
I can't save Rhys from himself, and I can't save his mother… if that is what you want?”
She swung round.
"It isn't what I want! And I don't expect anything of you! Heavens above! I've known you long enough now to be precisely aware of what I shall get from you." The words poured out of her, and even as she heard them, she wished she had kept silent, not made herself so obvious, and so vulnerable. He would read her plainly now. He would hardly be able to help it.
He was dumbfounded, and annoyed. His face showed the only too familiar marks of temper. A veil came over his eyes, the gentleness hidden.
"Then our conversation seems to be pointless," he said grimly. "We understand each other perfectly, and there is no more to be said." He gave a little gesture, rather less than a bow. "Thank you for sparing your time. Good day." He walked out, leaving her miserable and equally angry.
Later in the afternoon Arthur Kynaston called again, this time accompanied by his elder brother Duke. Hester saw them as they crossed the hall from the library to go upstairs.
"Good afternoon, Miss Latterly," Arthur said cheerfully. He glanced down at the book she was carrying. "Is that one for Rhys? How is he?”
Duke was behind him, a larger and stronger version of his brother, heavier shouldered. He had walked in with more grace, something of a swagger. His face was broader boned, more traditionally handsome but perhaps less individual. He had the same soft, wavy hair with a touch of auburn in it. He was now regarding Hester with impatience. It was not she they had come to see.
Arthur turned round. "Oh, Duke, this is Miss Latterly, who is looking after Rhys.”
"Good," Duke said abruptly. "We'll carry the book up for you." He held out his hand for it. It was rather more a demand than an offer.
Hester felt an instant dislike for him. If these were indeed the young men Monk was looking for, then he was responsible not only for the brutal attacks on the women, but for the ruin of his brother and of Rhys.
"Thank you, Mr. Kynaston," she replied coldly, making an immediate change of mind. "It is not for Rhys, I intend reading it myself.”
He looked at it. "It is a history of the Ottoman Empire!" he said with a slight smile.
"A most interesting people," she observed. "Last time I was in Istanbul I found much of great beauty. I should like to know more about it. They were a generous people in many respects, with a culture of great subtlety and complexity." It was also cruel beyond her understanding, but that was irrelevant just now.
Duke looked taken aback. It was not the reply he had expected, but he regained his composure rapidly.
"Is there much call for domestic servants in Istanbul? I would have thought most people would have employed natives, especially for fetching and carrying.”
"I imagine they do," she answered him without looking at Arthur. "I was too busy to think of such things. I left my own lady's maid in London. I did not think it was any place for her, and it was quite unfair to ask her to go." She smiled back at him. "I have always believed consideration for one's servants is the mark of the gentleman… or lady, as the case may be. Don't you agree?”
"You had a lady's maid?" he said incredulously. "Whatever for?”
"If you ask your mother, Mr. Kynaston, I am sure she will acquaint you with the duties of a lady's maid," she answered, tucking the book under her arm. "They are many and varied, and I am sure you do not wish to keep Mr. Duff waiting." And before he could find a reply to that, she smiled charmingly at Arthur, and went up the stairs ahead of them, her temper still seething.