of Miss Latterly except what you have seen in this house. There are many kinds of men and many kinds of love. Sometimes we imagine what we must hunger for is a sweet and clinging creature who will feed our vanity and hang upon our words, dependent upon our judgment all the time." He took a breath. "And then we meet the harder realities of life, and a woman who has the courage, the fire and the intelligence to be our equal, and we discover that those joys far outweigh the irritations and discomforts." He stared at her very hard. "You must be true to the best in yourself, Mrs. Sheldon, but you have no grounds and no right to insult where you do not know the facts. Miss Latterly may not be loved widely, but she is loved very deeply indeed, more than most women can aspire to or dare to accept."
The color burned up in Perdita's cheeks. She was furious and overwhelmed with embarrassment. She did not know what to say, and the rage boiling inside her was only too apparent in her eyes.
Hester, on the other hand, stood as if frozen.
Monk could barely believe he had said what he had. His first instinct, almost taking his breath away, was to deny it, somehow qualify it all so it did not apply to him. The desire to escape was so urgent it was like a physical compulsion.
He saw Hester's back and shoulders, the dress still pulled tight, her neck muscles stiff. As clearly as if he could see her eyes, he knew she was waiting for him to deny his words, to withdraw or disclaim.
If he did, would it be because they were untrue or because he was an emotional coward?
She would not know the answer to that, but he did. What he had revealed was not untrue.
"If you offer Miss Latterly an apology, I am sure she will accept it," he said more stiffly than he intended.
Hester took a deep breath.
"Oh..." Perdita sighed. "Oh... yes. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'm behaving very badly." Her eyes filled with tears.
Hester moved forward. "Not nearly as badly as you think. And you are at least partly right. We do love people for their vulnerabilities as well as their strengths. We must have both, even to understand each other, never mind anything more. Just keep trying. Remember how important it is." Her voice dropped. "Killian Melville is dead. It was probably suicide. Last night."
Perdita stared at her in horror, then her eyes flew to Monk's.
"Oh...I'm so sorry! Because of the case? Because of what he was, and because it is illegal?"
"More than that," he answered her. "Actually, Melville wasn't a man at all; her name was Keelin, and she was a woman. She dressed as a man and behaved as one in all respects, except towards Isaac Wolff, because it was the only way she would be allowed to practice her profession and use the talents God gave her." He used the word God without thinking about it until he had said it. Then it was too late to take it back, and perhaps it was what he meant.
Perdita did not move. Her face was filled, and changed with growing realization of what he had said, and something of what it meant. Then she shook her head, at first minutely, then a little more, then more again. Then she turned around and went to the door.
"I'm going back to Gabriel. I'll tell him. He'll be terribly sorry. It really is so-so final. It's too late to get anything back now, to... say anything, mend anything." And she went out quickly, hand fumbling on the knob to turn it.
Hester finally turned to look at Monk. Her eyes searched his.
He tried to think of something to say which would not be evasive, or banal, nor yet commit him to anything he would regret. His mind filled with Keelin Melville, and Zillah Lambert, and the tragic, destructive farce of beauty and the urge to be suitably married, or if that failed, to be married at all costs, anything but remain single.
"Now you are free to look for Martha's brother's children," Hester said quietly. "But don't run up a debt she cannot pay. Just do what you are able to."
"I wasn't going to charge her!" he said a little sharply. Why had she thought he would? Did she not know him better than that?