"But you kept him on?"
Stourbridge shrugged slightly. "You don’t put a man out because you think you know his type. Could be wrong. I wouldn’t have had him as a valet, but a coachman is a very different thing. Besides, he’s a nephew of my cook, and she’s a good woman. She’s been with the family nearly thirty years. Started as a scullery maid when my own mother was still alive."
Monk understood. Like everything else, it was so easily appreciated, so very normal. It left him little more to ask, except for an account of the day itself on which Miriam Gardiner had fled.
"I can give you a guest list, if you wish," Stourbridge offered. "But it included no one Miriam had not met before— indeed, no one who was not a friend. Believe me, Mr. Monk, we have all searched our minds trying to think of anything that could have happened to cause her such distress, and we can think of nothing whatever. No one is aware of any quarrel, even any unfortunate or tactless remark." Instinctively, he glanced out of the window, then back at Monk again. "Miriam was standing alone. The rest of us were either playing croquet or watching, when quite suddenly she gasped, went as white as paper, stood frozen for a moment, then turned and stumbled away, almost falling, and ran towards the house." His voice cracked. "None of us has seen her since!"
Monk leaned forward. "You saw this?"
"No, not personally. I would have gone after her if I had." Stourbridge looked wretched, as if he blamed himself. "But it was described to me by several others, and always in those terms. Miriam was standing alone. No one spoke to her or in any other way approached her." He frowned, his eyes puzzled. "I have considered every possibility that common sense suggests, Mr. Monk. We have called you because we can think of nothing further."
Monk rose to his feet. "I shall do all I can, sir," he said with misgiving. When Lucius Stourbridge had first explained his case Monk had thought it an impossible one; now he was even more convinced. Whatever had happened to Miriam Gardiner, it arose from her own emotions, and they would probably never know what it was that had so suddenly precipitated her into flight. But even if they were to learn, it would bring no happiness to them. Monk began to feel an anger against this young woman who had gone so thoughtlessly far along the path which a little consideration would have told her she could not complete. She had hurt deeply at least two decent and honorable people, probably more.
Stourbridge stood also. "Whom would you like to speak with next, Mr. Monk?"
"Mrs. Stourbridge, if you please," Monk replied without hesitation. He knew from working with Hester that women observed each other in a way a man did not; they read expressions, understood what was left unsaid.
"Of course." Stourbridge led the way out into the hall. "She will be in her sitting room at this hour."
Monk followed him up the wide, curving staircase and this time had an opportunity to look more closely at the magnificently plastered ceiling and the carving on the newel post at the top of the banister.
Stourbridge crossed the landing. A long window looked over the smooth lawn, and Monk caught a glimpse of croquet hoops still set up. It looked peaceful in the sun, a place of quiet happiness, family games, and afternoon tea in the summer. Trees sheltered hydrangeas beyond, their last flowers dropping in a blaze of color onto the dark earth beneath.
Stourbridge knocked on the third door along, and at a murmur from inside, opened it, ushering Monk in.
"My dear, this is Mr. Monk," he introduced them. "He has promised to assist us in finding Miriam."
Mrs. Stourbridge was sitting on a large chintz-covered chair, a scrapbook of poetry and photographs spread open on the cherry-wood table beside her where she had apparently laid it when interrupted. Her resemblance to her son was clear even at a glance. She had the same dark eyes and slender line of cheek and throat. Her hair grew from her brow in the same broad sweep. If Lucius had indeed come to see her, as his father had suggested, he had not remained long. She looked at Monk with concern. "How do you do," she said gravely. "Please come in. Tell me how I can help my son."
Monk accepted and sat in the chair opposite her. It was more comfortable than its straight back would have suggested, and the bright, warm room would, in any other circumstances, have been restful. Now he was searching his mind for questions to ask this woman which could help him to understand what had driven Miriam Gardiner to such extraordinary flight.
Stourbridge excused himself and left them.
Verona Stourbridge looked at Monk steadily, waiting.
There was no time for skirting around the edges of meaning.
"Would you please describe Mrs. Gardiner for me?" he asked. He wanted a picture in his mind, not only to allow him to imagine her himself but to know how Mrs. Stourbridge saw her.
She looked surprised. "Where will you look, Mr. Monk? We have no idea where she could have gone. Obviously, we have already tried her home, and she has not returned there. Her housemaid had not heard from her since she left to come here."
"I would like a woman’s view of her," he explained. "Rather less romantic, and perhaps more accurate."
"Oh. I see. Yes, of course." She leaned back. She was slender, probably in her mid-forties, and there was a natural elegance in the way she held her hands and in the sweep of her huge skirts over the chair. Looking at her face, Monk thought her observation of Miriam Gardiner would be clear and un-sentimental, perhaps the first that might offer some genuine insight into her character. He watched her attentively.
"She is of average height," Verona began, measuring her words. "Perhaps a trifle plumper than would be the choice for a young woman. I daresay my son has already told you she was at least nine years older than he?"
"At least?" he questioned. "You mean she admitted to nine but you personally think it might be more?"
She shrugged delicately without answering. "She has excellent hair, fair and thick and with a becoming natural wave," she continued. "Blue eyes, quite good complexion and teeth. Altogether a generous face indicating good nature and at least averagely good health. She dressed becomingly, but without extravagance. I should imagine well within a moderate income."
"She sounds a paragon of virtues, Mrs. Stourbridge," Monk remarked a little dryly. "I do not yet see a woman of flesh and blood— indeed, a real woman at all—merely a recital of admirable qualities."
Her eyebrows rose sharply. She stared at him with chill, then as he stared back, gradually she relaxed.
"I see," she conceded. "Of course. You asked me what she looked like. She was most pleasing. Her character was also agreeable, but she was not incapable of independent thought. You are asking me if she had faults? Of course. She was stubborn at times. She had some strange and unsuitable views on certain social issues. She was overfamiliar with the servants, which caused difficulties now and then. I think she had much to learn in the running of a house of the size and standard my son would have required." She kept her eyes steadily on Monk’s. "Very possibly, she would not have been our first choice of wife for him. There are many more suitable young women of our acquaintance, but we were not unhappy with her, Mr. Monk, nor could she have imagined that we were."
"Not even if she failed to give him an heir?" It was an intrusive and intimate question, and a subject upon which emotions were often deep. Women had been abandoned because of it throughout history.
She looked a little pale, but her hands did not tighten in her lap.