The Silent Cry

Chapter Four

The evening after Corriden Wade had left, Hester went upstairs to see Rhys for the last time before settling him for the night. She found him lying half curled over on the bed, his face turned into the pillow, his eyes wide. With anyone else she would have talked to him, tried to learn if not directly, at least indirectly, what troubled him. But Rhys still had no way of communicating except by agreement or disagreement with whatever she asked him. She had to guess, to fumble with all the myriad possibilities, and try to frame them so he could answer, yes or no. It was such a crude instrument to try to find so subtle and terrible a pain. It was like trying to operate on living flesh using an axe.

Yet sometimes words were too precise. She did not even know what it was that hurt him at this moment. It could be fear of what the future held, or simply fear of sleep tonight, and the dreams and memories it would bring. It could be grief for his father, guilt because he was alive and his father was dead; or more deeply because his father had followed him out of the house, and perhaps if he had not, he would still be alive. Or it could be the mixture of anger and grief which afflicts someone when they have parted for the last time in a quarrel, and it is too late for all the things that remain unsaid.

It might be no more than the weariness of physical pain, and the fear of endless days stretching ahead when it would not ever stop. Would he spend the rest of his life here, locked in silence and this terrible isolation?

Or was memory returning with its terror and pain and helplessness re-lived?

She wanted to touch him. It was the most immediate form of communication. It did not need to say anything. There were no queries in it, no clumsiness of wrong guesses, simply a nearness.

But she remembered how he had snatched himself away from his mother.

She did not know him well enough, and he might consider it an intrusion, a familiarity to which she had no right, an advantage she took only because he was ill, and dependent upon her.

In the end she simply spoke her mind.

"Rhys…”

He did not move.

"Rhys… shall I stay for a while, or would you rather be alone?”

He turned very slowly and stared at her, his eyes wide and dark.

She tried to read them, to feel what emotion, what need was filling his mind and tearing at him till he could neither bear it, nor loose it in words. Forgetting her resolve, from her own need she reached out and touched him, laying her hand on his arm above the splints and bandaging.

He did not flinch.

She smiled slightly.

He opened his mouth. His throat tightened, but no sound came. He breathed more rapidly, swallowing. He had to gasp to stop choking, but still there was no voice, no word.

She put her hand up to his lips. "It's all right. Wait a little. Give it time to heal. Is… is there something in particular you want to say?”

Nothing. His eyes were full of dread and misery.

She waited, struggling to understand.

Slowly his eyes filled with tears and he shook his head.

She brushed his dark hair from his brow. "Are you ready to go to sleep?”

He shook his head.

"Shall I find something to read to you?”

He nodded.

She went to the bookshelf. Should she even try to censor out anything which might give him pain, remind him of his condition or re-awaken memory? Might it not end in being more conspicuous by its very absence?

She picked up a translation of the Iliad. It would be full of battles and deaths, but the language would be beautiful, and it would be alive with imagery and light, epic loves, gods and goddesses, ancient cities and wine-dark seas… a world of the mind away from the alleys of St.

Giles.

She sat in the chair beside his bed and he lay still and listened to her, his eyes never leaving her face. Eleven o'clock came and went, midnight, one o'clock, and at last he fell asleep. She marked the place and closed the book, tip-toeing out and to her own room where she lay down on the bed and fell asleep herself, still fully clothed.

She awoke late and still tired, but she had slept better than any night since she came to Ebury Street. She went immediately to Rhys and found him restless, but not yet ready to wake sufficiently to take breakfast.

Downstairs she met Sylvestra who came across the hall as soon as she saw Hester, her face tense with anxiety.

"How is he? Has he spoken yet?" She closed her eyes, impatient with herself. "I'm sorry. I swore I would not ask that. Dr. Wade says I must be patient… but…" she stopped.

"Of course it is difficult," Hesterassured her. "Every day seems like a week. But we sat reading till very late last night, and he seems to have slept well. He was much more at ease.”

Some of the tension slipped out of Sylvestra's body, her shoulders lowered a little and she attempted to smile.

"Come into the dining room. I'm sure you have not breakfasted yet.

Neither have I.”

"Thank you." Hesteraccepted not only because it was a request from her employer, but because she hoped that gradually she might learn a little more about Rhys, and thus be able to be of more comfort to him. Comfort of mind was about all she could offer him, apart from helping him to eat, to stay clean and attend to his immediate personal wants. So far Dr. Wade had not permitted her to change any dressings but the most superficial, and Rhys's greatest injuries were internal where no one could reach them.

The dining room was pleasantly furnished, but like the rest of the house, in too heavy a style for Hester's taste. The table and sideboard were Elizabethan oak, solid and powerful, an immense weight of wood. The carver chairs at each end of the table had high backs and ornate arm rests. There were no mirrors, which might have given more light and impression of space. The curtains were wine and pink brocade, tied back with tasselled cords and splayed wide to show their richness, and the burgundy-coloured lining. The walls were hung with a dozen or more pictures.

But it was extremely comfortable. The chairs were padded on their seats and the fire blazed up in the inglenook hearth, filling the room with warmth.

Sylvestra did not wish to eat. She picked at a piece of toast, undecided whether to have Dundee marmalade or apricot preserves. She poured a cup of tea and sipped it before it was cool enough.

Hester wondered what kind of a man Leighton Duff had been, how they had met and what had happened in the relationship during its twenty-five or so years. What friends had Sylvestra to help her in her grief? They would all have been at the funeral, but that had been almost immediate, in the few days when Rhys had been in hospital, and before Hester had arrived. Now the formal acknowledgements of death were over and Sylvestra was left alone to face the empty days afterwards.

Apparently Dr. Wade's sister was one who was eager to call as soon as she could and he himself seemed to be more than merely a professional acquaintance.

"Have you always lived here?" Hesterasked.

"Yes," Sylvestra replied, looking up quickly as if she too were grateful for something to say, but had simply not known how to begin.

"Yes, ever since I was married.”

"It's extremely comfortable.”

"Yes…" Sylvestra answered automatically, as if it were the expected thing to observe and she did it as she had always done. It no longer had meaning. The poverty and hour to hour dangers of St. Giles were further away than the quarrels and the gods of the Iliad, because they were beyond the horizons of the imagination. Sylvestra recalled herself. "Yes, it is. I suppose I have become so accustomed to it I forget. You must have had very different experiences, Miss Latterly. I admire your courage and sense of duty in going to the Crimea. My daughter Amalia would particularly have liked to meet you. I believe you would have liked her also. She has a most enquiring mind, and the courage to follow her dreams.”

"A superb quality," Hester said sincerely. "You have many reasons to be most proud of her.”

Sylvestra smiled. "Yes… thank you, of course, thank you. Miss Latterly…”

"Yes?”

"Does Rhys remember what happened to him?”

"I don't know. Usually people do, but not always. I have a friend who had an accident and was struck on the head. He has only the vaguest flashes of his life before that day. At times a sight or a sound, a smell, will recall something to him, but only fragments. He has to piece it together as well as he can, and leave the rest. He has re-created a good life for himself." She abandoned the pretence of eating. "But Rhys was not struck on the head. He knows he's home, he knows you. It is simply that night he may not recall, and perhaps that is best. There are some memories we cannot bear. To forget is nature's way of helping us to keep our sanity. It is a way for the mind to heal, when natural forgetting would be impossible.”

Sylvestra stared at her plate. "The police are going to try to make him remember. They need to know who attacked him, and who murdered my husband." She looked up. "What if he can't bear to remember, Miss Latterly? What if they force him, show him evidence, bring a witness or whatever, and make him relive it? Will it break his mind? Can't you stop that? Isn't there a way we can protect him? There has to be!”

"Yes, of course," Hester said before she really thought. Her mind was filled with memories of Rhys trying desperately to speak, of his eyes wide with horror, of his sweat-soaked body as he struggled in nightmare, rigid with terror, his throat contracted in a silent scream as pain ripped through him, and no one heard, no one came. "He is far too ill to be harassed, and I am sure Dr. Wade will tell them so.

Anyway, since he cannot speak or write, there is little he can do except to indicate yes or no. They will have to solve this case by other means.”

"I don't know how!" Sylvestra's voice rose in desperation. "I cannot help them. All they asked me were useless questions about what Leighton was wearing and when he went out. None of that is going to achieve anything!”

"What would help?" Hester poured her cold tea into the slop basin and reached for the pot, tactfully offering it to Sylvestra as well. At her nod, she refilled both cups.

"I wish I knew," Sylvestra said almost under her breath. "I've racked my brain to think what Leighton would have been doing in a place like that, and all I can imagine is that he went after Rhys. He was… he was very angry when he left home, far angrier than I told that young man from the police. It seems so disloyal to discuss family quarrels with strangers.”

Hester knew she meant not so much strangers as people from a different social order, as she must consider Evan to be. She would not know his father was a minister of the church, and he had chosen police work from a sense of dedication to justice, not because it was his natural place in society.

"Of course," she agreed. "It is painful to admit, even to oneself, of a quarrel which cannot now be repaired. One has to set it amid the rest of the relationship, and see it as merely a part, only by mischance the last part. It was probably far less important than it seems. Had Mr. Duff lived they would surely have made up their differences." She did not leave it exactly a question.

Sylvestra sipped her fresh tea. "They were quite unlike each other.

Rhys is the youngest. Leighton said I indulged him. Perhaps I did? I… I felt I understood him so well." Her face puckered with hurt.

"Now it looks as if I didn't understand him at all. And my failure may have cost my husband his life…" Her fingers gripped the cup so tightly Hester was afraid she would break it and spill the hot liquid over herself, even cut her hands on the shards.

"Don't torture yourself with that, when you don't know if it is true!” she urged. "Perhaps you can think of something which may help the police learn why they went to St. Giles. It may stem from something that happened some time before that evening. It is a fearful place.

They must have had a very compelling reason. Could it have been on someone else's account? A friend in trouble?”

Sylvestra looked up at her quickly, her eyes bright. "That would make some sense of it, wouldn't it?”

"Yes. Who are Rhys's friends? Who might he care about sufficiently to go to such a place to help them? Perhaps they had borrowed money. It can happen… a gambling debt they dared not tell their family about, or a girl of dubious reputation.”

Sylvestra smiled, it was full of fear, but there was self-mastery in it also. "That sounds like Rhys himself, I'm afraid. He tended to find respectable young ladies rather boring. That was the principal reason he quarrelled with his father. He felt it unfair that Constance and Amalia were able to travel to India to have all manner of exotic experiences, and he was required to remain at home and study, and marry well and then go into the family business.”

"What was Mr. Duffs business?" Hester felt considerable sympathy with Rhys. All his will and passion, all his dreams seemed to lie in the Middle East, and he was required to remain in London while his elder sisters had the adventures not only of the mind, but of the body as well.

"He was in law," Sylvestra replied. "Conveyancing, property. He was the senior partner. He had offices in Birmingham and Manchesteras well as the City.”

Highly respectable, Hester thought, but hardly the stuff of dreams. At least the family would presumably still have some means. Finance would not be an additional cause for anxiety. She imagined Rhys had been expected to go up to university, and then follow in his father's footsteps in the company, probably a junior partnership to begin with, leading to rapid promotion. His whole future was built ahead of him, and rigidly defined. Naturally it required that he make at the very least a suitable marriage, at best a fortunate one. She could feel the net drawing tight, as if it had been around herself. It was a life tens of thousands would have been only too grateful for.

She tried to imagine Leighton Duff, and his hopes for his son, his anger and frustration that Rhys was ungrateful, blind to his good fortune.

"He must have been a very talented man," she said, again to fill the silence.

"He was," Sylvestra agreed with a distant smile. "He was immensely respected. The number of people who regarded his opinion was extraordinary. He could perceive both opportunities and dangers that others, some very skilled and learned men, did not.”

To Hester it only made his journey into St. Giles the harder to understand. She had no sense of his personality, apart from an ambition for his son, and perhaps a lack of wisdom in his approach to pressing it. But then she had not known Rhys before the attack.

Perhaps he had been very wilful, wasted his time when he should have been studying. Maybe he had chosen poorly in his friends, especially his female ones. He could well have been a son over-indulged by his mother, refusing to grow up and accept adult responsibility. Leighton Duff may have had every reason to be exasperated with him. It would not be the first time a mother had over-protected a boy, and thereby achieved the very last thing she intended: left him unfit for any kind of lasting happiness, but instead a permanent dependant, and an inadequate husband in his turn.

Sylvestra was lost in her own thoughts, remembering a kinder past.

"Leighton could be very dashing," she said thoughtfully. "He used to ride over hurdles when he was younger. He was terribly good at it. He didn't keep horses himself, but many friends wanted him to ride for them. He won very often, because he had the courage… and of course the skill. I used to love to watch him, even though I was terrified he would fall. At that speed it can be extremely dangerous.”

Hester tried to picture it. It was profoundly at odds with the rather staid man she had envisioned in her mind, the dry lawyer drawing up deeds for property. How foolish it was to judge a person by a few facts, when there were so many other things to know! Perhaps the law offices were only a small part of him, a practical side which provided for the family life, and perhaps also the money for the adventure and imagination of his truer self. It could be from their father that Constance and Amalia had inherited their courage and their dreams.

"I suppose he had to give it up as he got older," she said thoughtfully.

Sylvestra smiled. "Yes, I'm afraid so. He realised it when a friend of ours had a very bad fall. Leighton was so upset for him. He was crippled. Oh, he learned to walk again, after about six months, but it was only with pain, and he was no longer able to practise his profession. He was a surgeon, and he could not hold his hands steadily enough. It was very tragic. He was only forty-three.”

Hester did not reply. She thought of a man whose life had been dedicated to one art, losing it in a moment's fall from a horse, not even doing anything necessary, simply a race. What regret would follow, what self-blame for the hardship to his family.

"Leighton helped him a great deal," Sylvestra went on. "He managed to sell some property for him, and invest the money so he was provided for, at least with some income for his family.”

Hester smiled quickly, in acknowledgement she had heard and appreciated it.

Sylvestra's face darkened again. "Do you think Rhys may have gone into that dreadful area searching for a friend in trouble?" she asked.

"It seems possible.”

"I shall have to ask Arthur Kynaston. Perhaps he will come to see Rhys, when he is a little better. He might like that.”

"We can ask him, in a day or two. Is he fond of Rhys?”

"Oh yes. Arthur is the son of one of Leighton's closest friends, the headmaster of Rowntrees that is an excellent boys' school near Q1 here." Her face softened for a moment and her voice lifted with enthusiasm. "Joel Kynaston was a brilliant scholar, and he chose to dedicate his life to teaching boys the love of learning, especially the classics. That is where Rhys learned his Latin and Greek, and his love of history and ancient cultures. It is one of the greatest gifts a young person can receive. Or any age of person, I suppose.”

"Of course," Hesteragreed.

"Arthur is Rhys's age," she went on. "His elder brother Marmaduke they call him Duke is also a friend. He is a little… wilder, perhaps?

Clever people sometimes are, and Duke is very talented. I know Leighton thought him headstrong. He is now at Oxford studying classics, like his father. Of course he is home for Christmas. They must both be terribly grieved by this.”

Hester finished her toast and drank the last of her tea. At least she knew a little more about Rhys. It did not explain what had happened to him, but it offered a few possibilities.

Nothing she had learned prepared her for what happened that afternoon when Sylvestra came into the bedroom for the third time that day. Rhys had had a very light luncheon, and then fallen asleep. He was in some physical pain. Lying in more or less one position was making him very stiff and his bruises were healing only slowly. It was impossible to know what injuries were causing pain within him, swelling or even bleeding. He was very uncomfortable, and after she had given him a sedative herbal drink with something to ease him at least a little, he fell into a light sleep.

He woke when Sylvestra came in.

She went over and sat in the chair next to him.

"How are you, my dear?" she said softly. "Are you rested?”

He stared at her. Hester was standing at the end of the bed and saw the pain and the darkness in his eyes.

Sylvestra put out her hand and stroked him gently on the bare arm above his splints and plasters.

"Every day will be a little better, Rhys," she said just above a whisper, her voice dry with emotion. "It will pass, and you will heal.”

He looked at her steadily, then slowly his lips curled back from his teeth in a cold glare of utter contempt.

Sylvestra looked as if she had been struck. Her hand remained on his arm, but as if frozen. She was too stunned to move.

"Rhys…?”

A savage hatred filled his face, as if, had he the strength, he would have lashed out at her physically, wounding, gouging, delighting in pain.

"Rhys…" She opened her mouth to continue, but she had no words. She withdrew her hand as if it had been injured, holding it protectively.

His face softened, the violence crumpled out of it, leaving him limp and bruised.

She reached out to him again, instantly to forgive.

He looked at her, measuring her feelings, waiting; then he lifted his other hand and hit her, jarring the splints. It must have been agony to his broken bones and he went grey with the shock of it, but he did not move his eyes from hers.

Her eyes filled with tears and she stood up, now truly physically hurt, although it was nothing compared with the pain of confusion and rejection and helplessness within. She walked slowly to the door and out of the room.

Rhys's lips curled in a slow, vicious, satisfied smile, and he swung his face back to look at Hester.

Hester was cold inside, as if she had swallowed ice.

"That was horrible," she said clearly. "You have belittled yourself.”

He stared at her, confusion filling his face, and surprise. Whatever he had expected of her it was not that.

She was too repelled and too aware of Sylvestra's grief to guard her words. She felt a kind of horror she had never known before, a mixture of pity and fear and a sense of something so dark she could not even stumble towards it in imagination.

"That was a cruel and pointless thing to do," she went on. "I'm disgusted with you!”

Anger blazed in his eyes, and the smile came back to his mouth, still twisted, as if in self-mockery.

She turned away.

She heard him bang his hand on the sheet. It must have hurt, it would jar the broken bones even further. It was his only way of attracting attention, unless he knocked the bell off, and when he did that others might hear, especially Sylvestra if she had not yet gone downstairs.

She turned back.

He was trying desperately to speak. His head jerked, his lips moved and his throat convulsed as he fought to make a sound. Nothing came, only a gasping for breath as he choked and gagged and then choked again.

She went to him and put her arm around him, lifting him a little so he could breathe more easily.

"Stop it!" she ordered. "Stop it! That won't help you to speak. Just breathe slowly! In… out! In… out! That's better. Again.

Slowly." She sat holding him up until his breathing was regular, under control, then she let him lie back on the pillows. She regarded him dispassionately, until she saw the tears on his cheeks and the despair in his eyes. He seemed oblivious of his hands lying on the cover with the splints crooked, carrying the bones awry. It must have been agonising, and yet the pain of emotion inside him was so much greater he did not even feel it.

What in God's name had happened to him in St. Giles? What memory tore inside him with such unbearable horror?

"I'll re-bandage your hands," she said more gently. "You can't leave them like that. The bones may even have been moved.”

He blinked, but made no more sign of disagreement.

"It's going to hurt," she warned.

He smiled and made a little snort, letting out his breath sharply.

It took her nearly three-quarters of an hour to take the bandages off both hands, examine the broken fingers and the bruised and swollen flesh, lacerated across the knuckles, realign the bones, all the time aware of the hideous pain it must be causing him, and then re-splint them and re-bandage them. It was really a surgeon's job, and perhaps Corriden Wade would be angry with her for doing it herself, instead of calling him, but he was due to come tomorrow, and she was perfectly capable. She had certainly set enough bones before. She could not leave Rhys like this while she sent a messenger out to Wade's house to look for him. At this time he might very well be out at dinner, or even the theatre.

Afterwards Rhys was exhausted. His face was grey with pain and his clothes were soaked with sweat.

"I'll change the bed," she said matter-of-factly. "You can't sleep in that. Then I'll get you a draught to ease the pain of it, and help you to rest. Maybe you'll think twice before hitting anyone again?”

He bit his lip and stared at her. He looked rueful, but it was far less than an apology. It was too complicated to express without words, perhaps even with them.

She helped him to the further side of the bed, half supporting his weight; he was dizzy and weak with pain. She eased him down on to it.

She took off the rumpled sheets, marked with spots of blood, and put on clean ones. Then she helped him change into a fresh nightshirt and held him steady while he half rolled back to the centre of the bed and she straightened the covers over him.

"I'll be back in a few moments with the draught for pain," she told him. "Don't move until I return.”

He nodded obediently.

It took her nearly quarter of an hour to mix up the strongest dose she dared give him from Dr. Wade's medicine. It should be enough to help him sleep at least half of the night. Anything strong enough to deaden the pain of his hands might kill him. It was the best she could do.

She offered it to him and held it while he drank.

He made a face.

"I know it's bitter," she agreed. "I brought a little peppermint to take the taste away.”

He looked at her gravely, then very slowly he smiled. It was thanks, there was nothing else in it, no cruelty, no satisfaction. He was powerless to explain.

She pushed the hair back off his brow.

"Goodnight," she said quietly. "If you need me, you have only to knock the bell.”

He raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, of course I'll come," she promised.

This time the smile was a little wider, then he turned away suddenly, and his eyes filled with tears.

She went out quietly, bitterly aware that she was leaving him alone with his horror and his silence. The draught would give him at least a little rest.

The doctor called the following morning. It was a dark day, the sky heavy-laden with snow and an icy wind whistling in the eaves. He came in with skin whipped ruddy by the cold, and rubbing his hands to get the circulation back after sitting still in his carriage.

Sylvestra was relieved to see him and came out of the morning room immediately she heard his voice in the hall. Hester was on the stairs and could not help observing his quick effort to smile at her, and her relief. She went to him eagerly and he took her hands in his, nodding while he spoke to her. The conversation was brief, then he came straight up to Hester. He took her arm and led her away from the banister edge and towards the more private centre of the landing.

"It is not good news," he said very quietly as if aware of Sylvestra still below them. "You gave him the powders I left?”

"Yes, in the strongest dose you prescribed. It provided him some ease.”

"Yes," he nodded. He looked cold, anxious and very tired, as if he too had slept little. Perhaps he had been up all night with other patients. Below them in the hall Sylvestra's footsteps faded towards the withdrawing room.

"I wish I knew what to do to help him, but I confess I am working blindly." Wade looked at Hester with a regretful smile. "This is very different from the orlop deck on which I trained." He gave a dry, little laugh. "There everything was so quick. Men were carried in and laid on the canvas. Each waited his turn, first brought in, first seen. It was a matter of searching for musket balls, splinters of wood teak splinters are poisonous, did you know that, Miss Latterly?

"No.”

"Of course not! I don't suppose you have them in the army. But then in the Navy we didn't have men trodden on or dragged by horses. I expect you did?”

"Yes.”

"But we are both used to cannon fire, sabre slashes and musket shot, and fever…" His eyes were bright with remembered agony. "God, the fevers! Yellow Jack, scurvy, malaria…”

"Cholera, typhoid and gangrene," she responded, the past hideously clear for an instant.

"Gangrene," he agreed, his gaze unwavering from hers. "Dear God, I saw some courage! I imagine you could match me, instance for instance?”

"I believe so." She did not want to see the white faces again, the broken bodies and the fever and deaths, but it gave her a pride like a burning pain inside to have been part of it, and to be able to share it with this man who understood as a mere reader and listener never could.

"What can we do for Rhys?" she asked.

He drew in his breath and let it go in a sigh. "Keep him as quiet and as comfortable as we can. The internal bruising will subside in time, I believe, unless there is more damage done than we know. His external wounds are healing, but it is very early yet." He looked very grave and his voice dropped even lower, belying his words. "He is young, and was strong and in good health. The flesh will knit, but it will take time. It must still cause him severe pain. It is to be expected, and there is nothing to do but endure. You can relieve him to some extent with the powders I have left. I will re-dress his wounds each time I call, and make sure they are uninfected. There is little suppuration, and no sign of gangrene, so far. I shall be most careful.”

"I was obliged to re-bandage his hands last night. I'm sorry." She was reluctant to tell him about the unpleasant incident with Sylvestra.

"Oh?" He looked wary, the concern in his eyes deepening, but she saw no anger, no censure of her. "I think you had better tell me what happened, Miss Latterly. I am sensitive to your wish to protect your patient's confidentiality, but I have known Rhys a long time. I am already aware of some of his characteristics.”

Briefly, omitting detail, she told him of the encounter with Sylvestra.

"I see," he said quietly. He turned away so she could not see his face. "It is not hopeful. Please do not encourage Mrs. Duff to expect… Miss Latterly, I confess I do not know what to say! One should never abandon any effort, try all one can, whatever the odds.”

He hesitated before going on, as if it cost him an effort to master his feelings. "I have seen miracles of recovery. I have also seen a great many men die. Perhaps it is better to say nothing, if you can do that, living here in the house?”

"I can try. Do you think he will regain his speech?”

He swung around to face her, his eyes narrow and dark, unreadable.

"I have no idea. But you must keep the police from harassing him! If they do, and they send him into another hysteria, it could kill him.”

His voice was brittle and urgent. She heard the note of fear in it, which she saw in his eyes and mouth. "I don't know what happened, or what he did, but I do know that the memory is unbearable to him. If you want to save his sanity, you will guard him with every spark of courage and intelligence you have, from the police attempts to make him relive it with their questions. For him to do so could very well tip him over the abyss into madness from which he might never return. I have no doubt that if anyone is equal to that, you are.”

"Thank you," she said simply. It was a compliment she would treasure, because it was from a man who used no idle words.

He nodded. "Now I will go and see him. If you will be good enough to ensure we are uninterrupted. I must examine not only his hands, but his other wounds to see he has not torn any of the newly healing skin.

Thank you for your care, Miss Latterly.”

The following day Rhys received his first visitor since the incident.

It was early in the afternoon. The day was considerably brighter. Snow was lying on the roofs and it reflected back from a windy sky and the pale sunlight of short, winter days.

Hester was upstairs when the doorbell rang and Wharmby showed in a woman of unusual appearance. She was of average height and fair, unremarkable colouring, but her features were strong, decidedly asymmetrical and yet possessed of an extraordinary air of inner resolution and calm. She was certainly not beautiful, yet one gained from her a sense of well-being which was almost more attractive.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Kynaston," Wharmby said with evident pleasure.

He looked at the youth who had followed her. His hair and skin were as fair as hers, but his features quite different. His face was thin, his features finer and more aquiline, his eyes clear light blue. It was a face of humour and dreams, and perhaps a certain loneliness. "Good afternoon, Mr. Arthur.”

"Good afternoon," Mrs. Kynaston replied. She was wearing dark browns and blacks, as became one visiting a house in mourning. Her clothes were well cut but somehow devoid of individual style. It seemed evident it did not matter to her. She allowed Wharmby to take her cloak, and then to conduct her into the withdrawing room where apparently Sylvestra was expecting her. Arthur followed a pace behind.

Wharmby came up the stairs.

"Miss Latterly, young Mr. Kynaston is a great friend of Mr. Rhys's.

He has asked if he may visit. Is that possible, do you think?”

"I shall ask Mr. Rhys is he wishes to see him," Hester replied. "If he does, I would like to see Mr. Kynaston first. It is imperative he does not say or do anything which would cause distress. Dr. Wade is adamant on that.”

"Of course. I understand." He stood waiting while she went to enquire.

Rhys was lying staring at the ceiling, his eyes half closed.

Hester stood in the doorway. "Arthur Kynaston is here. He would like to visit you, if you are feeling well enough. If you aren't, all you have to do is let me know. I shall see he is not offended.”

Rhys's eyes opened wide. She thought she saw eagerness in them, then a sudden doubt, perhaps embarrassment.

She waited.

He was uncertain. He was lonely, frightened, vulnerable, ashamed of his helplessness, and perhaps of what he had not done to save his father. Maybe, like many soldiers she had known, the sheer fact of his survival was a reproach to him, when someone else had not. Had he really been a coward, or did he only fear he had been? Did he even remember with any clarity, any approximation to fact?

"If you see him, shall I leave you alone?" she asked.

A shadow crossed his face.

"Shall I stay, and see that we talk of pleasant things, interesting things?”

Slowly he smiled.

She turned and went out to tell Wharmby.

Arthur Kynaston came up the stairs slowly, his fair face creased in concern.

"Are you the nurse?" he asked when he stood in front of her.

"Yes. My name is Hester Latterly.”

"May I see him?”

"Yes. But I must warn you, Mr. Kynaston, he is very ill. I expect you have already been told than he cannot speak.”

"But he will be able to… soon? I mean, it will come back, won't it?”

"I don't know. For now he cannot, but he can nod or shake his head.

And he likes to be spoken to.”

"What can I say?" He looked confused and a little afraid. He was very young, perhaps seventeen.

"Anything, except to mention what happened in St. Giles, or the death of his father.”

"Oh God! I mean… he does know, doesn't he? Someone has told him?”

"Yes. But he was there. We don't know what happened, but the shock of it seems to be what has robbed him of speech. Talk about anything else. You must have interests. Do you study? What do you hope to do?”

"Classics," he replied without hesitation. "Rhys loves the ancient stories, even more than I do. We'd love to go to Greece, or Turkey.”

She smiled and stood aside. There was no need to say that he had answered his own question. He knew it.

As soon as he saw Arthur, Rhys's face lit up, then instantly was shadowed by self-consciousness. He was in bed, helpless, unable even to welcome him.

If Arthur Kynaston had any idea of such things, he hid it superbly. He walked in as if it were the way they naturally met. He sat down in the chair beside the bed, ignoring Hester, facing Rhys.

"I suppose you've got rather more time to read than you can use?" he said ruefully. "I'll see if I can find a few new books for you. I've just been reading something fascinating. Trust me to get there years after everyone else, but I've got this book about Egypt, by an Italian called Belzoni. It was written nearly forty years ago, 1822 to be exact. It's all about the discovery of ancient tombs in Egypt and Nubia." He could not help his face tightening with his enthusiasm.

"It's marvelous! I'm convinced there must be much more there, if only we knew where to look!" He leaned forward. "I haven't told Papa yet.

But although I keep saying I'll study the classics, actually I think I might like to be an Egyptologist. In fact I'm pretty sure I would.”

In the doorway Hesteralready felt herself relaxing.

Rhys stared at Arthur, his eyes wide with fascination.

"I must tell you about some of the stuff they've found!" Arthur went on. "I tried to tell Duke, but you know him! He wasn't even remotely interested. No imagination. Sees time like a series of little rooms, all without windows. If you are in today, then that's all that exists.

I see it all as a vast whole. Any day is as important and as real as any other. Don't you think so?”

Rhys smiled and nodded.

"Can I tell you about this?" Arthur asked. "Do you mind? I've been longing to tell someone. Papa would be furious with me for wasting time. Mama would just listen with half her mind, and then forget it.

Duke thinks I'm a fool. But you're a captive audience…" He blushed hotly. "Sorry… that was a wretched thing to say! I wish I'd bitten my tongue!”

Rhys smiled with sudden brilliance. It changed his whole face, lighting it with an extraordinary charm. It was a warmth Hester had never had a chance to see.

"Thanks," Arthur said with a little shake of his head. "What I mean is, I know you'll understand." And he proceeded to describe the discoveries Belzoni had made in Egypt, his voice rising with eagerness, his hands moving quickly to outline them in the air.

Hester slipped out silently. She was perfectly confident that Arthur Kynaston would cause Rhys no unnecessary harm. If he reminded him of other times, of life and vigour that was unavoidable, he would think of those things anyway. If he made the occasional clumsy reference, that was bound to happen too. They were still best left alone.

Downstairs the maid Janet told her that Mrs. Duff would be pleased if she would join her in the withdrawing room for tea.

It was a courtesy, and one that Hester had not expected. She was not a servant in the house, but neither was she a guest. Perhaps Sylvestra wished her to know as much as possible about family friends in order to be able to help Rhys, to explain the rage in him. She must feel a consuming loneliness, and Hester was the only bridge between herself and her son, except Corriden Wade, and he was here only briefly.

She was introduced and Fidelis Kynaston betrayed no surprise at accepting her as part of the afternoon's visit and of the conversation.

"Is he…?" Sylvestra began nervously.

Hesteranswered with a smile which must have shown her pleasure. "They are having an excellent time," she answered with confidence. "Mr.

Kynaston is describing the discoveries along the Nile by a Signor Belzoni, and they are both enjoying it greatly. I admit I too was much interested. I think when I have spare time, I shall purchase the book myself.”

Sylvestra gave a sigh of relief and her whole body eased, the muscles of her shoulders and back un knotting the silk of her dress ceasing to strain. She turned to Fidelis.

"Thank you so much for coming. It is not always easy to visit people who are ill, or bereaved. One never knows what to say…”

"My dear, what kind of a friend would one be if the moment one was needed, one chose to be somewhere else? I have never seen you adopt that course!" Fidelis assured, leaning forward.

Sylvestra shrugged. "There has been so little…”

"Nothing like this," Fidelis agreed. "But there has been unpleasantness, even if largely unspoken, and you have felt it, and been there with companionship.”

Sylvestra smiled her acknowledgement.

The conversation became general, of trivial current events, family affairs. Sylvestra recounted the latest letters from Amalia in India, of course still unaware of events in London. She wrote of the poverty she saw, and particularly of the disease and lack of clean water, a subject which seemed to trouble her greatly. Hester was drawn in sufficiently for good manners. Then Fidelis asked her about her experiences in the Crimea. Her interest seemed quite genuine.

"It must feel very strange to you to come home to England after the danger and responsibility of your position out there," she said with a puckered brow.

"It was difficult to alter the attitude of one's mind," Hesteradmitted with massive understatement. She had found it utterly impossible. One month she was dealing with dying men, terrible injuries, decisions that affected lives, then a month later she was required to behave like an obedient and grateful dependant, to have no more opinions upon anything more important or controversial than a hemline or a pudding!

Fidelis smiled and there was a flash of amusement in her eyes as if she had some awareness of what the truth may be.

"Have you met Dr. Wade? Yes, of course you have. He served in the Navy for many years, you know? I imagine you will have a certain amount in common with him. He is a most remarkable man. He has great strength, both of purpose and of character.”

Hester recalled Corriden Wade's face as he had stood on the landing talking to her about the sailors he had known, the men who had fought with Nelson, who had seen the great sea battles which had turned the tide of history fifty-five years ago, when England stood alone against the massive armies of Napoleon, allied with Spain, and the fate of Europe was in the balance. She had seen the fire of imagination in his eyes, the knowledge of what it meant, and the cost in lives and pain.

She had heard in the timbre of his voice his admiration for the dedication and the sacrifice of those men.

"Yes," she said with surprising vehemence. "Yes, he is. He was telling me something of his experiences.”

"I know my husband admires him very much," Sylvestra remarked. "He has known him for close to twenty years. Of course not so well to begin with. That would be before he came ashore." There was a pensiveness in her face for a moment, as though she had thought of something else, something she did not understand. Then it passed and she turned to Fidelis. "It is strange to think how much of a person's life you cannot share, even though you see them every day, and discuss all sorts of things with them, have a home and family in common, even a destiny shared. And yet the part which formed so much of what they think and feel and believe all happened in places you have never been to, and were unlike all you have experienced yourself.”

"I suppose it is," Fidelis said slowly, her fair brows furrowed very slightly. "There is so much one observes, but will never understand.

We see what appears to be the same events, and yet when we speak about them afterwards they are quite different, as if we were not discussing the same thing at all. I used to wonder if it was memory, now I know it is quite a different perception in the first place. I suppose that is part of growing up." She smiled very slightly, at her own foolishness. "You realise that people do not necessarily feel or think as you do yourself. Some things cannot be communicated.”

"Can't they?" Sylvestra challenged. "Surely that is what speech is for?”

"Words are only labels," Fidelis replied, taking the thoughts. Hester felt it would be too bold of her to express them herself. "A way of describing an idea. If you do not know what the idea is, then the label does not tell you.”

Sylvestra was plainly puzzled.

"I remember Joel trying to explain some Greek or Arabic ideas to me,”

Fidelis attempted to clarify. "I did not understand, because we do not have such a concept in our culture." She smiled ruefully. "In the end all he could do was use their word for it. It did not help in the slightest. I still had no idea what it was." She looked at Hester.

"Can you tell me what it is like to watch a young soldier die of cholera in Scutari, or see the wagon loads of mangled bodies come in from Sebastopol, or Balaclava, some of them dying of hunger and cold? I mean, can you tell me so that I will feel what you felt?”

"No." The bare word was enough. Hester looked at this woman with the extraordinary face far more closely than before. At first she had seemed simply another well-bred wife of a successful man, come to offer her sympathy to a friend bereaved. In what had begun as an afternoon's trivial conversation, she had touched on one of the mysteries of loneliness and misunderstanding that underlay so many incomplete relationships. She saw in Sylvestra's eyes the sudden flare of her own incomprehension. Perhaps the chasm between Rhys and herself was more than his loss of speech? Maybe words would not have conveyed what had really happened to him anyway?

And what of Leighton Duff? How well had she known him? She could see that thought reflected in her dark eyes even now.

Fidelis was watching Sylvestra too, her lop-sided face touched with concern. How much had she been told, or had she guessed of that night?

Had she any idea of why Leighton Duff had gone to St. Giles?

"No," Hester broke the silence. "I think there must always be experiences we can share only imperfectly, for any of us.”

Fidelis smiled briefly, again the shadow behind her eyes. "The wisest thing, my dear, is to accept a certain blindness, and not either to blame yourself, or to blame others too much. You must succeed by your own terms, not anyone else's.”

It was a curious remark, and Hester had the fleeting impression that it was made with some deeper meaning which Sylvestra would understand. She was not sure if it referred to Rhys, or to Leighton Duff, or simply to some generality of their lives which was relevant to this new and consuming misery. Whatever it was, Fidelis Kynaston wished Sylvestra to believe she understood it.

Their tea was cold and the tiny sandwiches eaten when Arthur Kynaston returned, looking slightly flushed but far less tense than when he had gone up.

"How is he?" his mother asked before Sylvestra could speak.

"He seems in good spirits," he replied hastily. He was too young, too clear-faced to lie well. He had obviously been profoundly shaken, but was trying to conceal it from Sylvestra. "I'm sure when his cuts and bruises have healed, he'll feel a different man. He was really quite interested in Belzoni. I promised to bring him some drawings, if that's all right?”

"Of course!" Sylvestra said quickly. "Yes… yes, please do!" She seemed relieved. At last something was returning to normal, it was a moment when things were back to the sanity, the wholeness of the past.

Fidelis rose to her feet and put her hand on her son's arm. "That would be most kind. Now I think we should allow Mrs. Duff a little time to herself." She turned and bade Hester goodbye, then looked at Sylvestra. "If there is anything whatever I can do, my dear, you have only to let me know. If you wish to talk, I am always ready to listen, and then forget… selectively. I have an excellent ability to forget.”

"There are so many things I would like to forget," Sylvestra replied almost under her breath. "I can't forget what I don't understand!

Ridiculous, isn't it? You would think that would be the easiest. Why St. Giles? That is what the police keep asking me and I cannot answer them.”

"You probably never will," Fidelis said wryly. "You might be best advised, happiest, if you do not guess." She kissed Sylvestra lightly on each cheek, and then took her leave, Arthur a few steps behind her.

Hester offered no comment, and Sylvestra did not raise the matter.

Hester had been present as a courtesy, and she was owed no confidences.

They both went up to see if Rhys was still in the good spirits Arthur had described, and found him lying half asleep, and apparently at as much ease as was possible in his pain.

That evening Eglantyne Wade called. It was the first time she had come since the funeral, no doubt knowing how ill Rhys was, and not wishing to intrude. Hester was curious to see what kind of woman Dr. Wade's sister might be. She hoped she would prove to be not unlike him, a woman of courage, imagination and individuality, perhaps not unlike Fidelis Kynaston.

In the event she proved to be far prettier, or far more conventional in appearance, and Hester felt a stab of disappointment. It was totally unreasonable. Why should his sister have any of his intelligence or inner courage of the spirit? Her own brother Charles was nothing at all like her. He was kind, in his own way, honest, and infinitely predictable.

She replied politely to Sylvestra's introduction, searching Miss Wade's face for some sign of inner fire, and not finding it. All she met was a bland, blue stare which seemed without thought, or any but the mildest interest. Even Sylvestra's remark on her service in the Crimea provoked no surprise but the usual murmur of respect which mention of Scutari and Sebastopol always earned. It seemed as if Eglantyne Wade were not even truly listening.

Sylvestra had promised Hester that she might have the evening free to do as she pleased. She had even suggested she might like to go out somewhere, visit friends or relatives. Since Oliver Rathbone had asked that if she were permitted an evening's respite from her new case, she would use it to dine with him, she had sent a note to his office at midday. By late afternoon she received the reply that he would be honoured if she would allow him to send a carriage for her that they might dine together. Therefore at seven she waited in the hall, dressed in her one really good gown, and felt a distinct ripple of excitement when the doorbell rang, and Wharmby informed her that it was for her.

It was a bitter night, a rime of ice on the cobbles, steam rising from the horses' flanks, and the wreaths of fog curling around the lamps and drifting in choking clammy patches. Smoke and soot hung heavy in the air above, blotting out the stars, and a dagger-like wind scythed down the tunnels made by the high house walls on either side of the street.

She had dined at Rathbone's home before, but with Monk also present, and to discuss a case and their strategy to fight it. She had also dined with him several times at his father's house in Primrose Hill, but she had gathered from the invitation that this was to be in some public place, as was only proper if they were not to be accompanied by any other person.

The cab drew up at a very handsome inn, and the footman immediately opened the door and offered his hand to assist her to alight. She was shown into a small dining room where Rathbone was waiting.

He turned from the mantel where he had been standing in front of the fire. He was formally dressed in black with icy-white shirt front, the light from the chandelier catching his fair hair. He smiled, and watched her come in until she was in the centre of the room, and the door closed behind her, before he came forward. He took her hands in his.

Her dress was grey-blue, severely cut, but she knew it flattered her eyes, and her strong, intelligent face. Frills had always looked absurd on her, out of style with her character.

"Thank you for coming in such extreme haste," he said warmly. "It is a most ungentlemanly way of snatching an opportunity to see you purely for pleasure, and not some wretched business, either of yours or of mine. I am happy to say that all my current cases are merely matters of litigation, and require no detecting at all.”

She was not sure if that was an allusion to Monk, or simply a statement that for once they had no cause for their meeting but each other's company. It was an extraordinary departure for him. He had always been so guarded in the past, so very private where anything personal was concerned.

"And mine has no trial that would interest you," she replied with an answering smile. "In fact I fear probably no trial at all!" She withdrew her hands and he let her go. He walked back slowly towards the chairs near the fire and indicated one for her to sit, before he sat on the other. It was a delightful room, comfortable and private without being too intimate for decorum. Anyone might come or go at any moment, and they could hear the chatter and laughter, and the clink of china in another room very close. The fire burned hotly in the grate and there was a pleasant glow from the pink and plum shades of the furniture. Light gleamed on the polished wood of a side table. A main table was set with linen, crystal and silver for two.

"Do you want a trial?" he asked with amusement. His eyes were extraordinarily dark, and he watched her intently.

She had thought she would find it disconcerting, but although perhaps it was, it was also unquestionably pleasant, even if it made her skin a little warm, and very slightly disturbed her concentration. In a subtle way it was like being touched.

"I would very much like the offenders caught and punished," she said vehemently. "It is one of the worst cases I have seen. Often I think I can see some sort of reason for things, but this seems to be simply the most bestial violence.”

"What happened?”

"A young man and his father were attacked in St. Giles, and appallingly beaten. The father died, the young man, whom I am nursing, is very badly injured, and cannot speak." Her voice dropped unintentionally. "I have watched him have nightmares when it is quite obvious he is reliving the attack. He is agonised with terror, hysterical, trying over and over to scream, but his voice won't come.

He is in great physical pain, but the anguish in his mind is even worse.”

"I'm sorry," he said, regarding her gravely. "It must be very difficult for you to watch. Can you help him at all?”

"A little… I hope.”

He smiled across at her, the warmth in his eyes praise enough. Then his brow puckered. "What were they doing in St. Giles? If they can afford a private nurse for him, they don't sound like residents, or even visitors, of such a place.”

"Oh, they aren't!" she said quickly with a lift of amusement which vanished at once. "They live in Ebury Street. Mr. Duff was a senior solicitor, in property conveyancing. I have no idea what they were doing in St. Giles. That is one of the problems the police are trying to solve. It is John Evan by the way. I feel odd behaving as if I do not know him.”

"But it is best, I'm sure," he agreed. "I'm sorry you have such a distressing case." The servant had left a decanter of wine, and he offered it to her, and when she accepted, poured a glassful and passed it to her. He raised his own glass to his lips in an unspoken toast.

"I suppose many of your cases are trying, one way or another?”

She had not thought of it in that light. "Yes… I suppose they are!

Either the person is very ill, and to watch suffering is hard, or they are not, and then I feel I am not challenged enough, not really necessary." She smiled suddenly with real laughter this time. "I'm impossible to please!”

He stared at the light reflecting through the wine in the glass. "Are you sure you want to continue nursing? In an ideal situation, if you did not have to provide for yourself, would you not rather work for hospital reform, as you originally intended?”

She found herself sitting very still, suddenly aware of the crackling of the fire and the sharp edges of the crystal on the glass in her hands. He was not looking at her. Perhaps there was no deeper meaning behind what he had said? No… of course there wasn't! She was being ridiculous. The warmth of the room and the glow of the wine were addling her wits.

"I haven't thought about it," she replied, trying to sound light and casual. "I fear reform will be a very slow process, and I have not the influence necessary to make anyone listen to me.”

He looked up, his eyes gentle and almost black in the candlelight.

Instantly she could have bitten her tongue out. It sounded exactly as if she were angling for the greater influence he had obliquely referred to… perhaps… or perhaps not. It was the last thing she had meant. It was not only crass, it was clumsily done! She could feel the colour burning up her cheeks.

She rose to her feet and turned away. She must say something quickly, but it must be the right thing! Haste might even make it worse. It was so easy to talk too much.

He had risen when she did and now he was behind her, closer than when they were sitting. She was sharply aware of him.

"I don't really have that kind of skill," she said very measuredly.

"Miss Nightingale has. She is a brilliant administrator and arguer.

She can make a point so that people have to concede she is correct, and she never gives up…”

"Do you?" he said with laughter in his voice. She could hear it, but she did not look around.

"No, of course I don't." There were too many shared memories for that to need an answer. They had fought battles together against lies and violence, mystery, fear, ignorance. They had faced all kinds of darkness, and found their way through to at least what justice there was left, if not necessarily any resolution of tragedy. The one thing they had never done was give up.

She swung round to face him now. He was only a yard away, but she was confident of what she was going to say. She even smiled back at him.

"I have learned a few tricks of a good soldier. I like to choose my own battlefield, and my own weapons.”

"Bravo," he said softly, his eyes studying her face.

She stood still for a moment, then moved to the table and sat in one of the chairs, her skirts draped unusually dramatically. She felt elegant, even feminine, although she had never seemed to herself stronger or more alive.

He hesitated, looking down at her for several moments.

She was aware of him, and yet now she was not uncomfortable.

The servant came in and announced the first course of the meal.

Rathbone accepted, and it was brought and dished.

Hester smiled across at him. She felt a little fluttering inside, but curiously warm, excited.

"What cases are you engaged in that need no detection?" she asked. For a second Monk came to her mind, and the fact that Rathbone had chosen issues where he did not use him. Could it be intentional? Or was that a shabby thought?

As if he too had seen Monk's face in his inner vision, Rathbone looked down at the plate.

"A society paternity suit," he said with a half-smile. "There is really very little to prove. It is largely a matter of negotiation to limit the scandal. It is an exercise in diplomacy." He raised his eyes to hers and again they were brilliant with inner laughter. "I am endeavouring to judge discretion to the precise degree of knowing how much pressure I can exert before there will be war. If I succeed, you will never hear anything about it. There will simply be a great exchange of money.”

He shrugged. "If I fail, there will be the biggest scandal since…

." He took a deep breath and his expression became rueful, self-mocking.

"Since Princess Gisela," she finished for him.

They both laughed. It was crowded with memories, mostly of the appalling risk he had taken, and her fear for him, her efforts and ultimately her success in saving at least the truth, if not unmixed honour from the issue. He had been vindicated, that was probably the best that could be said, and the truth, or at least a good deal of it, had been laid bare. But there had been a vast number of people who would have preferred not to know, not to be obliged to know.

"And will you win?" she asked him.

"Yes," he replied firmly. "This I will win…" he hesitated.

Suddenly she did not want him to say whatever it was that was on his tongue.

"How is your father?" she asked.

"Very well," his voice dropped a little. "He has just returned from a trip to Leipzig where he met a number of interesting people, and, I gather, sat up half of every night talking with them, about mathematics and philosophy. All very German. He enjoyed it immensely.”

She found herself smiling. She liked Henry Rathbone more each time she saw him. She had been happy the evenings she had spent in his house in Primrose Hill with its doors which opened on to the long lawn, the apple trees at the far end, the honeysuckle hedge and the orchard beyond. She remembered walking once with Oliver across the grass in the dark. They had spoken of other things, not connected with any case, personal things, hopes and beliefs. The moment did not seem so very far away. It was the same feeling of trust, of companionable ease. And yet there was something different now, an added quality between them which sharpened as if on the brink of some decision. She was not sure if she wanted it, or if perhaps she was not ready.

"I am glad he is well. It is a long time since I travelled anywhere.”

"Where would you like to go?”

She thought instantly of Venice, and then remembered Monk had been there so very recently, with Evelyn von Seidlitz. It was the last place she wanted now. She looked up at him, and saw the understanding of it in his eyes, and what might have been a flash of sadness, an awareness of some kind of loss or pain.

It cut her. She wanted to eradicate it.

"Egypt!" she said with a lift of enthusiasm. "I have just been hearing about Signer Belzoni's discoveries… a trifle late, I know.

But I should love to go up the Nile! Wouldn't you?" Oh God! She had done it again… been far too forthright, and desperately clumsy!

There was no retracting it! Again she felt the tide of colour hot in her face.

This time Rathbone laughed outright. "Hester, my dear, don't ever change! Sometimes you are so unknown to me I cannot possibly guess what you will say or do next. At others you are as transparent as the spring sunlight. Tell me, who is Signor Belzoni, and what did he discover?”

Haltingly at first, she did so, struggling to recall what Arthur Kynaston had said, and then as Rathbone asked her more questions, the conversation flowered again and the unease vanished.

It was nearly midnight when they parted in his carriage where it stopped in Ebury Street to return her home. The fog had cleared and it was a clear night, dry and bitterly cold. He alighted to help her down, offering his hand, steadying her on the icy cobbles with the other.

"Thank you," she said, meaning it as far more than a mere politeness.

It had been an island of warmth, both physical and of a deeper inward quality, a few hours when all manner of pain and struggle had been forgotten. They had talked of wonderful things, shared excitement, laughter and imagination. "Thank you, Oliver.”

He leaned forward, his hand tightening over hers and pulling her a little closer. He kissed her lips softly, gently but without the slightest hesitation. She could not have pulled back, even if for an instant she had wanted to. It was an amazingly sweet and comfortable feeling, and even as she was going up the steps, knowing he was standing in the street watching her, she could feel the happiness of it run through her, filling her whole being.