Page 125 of A Sudden, Fearful Death (William Monk 4)

“What time do milliners open?” he asked. “And what in God’s name am I going to go into a milliner’s for?”

“Hats,” she said bluntly, clasping her reticule, ready to leave.

He glared at her.

“For your sister, your mother, your aunt. Anybody you like.”

“And what am I going to do with two dozen women’s hats? And if you give me an impertinent answer …”

“You don’t have to buy any! Just say you will consider it and then …” She stopped.

“Ask if they can guide me to a good abortionist,” he finished.

She raised her chin sharply.

“Something like that.”

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He gave her a filthy look, then opened the door for her to leave. It was now quarter to seven. On the step she turned to meet his eyes in a long, steady gaze, then smiled a little, just turning up the corners of her mouth. It was a gesture of courage rather than humor or hope.

He watched her leave without the sense of despair he ought to have felt, considering how totally absurd their venture was.

His first attempt was ghastly. The establishment opened for business at ten o’clock, although the flowermakers, stitchers, ribboners, and pressers had been there since seven. A middle-aged woman with a hard, watchful face welcomed him in and inquired if she might be of service.

He asked to see a hat suitable for his sister, avoiding looking at the displays of any manner of hats in straw, felt, linen, feather, flowers, ribbons, and lace stacked in several corners of the room and along shelves to the sides.

With a supercilious air she asked him to describe his sister and the type of occasion for which the hat was required.

He made an attempt to tell her of Beth’s features and general aspect.

“Her coloring, sir,” she said with ill-concealed weariness. “Is she dark like yourself, or fair? Does she have large eyes? Is she tall or small?”

He seized on something definite, cursing Hester for having sent him on this idiot’s venture.

“Light brown hair, large blue eyes,” he replied hastily. “About your height.”

“And the occasion, sir?”

“Church.”

“I see. Would that be a London church, sir, or somewhere in the country?”

“Country.” Did his Northumbrian heritage show so transparently? Even after his years of careful diction to eradicate it? Why had he not said London: it would have been so much easier, and it did not matter. He was not going to buy a hat anyway.

“I see. Perhaps you would care to look at a few of these?” She led him to several very plain shapes in straw and fabric. “We can, of course trim them as you please,” she added, seeing the look on his face.

The color rose up his cheeks. He felt like a complete fool. Again he cursed Hester. Nothing except his rage against Sir Herbert would have kept him here. “What about something in blue?”

“If you like,” she said with disapproval. “Rather obvious, don’t you think? What about green and white?” She picked up a bunch of artificial daisies and held them against a pale green straw bonnet with a green ribbon, and suddenly the effect was so fresh and dainty it took him back with a jolt of memory to childhood days in the summer fields with Beth as a little girl.

“That’s lovely,” he said involuntarily.

“I’ll have it delivered,” she said immediately. “It will be ready by tomorrow evening. Miss Liversedge will see to the details. You may settle the account with her.”

And five minutes later Monk found himself in the street, having purchased a bonnet for Beth and wondering how on earth he would post it to Northumberland for her. He swore profoundly. The bonnet would have suited Hester, but he certainly was not going to give it to her—of all people.

The next shop was less expensive, busier, and his by now blazing temper saw him through the difficulty of actually expressing approval of any particular bonnet.

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