The Face of a Stranger (20 page)

the laundry maid—before the parlor maid came in and stopped them
gossiping and they were packed off to their duties."

Monk whistled through his teeth.

"And," Evan went on before he could speak, "they had no
children for the first few years, then one son, heir to the title, about a year
and a half ago. Someone particularly spiteful is said to have observed that he
has the typical Shelburne looks, but more like Joscelin than Lovel—so the
second footman heard said in the public house. Blue eyes—you see, Lord
Shelburne is dark—so is she-at least her eyes are—"

Monk stopped in the road, staring at him.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure that's what they say, and Lord Shelburne must have heard
it—at last—" He looked appalled. "Oh God! That's what Runcorn meant,
isn't it? Very nasty, very nasty indeed." He was comical in his dismay,
suddenly the enthusiasm gone out of him. "What on earth are we going to
do? I can imagine how Lady Fabia will react if you try opening that one
up!"

"So can I," Monk said grimly. "And I don't know what we
are going to do."

6

Hester
Latterly stood in the small withdrawing room of her brother's house in Thanet
Street, a little off the Marylebone Road, and stared out of the window at the
carriages passing. It was a smaller house, far less attractive than the family
home on Regent Square. But after her father's death that house had had to be
sold. She had always imagined that Charles and Imogen would move out of this
house and back to Regent Square in such an event, but apparently the funds were
needed to settle affairs, and there was nothing above that for any inheritance
for any of them. Hence she was now residing with Charles and Imogen, and would
be obliged to do so until she should make some arrangements of her own. What
they might be now occupied her thoughts.

Her choice was narrow. Disposal of her parents' possessions had been
completed, all the necessary letters written and servants given excellent
references. Most had fortunately found new positions. It remained for Hester
herself to make a decision. Of course Charles had said she was more than
welcome to remain as long as she wished— indefinitely, if she chose. The
thought was appalling. A permanent guest, neither use nor ornament, intruding
on what should be a private house for husband and wife, and

in time their children. Aunts were all very well, but not for breakfast,
luncheon and dinner every day of the week.

Life had to offer more than that.

Naturally Charles had spoken of marriage, but to be frank, as the
situation surely warranted, Hester was very few people's idea of a good match.
She was pleasing enough in feature, if a little tall—she looked over the heads
of rather too many men for her own comfort, or theirs. But she had no dowry and
no expectations at all. Her family was well-bred, but of no connection to any
of the great houses; in fact genteel enough to have aspirations, and to have
taught its daughters no useful arts, but not privileged enough for birth alone
to be sufficient attraction.

All of which might have been overcome if her personality were as
charming as Imogen's—but it was not. Where Imogen was gentle, gracious, full of
tact and discretion, Hester was abrasive, contemptuous of hypocrisy and impatient
of dithering or incompetence and disinclined to suffer foolishness with any
grace at all. She was also fonder of reading and study than was attractive in a
woman, and not free of the intellectual arrogance of one to whom thought comes
easily.

It was not entirely her fault, which mitigated blame but did not improve
her chances of gaining or keeping an admirer. She had been among the first to
leave England and sail, in appalling conditions, to the Crimea and offer her
help to Florence Nightingale in the troop hospital in Scutari.

She could remember quite clearly her first sight of the city, which she
had expected to be ravaged by war, and how her breath had caught in her throat
with delight at the vividness of the white walls and the copper domes green against
the blue sky.

Of course afterwards it had been totally different. She had witnessed
such wretchedness and waste there, exacerbated by incompetence that beggared
the imagination, and her courage had sustained her, her selflessness never

looked for reward, her patience for the truly afflicted never flagged.
And at the same time the sight of such terrible suffering had made her rougher
to lesser pain than was just. Each person's pain is severe to him at the time,
and the thought that there might be vastly worse occurs to very few. Hester did
not stop to consider this, except when it was forced upon her, and such was
most people's abhorrence of candor on unpleasant subjects that very few did.

She was highly intelligent, with a gift for logical thought which many
people found disturbing—especially men, who did not expect it or like it in a
woman. That gift had enabled her to be invaluable in the administration of hospitals
for the critically injured or desperately ill—but there was no place for it in
the domestic homes of gentlemen in England. She could have run an entire castle
and marshaled the forces to defend it, and had time to spare. Unfortunately
no one desired a castle run—and no one attacked them anymore.

And she was approaching thirty.

The realistic choices lay between nursing at a practical level, at which
she was now skilled, although more with injury than the diseases that occur
most commonly in a temperate climate like that of England, and, on the other
hand, a post in the administration of hospitals, junior as that was likely to
be; women were not doctors, and not generally considered for more senior posts.
But much had changed in the war, and the work to be done, the reforms that
might be achieved, excited her more than she cared to admit, since the
possibilities of participating were so slight.

And there was also the call of journalism, although it would hardly
bring her the income necessary to provide a living. But it need not be entirely
abandoned—?

She really wished for advice. Charles would disapprove of the whole
idea, as he had of her going to the Crimea in the first place. He would be
concerned for her safety, her reputation, her honor—and anything else general
and unspecified that might cause her harm. Poor Charles, he was

a very conventional soul. How they could ever be siblings she had no
idea.

And there was little use asking Imogen. She had no knowledge from which
to speak; and lately she seemed to have half her mind on some turmoil of her
own. Hester had tried to discover without prying offensively, and succeeded in
learning nothing at all, except close to a certainty that whatever it was
Charles knew even less of it than she.

As she stared out through the window into the street her thoughts turned
to her mentor and friend of pre-Crimean days, Lady Callandra Daviot. She would
give sound advice both as to knowledge of what might be achieved and how to go
about it, and what might be dared and, if reached, would make her happy.
Callandra had never given a fig for doing what was told her was suitable, and
she did not assume a person wanted what society said they ought to want.

She had always said that Hester was welcome to visit her either in her
London house or at Shelburne Hall at any time she wished. She had her own rooms
there and was free to entertain as pleased her. Hester had already written to
both addresses and asked if she might come. Today she had received a reply most
decidedly in the affirmative.

The door opened behind her and she heard Charles's step. She turned, the
letter still in her hand.

"Charles, I have decided to go and spend a few days, perhaps a week
or so, with Lady Callandra Daviot."

"Do I know her?" he said immediately, his eyes widening a
fraction.

"I should think it unlikely," she replied. "She is in her
late fifties, and does not mix a great deal socially."

"Are you considering becoming her companion?" His eye was to
the practical. "I don't think you are suited to the position, Hester. With
all the kindness in the world, I have to say you are not a congenial person for
an elderly lady of a retiring nature. You are extremely bossy—and you have very
little sympathy with the ordinary pains of

day-to-day life. And you have never yet succeeded in keeping even your
silliest opinions to yourself."

"I have never tried!" she said tartly, a little stung by his
wording, even though she knew he meant it for her well-being.

He smiled with a slightly twisted humor. "I am aware of that, my
dear. Had you tried, even you must have done better!"

"I have no intention of becoming a companion to anyone," she
pointed out. It was on the tip of her tongue to add that, had she such a thing
in mind, Lady Callandra would be her first choice; but perhaps if she did that,
Charles would question Callandra's suitability as a person to visit. "She
is the widow of Colonel Daviot, who was a surgeon in the army. I thought I
should seek her advice as to what position I might be best suited for.''

He was surprised. "Do you really think she would have any useful
idea? It seems to me unlikely. However do go, by all means, if you wish. You
have certainly been a most marvelous help to us here, and we are deeply
grateful. You came at a moment's notice, leaving all your friends behind, and
gave your time and your affections to us when we were sorely in need."

"It was a family tragedy." For once her candor was also
gracious. "I should not have wished to be anywhere else. But yes, Lady
Callandra has considerable experience and I should value her opinion. If it is
agreeable to you, I shall leave tomorrow early."

"Certainly—" He hesitated, looking a trifle uncomfortable.
"Er—"

"What is it?"

"Do you—er—have sufficient means? "

She smiled. "Yes, thank you—for the time being."

He looked relieved. She knew he was not naturally generous, but neither
was he grudging with his own family. His reluctance was another reinforcement
of the observations she had made that there had been a considerable tightening
of circumstances in the last four or five months.

There had been other small things: the household had not the complement
of servants she remembered prior to her leaving for the Crimea; now there were
only the cook, one kitchen maid, one scullery maid, one housemaid and a parlor
maid who doubled as lady's maid for Imogen. The butler was the only male indoor
servant; no footman, not even a bootboy. The scullery maid did the shoes.

Imogen had not refurbished her summer wardrobe with the usual
generosity, and at least one pair of Charles's boots had been repaired. The
silver tray in the hall for receiving calling cards was no longer there.

It was most assuredly time she considered her own position, and the
necessity of earning her own way. Some academic pursuit had been a suggestion;
she found study absorbing, but the tutorial positions open to women were few,
and the restrictions of the life did not appeal to her. She read for pleasure.

When Charles had gone she went upstairs and found Imogen in the linen
room inspecting pillow covers and sheets. Caring for them was a large task,
even for so modest a household, especially without the services of a laundry
maid.

"Excuse me." She began immediately to assist, looking at
embroidered edges for tears or where the stitching was coming away. "I
have decided to go and visit Lady Callandra Daviot, in the country, for a short
while. I think she can advise me on what I should do next—" She saw
Imogen's look of surprise, and clarified her statement. "At least she will
know the possibilities open to me better than I."

"Oh." Imogen's face showed a mixture of pleasure and
disappointment and it was not necessary for her to explain. She understood
that Hester must come to a decision, but also she would miss her company.
Since their first meeting they had become close friends and their differences
in nature had been complementary rather than irritating. "Then you had
better take Gwen. You can't stay with the aristocracy without a lady's
maid."

"Certainly I can," Hester contradicted decisively. "I
don't have one, so I shall be obliged to. It will do me no harm whatsoever, and
Lady Callandra will be the last one to mind."

Imogen looked dubious. "And how will you dress for dinner?"

"For goodness sake! I can dress myself!"

Imogen's face twitched very slightly. "Yes my dear, I have seen!
And I am sure it is admirable for nursing the sick, and fighting stubborn
authorities in the army—"

"Imogen!"

"And what about your hair?" Imogen pressed. "You are
likely to arrive at table looking as if you had come sideways through a high
wind to get there!"

"Imogen!" Hester threw a bundle of towels at her, one knocking
a front lock of her hair askew and the rest scattering on the floor.

Imogen threw a sheet back, achieving the same result. They looked at each
other's wild appearance and began to laugh. Within moments both were gasping
for breath and sitting on the floor in mounds of skirts with previously crisp
laundry lying around them in heaps.