Hester felt her face growing hot again. Her mind was in total confusion. She had spoken of her feelings as if it were a romance. Did she wish it were? She was embarra.s.sed for her foolishness. She could not possibly marry Monk, even if he were to ask her, which he would not. They would quarrel all the time. There was far too much in him she really did not like. She had not mentioned it to Mary-it would be disloyal-but there was a streak of cruelty in him which appalled her; there were dark areas of his character, impulses she did not trust. She could not commit herself to such a man, not as anything more than a friend.

Or would she marry Oliver Rathbone, if he were to yield to any emotion powerful enough to make him ask her? She ought to. It would be a far better offer than most women ever received, certainly any woman at all at her age. She was nearly thirty, for heaven's sake. Only heiresses could expect marriage at that time of life. And far from being an heiress, she was obliged to earn her own living.

Then why would she not leap at the chance?

Mary was still looking at her with her eyes full of laughter.

Hester started to speak, and then had no idea what she was going to say.

The amus.e.m.e.nt died out of Mary's face. "Be very sure which one you want, my dear. If you make the wrong decision you may rue it the rest of your life."

"There is no decision to make!" Hester said far too quickly.

Mary said nothing, but the comprehension, and the disbelief, were plain in her face.

The train was slowing down again, and with a clatter it finally came to a stop. Doors opened and someone was shouting. The stationmaster pa.s.sed by on the platform, calling the name of the station outside every carriage. Hester rearranged the rug more closely around their knees. Outside in the flickering darkness a hand bell rang, and a few minutes later the engine belched steam and began to move forward again.

It was almost half past ten. Hester felt the tiredness of the previous night's journey beginning to catch up with her, but Mary was obviously still wide-awake. Oonagh had said that her medicine should be given no later than eleven o'clock or, at the outside, a quarter past. Apparently Mary did not habitually retire early.

"Are you tired?" she suggested. Actually she was enjoying Mary's company, and mere would be no further opportunity to talk in the morning. They would arrive shortly after nine and the time would be taken up with alighting, finding baggage and locating Griselda and Mr. Murdoch.

"No," Mary said cheerfully, although she had smothered a yawn once or twice. "No doubt Oonagh has told you I am to retire by eleven at the latest? Yes, I thought so. I think Oonagh would have made a good nurse. She is naturally intelligent and efficient, the most practical of my children; but more than that, she has the art of persuading people to do the right thing in such a way that they are convinced that it was their own idea." She pulled a slight face. "That truly is an art, you know? I have often wished I had it myself. And her judgment is excellent. I was surprised how quickly Quinlan learned to respect her. It is not often a man of his nature will have that kind of regard for a woman, especially one close to his own age, and it is genuine-I am not speaking of the kind of good manners he shows towards me."

Hester did not find it hard to believe. She had seen the strength of determination in Quinlan's face and the intelligence behind those quick, blue eyes. He would be far better served to make a friend of Oonagh than anyone else in the family. Baird obviously loathed him, Deirdra was indifferent, occupied with her own interests, and by Mary's account, Alastair relied upon Oonagh's judgment as he had done since they were children.

"Yes, I expect she would," Hester agreed. "But good judgment and the arts of diplomacy are never wasted in a large family. They may make the difference between happiness and misery."

"You're right, of course you are," Mary agreed with a nod. "But perhaps it is a fact not everyone appreciates."

Hester smiled. It would have been clumsy to acknowledge her understanding.

"Will you have a pleasant time in London?" she asked. "Will you have the opportunity to dine out and to go to the theater?"

Mary hesitated a moment before replying. "I am not entirely sure," she said thoughtfully. "I do not know Connal Murdoch or his family very well. He is rather a stiff young man, very conscious of other people's opinions. Griselda may not care to come. But if we do go to the theater, it will be to see something very unadventurous, I fear, and certainly nothing controversial."

"He may be concerned to impress you well," Hester pointed out. "After all, you are his mother-in-law, and he will care very much what your opinion of him may be."

"Oh dear." Mary sighed, biting her lip. "I stand corrected. Of course he may. I remember when Baird was newly married to Oonagh, he was so shy it was painful, and yet at that time so much in love." She took a deep breath. "Of course that kind of pa.s.sion wears away as we become better acquainted; the mystery is discovered, familiarity takes away the sense of wonderment. One can only remain excited and amazed for really quite a short time."

"Surely then there comes a friendship, and a kind of warmth that ..." Hester's voice trailed away. She sounded naive, even to herself. She felt her cheeks burning.

"One hopes so," Mary said softly. "If you are fortunate, the tenderness and the understanding never die, nor the laughter, and the memories." She looked beyond Hester as she spoke, towards something in her imagination.

Hester pictured the man in the portrait again, wondering when it had been painted, trying to see the marks of time in his face and how he might have changed, how familiarity might have stripped the glamour from him. She failed. To her there was still too much in his face which was unreachable, laughter and emotions that would always be his alone. Had Mary discovered that, and remained in love with him? Hester would never know, nor should she. Monk was like that. You would never know him well enough that he would no longer be able to surprise you, reveal some pa.s.sion or belief you had not seen in him.

"Idealism is a poor bedfellow," Mary said suddenly. "Something I must tell Griselda, poor child; and most certainly tell this man she has married. It may be fairy princes with whom one walks up the aisle, but it is certainly very ordinary mortals with whom we wake up the following morning. And since we are ordinary mortals too, that is no doubt just as well."

Hester smiled in spite of herself. She prepared to stand up.

"It is growing late, Mrs. Farraline. Do you think I should take out your medicine now?"

"Should?" Mary raised her eyebrows. "Quite probably. But I am not yet ready to take it. To return to your original question, yes, I believe I shall go to the theater. I shall insist upon it. I have brought with me some gowns suitable for such occasions. Unfortunately I could not bring my favorite because it is silk, and I marked it right at the front where it shows."

"Can it not be cleaned?" Hester said sympathetically.

"Oh certainly, but there wasn't time before I left. I'm sure Nora will take care of it in my absence. But apart from the fact that I like it, unfortunately it is the only gown I have which really sets off my gray pearl pin, so I didn't bring it. It is quite beautiful, but gray pearls are not easy to wear; I really don't care for it with colors, or with anything that glitters. Still, no matter. It is only a week, and I daresay we shall have few enough formal occasions. And I am going in order to see Griselda, not to sample London's social life."

"I expect she is very excited about having her first child?"

"Not at the moment," Mary said, pulling a small face. "But she will do. I am afraid she worries about her health overmuch. There is really nothing wrong with her, you know." Mary stood up at last, and Hester rose to her feet quickly to offer her arm in a.s.sistance. "Thank you, my dear," Mary accepted. "She just worries about every little ache and pain, imagining it to be some serious fault with the child, or some irreparable defect. That is a bad habit, and one men dislike intensely, unless, of course, it is something wrong with them." She stood at the compartment entrance, slender and very straight, a smile on her lips. "I shall warn Griselda of that. And a.s.sure her that she has no cause for anxiety. Her child will be perfectly well."

The train was slowing again, and when it reached the station they both alighted to take advantage of the facilities offered. Hester found herself returned to the carriage first. She did what she could to tidy the seats, spread the rug ready for Mary and shook the footwarmer again. It really was getting very chilly now and the darkness beyond the windows was spotted with rain. She took down the medicine chest and opened it. The vials were all stacked in neat rows, the first one already used, the gla.s.s empty. She had not noticed it when she had seen it in Edinburgh, but the gla.s.s was tinted and the liquid hard to see. Nora must have used that one this morning, which was foolish. That meant they were one short. Still, possibly it was easy enough to replace, providing she warned Mary in time.

She stifled a yawn with difficulty. She really was very tired. It had been thirty-six hours since she had had a proper sleep. At least tonight she would be able to put her feet up and relax, instead of sitting upright between two other people. "Oh, you have the chest down," Mary said from the entranceway. "I suppose you are right. Morning will be here soon enough." She came in, swaying a little with the rough movement as the train jerked forward and began to pick up speed.

Hester put out her hand to steady her, and Mary sat down.

The conductor appeared at the doorway, his uniform spotless, b.u.t.tons gleaming.

"Evening, ladies. Everything well wi' ye?" He touched the peak of his cap with his forefinger.

Mary had been staring out of the window at the streaming night, not that there was anything to see but the rain and the darkness. She turned around abruptly. Then her face paled for an instant, before the calm returned in a flood of relief.

"Oh, yes, thank you." She took a quick breath. "Yes, all is well."

"Right y'are, ma'am. Then I'll bid ye good night. London at a quarter past nine."

"Yes, thank you. Good night."

"Good night," Hester added as he retreated quickly, walking with a peculiar ungainliness that kept his balance perfectly.

"Are you all right?" Hester said anxiously. "Did he startle you? I think perhaps we are a little late with your medicine. I must insist you take it now. You do look rather pale."

Mary pulled the rug over herself and Hester tucked it around her.

"Yes, I am perfectly all right," Mary said firmly. "The wretched man reminded me of someone else, that long nose and brown eyes; he looked just like Archie Frazer for a moment."

"Someone you dislike?" Hester took the stopper out of the vial and poured the liquid into the little gla.s.s provided.

"I don't know the man personally." Mary's lip curled in distaste. "He was a witness in the Galbraith case, at least what should have been the Galbraith case, had it come to court. It was dismissed. Alastair said there was insufficient evidence."

Hester offered her the gla.s.s and she took it and drank, pulling a slight face. Oonagh had also packed some small sugared sweets to take away the taste, and Hester offered her one. She took it gratefully.

"Then Mr. Frazer was a public figure?" She pursued the subject to take Mary's mind off the taste of the medicine. She returned the gla.s.s to its place and closed the chest, lifting it back onto the luggage rack.

"More or less." Mary lay down and made herself as comfortable as she could, and Hester tucked the rug more closely around her.

"He visited the house one night," Mary continued. "A little weasel of a man, creeping in and out like some nocturnal creature bent on no good. That is the only time I have seen him in person. It was by lamplight, just like that wretched conductor, poor soul. I am sure I am maligning him." She smiled. "And possibly Frazer too." But still there was uncertainty in her voice. "Now please go to sleep yourself. I know perfectly well you are ready for it. They will call us well in time to rise and make ourselves respectable for London."

Hester looked at the single oil lamp which gave the soft, yellowish light in the compartment. There was no way to turn it down, but she doubted its glow would keep either of them awake.

She curled up in the seat as comfortably as possible, and was amazed that in a few minutes the rhythmic rattle of the wheels over the ties lulled her to sleep.

She woke several times, but only to try to make herself more comfortable and wish she were a little warmer. Her dreams were troubled with memories of the Crimea, of being cold and overtired and yet ready to keep awake to care for those who were immeasurably worse.

Finally she woke up with a start to find the conductor in the doorway, looking at her cheerfully.

"London in half an hour, ma'am," he said. "Morning to ye!" And he disappeared.

She was stiff and very cold. She got up slowly. Her hair had fallen down and she had lost some of the pins, but that was a small thing. She must wake Mary, who was still tucked up with her face towards the wall, just as she had left her. She seemed hardly to have moved. The rug was not in the least disturbed.

"Mrs. Farraline," she said as cheerfully as she could. "We are approaching London. Did you sleep well?"

Mary did not stir.

"Mrs. Farraline?"

Still no movement.

Hester touched her shoulder and shook her very gently. Some older people slept very deeply. "Mrs. Farraline!"

The shoulder did not yield at all; in fact, it seemed quite stiff.

Hester felt a twinge of alarm.

"Mrs. Farraline! Wake up! We are nearly in London!" she said with mounting urgency.

Still Mary did not move.

Hester pulled at her sharply and forced her over. Her eyes were closed, her face was white, and when Hester touched it the flesh was cold. Mary Farraline had been dead all night.

.3.

HESTER'S FIRST FEELING was one of profound loss. Long ago she might have had an initial moment of rejecting the fact altogether, refusing to believe Mary was dead, but she had seen too much death not to recognize it, even when it was completely without warning. Last night Mary had seemed in excellent health and buoyant spirits, and yet she must have died quite early in the night. Her body was cold to the touch, and such stiffness took from four to six hours to achieve. was one of profound loss. Long ago she might have had an initial moment of rejecting the fact altogether, refusing to believe Mary was dead, but she had seen too much death not to recognize it, even when it was completely without warning. Last night Mary had seemed in excellent health and buoyant spirits, and yet she must have died quite early in the night. Her body was cold to the touch, and such stiffness took from four to six hours to achieve.

Hester pulled the blanket up over her, gently covering her face, and then stood back. The train was moving more slowly now, and there were houses in the gray, early morning beyond the rain-streaked windows.

Then the next emotion came: guilt. Mary had been her patient, entrusted to her care, and after only a few hours she was dead. Why? What had she done so badly? What had she bungled, or forgotten, that Mary had died without even a sound, no cry, no gasp, no struggle for breath? Or perhaps there had been, only Hester had been too soundly asleep to hear, and the clatter of the train had masked it.

She could not just continue to stand there, staring at the motionless form under the rug. She must tell the authorities, beginning with the conductor and the guard. Then of course when they reached the station there would be the stationmaster, and possibly the police. After that, infinitely worse, she would have to tell Griselda Murdoch. The thought of that made her feel a little sick.

Better begin. Standing there would not help anything, and the contemplation of it was only adding to the hurt. Feeling numb she went to the compartment entranceway, in her awkwardness banging her elbow on the wooden part.i.tion. She was cold and stiff with tension. It hurt more than it would have normally, but she had no time for pain. Which way to go? Either. It made no difference. Just do something, don't stand undecided. She went left, towards the front of the train.

"Conductor! Conductor! Where are you?"

A military man with a mustache peered around a corner and stared at her. He drew breath to speak, but she had rushed on.

"Conductor!"

A very thin woman with gray hair looked at her sharply.

"Goodness, girl, whatever is the matter? Must you make so much noise?"

"Have you seen the conductor?" Hester demanded breathlessly.

"No I haven't. But for heaven's sake lower your voice." And without further comment she withdrew into her compartment.

"Can I help you, miss?"

She spun around. It was the conductor at last, his bland face unsuspecting of the trouble she was about to impart. Perhaps he was used to hysterical female pa.s.sengers. She made an effort to keep her voice calm and under some control.

"I am afraid something very serious has happened...." Why was she shaking so much? She had seen hundreds of dead bodies before.

"Yes, miss. What would that be?" He was still quite unmoved, merely politely interested.

"I am afraid Mrs. Farraline, the lady with whom I was traveling, has died in the night."

"Probably just asleep, miss. Some folk sleep very deep-"

"I'm a nurse!" Hester snapped at him, her voice rising sharply. "I know death when I see it!"

This time he looked thoroughly disconcerted. "Oh dear. You quite sure? Elderly lady, is she? Heart, I suppose. Took bad, was she? Ye should'a' called me then, you know." He looked at her critically.

At another time Hester might have asked him what he could have done, but she was too distressed to argue.

"No-no, she made no sound in the night. I just found her when I went to rouse her now." Her voice was wavering again, and her lips almost too stiff to form the words. "I don't know-what happened. I suppose it was her heart. She was taking medicine for it."

"She had forgot to take it, did she?" He looked at her dubiously.

"No of course she didn't! I gave it to her myself. Hadn't you better report it to the guard?"

"All in good time, miss. Ye'd better take me to your compartment and we'll have a look. Maybe she's only poorly?" But his voice held little hope and he was only staving off the moment of acknowledgment.

Obediently Hester turned and led the way back, stopping at the entrance and allowing him to go in. He pulled the blanket back from the face and looked at Mary for only an instant before replacing it and stepping out again hastily.

"Yes, miss. Afraid you're right. Poor lady's pa.s.sed over. I'll go and tell the guard. You stay 'ere, and don't touch anything, understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Maybe you'd better sit down. We don't want you fainting or anything."

Hester was about to tell him she didn't faint, and then changed her mind. Her knees were weak and she would be very glad to sit down again.

The compartment was cold and, in spite of the rattle and jolt of the train, seemed oddly silent. Mary lay on the seat opposite, no longer in the comfortable position in which she had gone to sleep, but half turned over as Hester had left her, and the conductor had seen her upturned face. It was ridiculous to think of comfort, but Hester had to restrain herself from going and trying to ease her back to a more natural position. She had liked Mary, right from the moment they had met. She had a vitality and candor which were uniquely appealing, and had already awoken in Hester something close to affection.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the guard. He was a small man with a heavy mustache and lugubrious eyes. There was a smudge of snuff on the front of his uniform jacket.