The Silent Cry

Chapter Seven

Rhys progressed only very slowly. Dr. Wade pronounced himself satisfied with the way in which his external wounds were healing. He came out of Rhys's room looking grave but not more concerned than when Hester had shown him in. As always, he had chosen to see him alone.

Bearing in mind the site of some of the injuries, and a young man's natural modesty, it was easy to understand. Hester was not as impersonal a nurse to him as she had been to the men in the hospitals of the Crimea. There were so many of them she had had no time to become a friend to any one, except in brief moments of extremity. With Rhys she was far more than merely someone who attended to his needs.

They spent hours together, she talked to him, read to him, sometimes they laughed. She knew his family and his friends, like Arthur Kynaston, and now also his brother Duke, a young man she found less attractive.

"Satisfactory, Miss Latterly," Wade said with a very slight smile. "He seems to be responding well, although I do not wish to give false encouragement. He is certainly not recovered yet. You must still care for him with the greatest skill you possess.”

His brows drew together and he looked at her intensely. "And I cannot impress upon you too strongly how important it is that he should not be disturbed or caused anxiety, fear or other turbulence of spirit that can be avoided. You must not permit that young policeman, or any other, to force him to attempt a recollection of what happened the night of his injury. I hope you understand that? I imagine you do. I feel that you are very fully aware of his pain, and would do anything, even place yourself at risk, to protect him." He looked very slightly self-conscious, a faint colour to his cheeks. "I have a high opinion of you, Miss Latterly.”

She felt a warmth inside her. Simple praise from a colleague for whom she had a supreme regard was sweeter than the greatest extravagance from someone who did not know precisely what it meant.

"Thank you, Dr. Wade," she said quietly. "I shall endeavour not to give you cause ever to think otherwise.”

He smiled suddenly, as if for an instant he forgot the care and unhappiness which had brought them together.

"I have no doubt of you," he replied, then bowed very slightly and walked past her and down the stairs to where Sylvestra would be waiting for him in the withdrawing room.

Early in the afternoon Hester tried to spin out small domestic tasks, getting smears out of Rhys's nightshirt where one of his bandages had been pulled crooked and blood from the still-open wound had seeped through; mending a pillow case before the tiny tear became worse; sorting the books in the bedroom into some specific order. There was a knock on the door, and when she answered it the maid informed her that a gentleman had called to see her, and had been shown to the housekeeper's sitting room.

"Who is he?" Hesterasked with surprise. Her immediate thought was that it was Monk, then she realised how unlikely that was. It had come to her mind only because some thought of him was so close under the surface of her consciousness. It would be Evan, come to see if he could enlist her help in solving the mystery of Rhys's injuries, at least in learning something more about the family, and the relationship between father and son. It was absurd to feel this sudden sinking of disappointment. She would not know what to say to Monk anyway.

Nor did she know what to say to Evan. Her duty lay to the truth, but she did not know if she wanted to learn it. Her professional loyalty, and her emotions, were towards Rhys. And she was employed by Sylvestra, that required of her some kind of honesty.

She thanked the maid and finished what she was doing, then went downstairs and through the green baize door, along the passage to the housekeeper's sitting room. She went in without knocking.

She stopped abruptly. It was Monk who stood in the middle of the floor, slim and graceful in his perfectly cut coat. He looked short-tempered and impatient.

She closed the door behind her.

"How is your patient?" he asked. His expression was one of interest.

Was it politeness, or did he have a reason to care? Or was it simply something to say?

"Dr. Wade tells me he is recovering fairly well, but still far from healed," she replied a trifle stiffly. She was angry with herself for the elation she felt because it was him, and not Evan. There was nothing to be pleased about. It would only be another pointless quarrel.

"Haven't you got an opinion of your own?" He raised his eyebrows. He sounded critical.

"Of course I have," she retorted. "Do you think it is likely to be of more use to you than the doctor's?”

"Hardly "So I imagined. That is why I gave you the doctor's.”

He took a breath, and then let it out quickly.

"And he still does not speak?”

"No.”

"Or communicate in any other way?”

"If you mean in words, no. He cannot hold a pen to write. The bones in his hands are far from healed yet. I assume from your persistence, your interest is professional? I don't know why. Do you imagine he witnessed your attackers in Seven Dials, or that he knows who the assailants were?”

He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor, then up at her. His expression softened, the guardedness slipped away from it.

"I would like to think he had nothing to do with them whatever." His eyes met hers, steady and clear, jolting her suddenly with memory of how well they knew each other, what losses and victories they had shared. "Are you sure that is so?”

"Yes!" she said immediately, then knew from his look, and from her own inner honesty, that it was not so. "No not absolutely." She tried again. "I don't know what happened, except that it was very dreadful, so dreadful it has rendered him speechless.”

"Is that genuine… I mean to ask that truly?" He looked apologetic, unwilling to hurt. "If you say it is so, I will accept it.”

She came further into the room, standing closer to him. The fire in the small, carefully blacked grate burned briskly, and there were two chairs near it, but she ignored them, and so did he.

"Yes," she said with complete certainty this time. "If you had seen him in nightmare, trying desperately to cry out, you would know it as I do.”

His face reflected his acceptance, but there was a sadness in it also which frightened her. It was a tenderness, something she did not often see in him, an unguarded emotion.

"Have you found evidence?" she asked, her voice catching. "Do you know something about it?”

"No." His expression did not change. "But the suggestions are increasing.”

"What? What suggestions?”

"I'm sorry, Hester. I wish it were not so.”

"What suggestions?" Her voice was rising a little higher. It was mostly fear for Rhys, but also it was the gentleness in Monk's eyes. It was too fragile to grasp, too precious to break, like a perfect reflection in water, touch it and it shatters. "What have you learned?”

"That the three men who attacked these women were gentlemen, well dressed, arriving in cabs, sometimes together, sometimes separately, leaving in a hansom, nearly always together.”

"That's nothing to do with Rhys!" She knew she was interrupting and that he would not have mentioned it had he no more than that. She just found it impossible to hear him out, the thought hurt so much. She could see he knew that, and that he hated doing it. The warmth in his eyes she would hoard up like a memory of joy, a sweet light in darkness.

"One of them was tall and slender," he went on.

The description fitted Rhys. They both knew it.

"The other two were of average height, one stockier, the other rather thin," he went on quietly.

The coals settled in the fire and neither of them noticed. There were footsteps down the corridor outside, but they passed without stopping.

Monk had not seen Arthur and Duke Kynaston, but Hester had. Glimpsed hastily, hurrying in a dark street, it could very well be them. A coldness filled her. She tried to shut it out, but memory was vivid of the cruelty in Rhys's eyes, the sense of power as he had hurt Sylvestra, his smile afterwards, his relish in it. It had not happened only once, a mistake, an aberration. He exulted in his power to hurt.

She had tried not to believe it, but in Monk's presence it was impossible. She could be furious with him, she could despise elements in him, she could disagree violently; but she could not intentionally harm him, and she could not lie. To build that barrier between them would be unbearable, like denying part of herself. The protection must be emotional, self-chosen, not to divide them but merely to cover from a pain too real.

He moved towards her. He was so close she could smell the damp wool of his coat where the rain had caught his collar.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I can't turn aside because he's injured now, or because he is your patient. If he had been alone, perhaps I could, but there are the other two.”

"I can't believe Arthur Kynaston was involved." She met his eyes. "I would have to see proof that could not be argued. I would have to hear him admit it. Duke I do not know about.”

"It could have been Rhys, Duke and someone else," he pointed out.

"Then why is Leighton Duff dead, and Duke Kynaston unhurt?”

He put out a hand as if to touch her, then let it fall.

"Because Leighton Duff guessed there was something profoundly wrong, and he followed them and challenged his son," he answered gravely, a pucker between his brows. "The one with whom he was most concerned, the one for whom he cared. And Rhys lost his temper, perhaps high on whisky, fuelled by guilt and fear, and a belief in his own power. The others ran off. The result is what Evan found… two men who began a fight and couldn't stop it, short of the death of one of them, and the near mortal injury of the other.”

She shook her head, but it was to close out the vision, to defend herself from it, not because she could deny its possibility.

This time he did put his hands on her shoulders, very gently, not to hold her, simply to touch.

She stared at the floor, refusing to look up at him.

"Or perhaps some men of the area, husbands or lovers of the last victim, brothers, or even friends, caught up with them. They had stopped running for too long… and it was they who beat them both.

Rhys cannot tell us… even if he wanted to.”

There was nothing to say. The impulse was to deny it, and that was pointless.

"I don't know any way to find out," she said defensively.

"I know." He smiled very slightly. "And if you did, you wouldn't…

until you had to know, for yourself. You would have to prove him innocent… and when you proved him guilty, you would say nothing, and I would know anyway.”

She raised her eyes quickly. "No, you wouldn't! Not if I chose to conceal it.”

He hesitated, then stepped back half a pace.

"I would know," he repeated. "Why? Would you defend him for it? I should take you to see these women, beaten by poverty, dirt, ignorance, and now beaten by three young gentlemen who are bored by their comfortable lives and want a little more dangerous entertainment, something to make the heart beat a trifle faster and bring the blood to the head." His voice was hard in his throat with outrage, a deep and abiding hurt he felt for the injured. "Some of them are no more than children. At their age you were in the schoolroom wearing a pinafore and doing your sums, and your most urgent distress was being forced to eat your rice pudding!" He was exaggerating and he knew it, but it hardly mattered. The essence was real. "You wouldn't defend that, Hester… you couldn't! You have more honour, more imagination than that!”

She turned away. "Of course I do! But you haven't seen Rhys's pain now. Judgement is fine when you only know one side. It is much harder when you know the offender, and, like him, feel his pain too.”

He stood close behind her. "I was not concerned with ease, only what was right. Sometimes we cannot have both. I know some people don't understand that, or accept it, but you do. You have always been able to face the truth, no matter what it was. You will do it this time.”

There was certainty in his voice, no doubt at all. She was Hester, reliable, strong, virtuous Hester. No need to protect her from pain or danger. No need even to worry about her!

She wanted to lash out angrily at him for taking her for granted.

She was exactly like anybody else inside, any other woman. She ached to be protected sometimes, to be cherished and have ugliness and danger warded off by someone else, not because they thought she could not bear it, but because they did not wish her hurt.

But she could not possibly say that to him… not to Monk, of all people. To be worth anything at all, it had to be offered, freely. It must be his wish, even his need. If she had been one of the fragile, warm, feminine women he so admired, he would have done it instinctively.

What could she say? She was so angry and confused and hurt, words tumbled over each other in her mind, and all of them were useless, only betraying what she felt, which was the last thing she wished him to know. She could protect herself at least as much as that.

"Of course," she said stiffly, her voice thick in her throat. "There is little point in doing anything else, is there?" She moved another step away from him, her shoulders rigid, as if she would flinch were he to touch her. "I imagine I shall endure whatever it is. I shall have no alternative.”

"You're angry," he said with a lift of surprise.

"Nonsense!" she snapped. He was missing the point entirely. It had nothing to do with Rhys Duff, or who had beaten the women. It was his assumption that she could be treated like another man, that she could and should always look after herself. She could! But that was not the point either!

"Hester!”

She had her back to him but he sounded patient and reasonable. It was like vinegar on the wound.

"Hester, I'm not choosing it to be Rhys. I'll look for any other possibility as well.”

"I know you will!”

Now he was puzzled. "Then what the devil more do you want of me? I cannot alter what happened, nor will I settle for less than the truth!

I can't save Rhys from himself, and I can't save his mother… if that is what you want?”

She swung round.

"It isn't what I want! And I don't expect anything of you! Heavens above! I've known you long enough now to be precisely aware of what I shall get from you." The words poured out of her, and even as she heard them, she wished she had kept silent, not made herself so obvious, and so vulnerable. He would read her plainly now. He would hardly be able to help it.

He was dumbfounded, and annoyed. His face showed the only too familiar marks of temper. A veil came over his eyes, the gentleness hidden.

"Then our conversation seems to be pointless," he said grimly. "We understand each other perfectly, and there is no more to be said." He gave a little gesture, rather less than a bow. "Thank you for sparing your time. Good day." He walked out, leaving her miserable and equally angry.

Later in the afternoon Arthur Kynaston called again, this time accompanied by his elder brother Duke. Hester saw them as they crossed the hall from the library to go upstairs.

"Good afternoon, Miss Latterly," Arthur said cheerfully. He glanced down at the book she was carrying. "Is that one for Rhys? How is he?”

Duke was behind him, a larger and stronger version of his brother, heavier shouldered. He had walked in with more grace, something of a swagger. His face was broader boned, more traditionally handsome but perhaps less individual. He had the same soft, wavy hair with a touch of auburn in it. He was now regarding Hester with impatience. It was not she they had come to see.

Arthur turned round. "Oh, Duke, this is Miss Latterly, who is looking after Rhys.”

"Good," Duke said abruptly. "We'll carry the book up for you." He held out his hand for it. It was rather more a demand than an offer.

Hester felt an instant dislike for him. If these were indeed the young men Monk was looking for, then he was responsible not only for the brutal attacks on the women, but for the ruin of his brother and of Rhys.

"Thank you, Mr. Kynaston," she replied coldly, making an immediate change of mind. "It is not for Rhys, I intend reading it myself.”

He looked at it. "It is a history of the Ottoman Empire!" he said with a slight smile.

"A most interesting people," she observed. "Last time I was in Istanbul I found much of great beauty. I should like to know more about it. They were a generous people in many respects, with a culture of great subtlety and complexity." It was also cruel beyond her understanding, but that was irrelevant just now.

Duke looked taken aback. It was not the reply he had expected, but he regained his composure rapidly.

"Is there much call for domestic servants in Istanbul? I would have thought most people would have employed natives, especially for fetching and carrying.”

"I imagine they do," she answered him without looking at Arthur. "I was too busy to think of such things. I left my own lady's maid in London. I did not think it was any place for her, and it was quite unfair to ask her to go." She smiled back at him. "I have always believed consideration for one's servants is the mark of the gentleman… or lady, as the case may be. Don't you agree?”

"You had a lady's maid?" he said incredulously. "Whatever for?”

"If you ask your mother, Mr. Kynaston, I am sure she will acquaint you with the duties of a lady's maid," she answered, tucking the book under her arm. "They are many and varied, and I am sure you do not wish to keep Mr. Duff waiting." And before he could find a reply to that, she smiled charmingly at Arthur, and went up the stairs ahead of them, her temper still seething.

An hour later there was a knock on her door, and when she opened it, Arthur Kynaston was standing on the threshold.

"I'm sorry," he apologised. "He can be awfully rude. There's no excuse for him. May I come in and speak with you?”

"Of course." She could not have refused him anyway, and however much against her will, Monk was right, she would search for the truth, hoping with every step that it would prove Rhys innocent, but compelled to know it anyway. "Please come in.”

"Thank you." He glanced around in curiosity, then blushed. "I wanted to ask you if Rhys really is getting better, and if…" his brows furrowed and his eyes darkened, 'if he's going to speak again. Is he, Miss Latterly?”

Instantly she wondered if it was fear she saw in him. What was it Rhys would say, if he could speak? Was that why Duke Kynaston was here, to see if Rhys was any danger to him… and perhaps to ensure that he was not? Should she leave them alone with him? He could not even cry out! He was utterly at their mercy.

No, that was a hideous thought! And nonsense. If anything happened to him while they were there, they would certainly be blamed for it. There was no way they could explain or escape. They must know that as surely as she did! Was Duke alone with him now? Instinctively she turned towards the connecting door.

"What is it?" Arthur asked quickly.

"Oh." She turned back to him, forcing herself to smile. Was she virtually alone with a young man who had raped and beaten a dozen or more women, and were there two more only the thickness of the door away? She should be frightened, not for them, but of them… for herself. She collected her wits. "I wish I could give you more hope, Mr. Kynaston…" She must protect Rhys. "But there is no sign at all. I am so sorry.”

He looked stricken, as if she had destroyed a hope in him.

"What happened to him?" he said, shaking his head a little. "How was he hurt that he can't speak? Why can't Dr. Wade do anything for him?

Is it something broken? It should heal then, shouldn't it?”

He looked as if he cared intensely. She found it almost impossible to believe his wide stare concealed guilt.

"It is not physical," she answered with the truth before weighing if it was the wisest thing to do. Now she could not stop. "Whatever he saw that night was so fearful it has affected his mind.”

Arthur's eyes brightened. "So he could regain his speech any day?”

What should she say? What was best for Rhys?

Arthur was watching her, the anxiety clouding over his face again.

"Couldn't he?" he repeated.

"It is possible," she said cautiously. "But don't expect it yet. It can take a long time.”

"It's awful!" He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. "Rhys used to be such fun, you know?" He looked at her earnestly, willing her to understand. "We did all kinds of things together, he and I… and Duke some of the time. Rhys had a great sense of adventure. He could be terribly brave, and make us all laugh." His face was full of distress. "Can you think of anything worse than having hundreds of things to say, and lying alone not able to say a single one of them?

Thinking of something funny, and not being able to share it! What's the point of a joke, if you can't tell it to anyone and watch their faces as they grasp it? You can't share anything beautiful, or awful, or even ask for help, or say you are hungry, or scared rigid!" He shook his head a little. "How do you even know what he wants? You might be giving him rice pudding when he's asking for bread and butter!”

"It is not as bad as that," she said gently, although in essence it was true. He could not share his real pain or terror. "I can ask him questions, and he can answer with a nod or a shake. I'm getting quite good at guessing what he would like.”

"It's hardly the same, though, is it!" he said with a sudden touch of bitterness. "Will he ever be able to ride a horse again, or race it?

Will he dance, or be able to play cards? He used to be so quick with cards. He could shuffle them faster than anyone else. It made Duke furious, because he couldn't match it. Can't you do anything to help, Miss Latterly? It's awful standing by like this and simply watching him. I feel so… useless!”

"You are not useless," she assured him. "Your visits are greatly encouraging. Friendship always helps.”

His smile came and vanished in a moment. "Then I suppose I'll go back and talk to him a while. Thank you.”

But he did not remain as long as usual, and when Hester went in to see Rhys after Arthur and Duke had left, she found him staring at the ceiling, his eyes thoughtful, his lips pursed in an expression of withdrawn unhappiness she had come to know well. She could only guess what had disturbed him. She did not want to ask, it might only make it worse. Perhaps seeing Duke Kynaston, less tactful than his brother, had reminded him of the past when they had all been virile, a little reckless, thinking themselves capable of anything. The other two still were. Rhys entertained them lying silently on a bed. He could not even offer wit or interest.

Or was it memory of an appalling secret they all shared?

He turned slowly to look at her. His eyes were curious, but cold, defensive.

"Do you want to see Duke Kynaston again, if he comes?" She asked. "If you had rather not, I can have him turned away. I can think of a reason.”

He stared at her without giving any indication that he had heard.

"You don't seem to like him as much as you do Arthur.”

This time his face filled with expression; humour, irritation, impatience and then resignation. He sat up an inch or two, and took a deep breath. His lips moved.

She leaned towards him, only a little, not enough to embarrass him if he failed.

He let out his breath, and tried again. His mouth formed the words, but she could not read them. His throat tightened. His eyes were fixed desperately on her.

She placed her hand on his arm, above the bandages, tightening her fingers to grip him.

"Is it something about Duke Kynaston?" she asked him.

He hesitated only a moment, then shook his head, his eyes full of loneliness and confusion. There was something he ached to tell her, and the harder he tried, the more his helplessness thwarted him.

She could not walk away. She must guess, she must take the risk, in spite of what Dr. Wade had said. This frustration was hurting him as much.

"Is it to do with the night you were hurt?”

Very slowly he nodded, as if now he were uncertain whether to go on or not.

"Do you know what happened?" she said very quietly.

His eyes filled with tears and he turned his head away from her, pulling his arm roughly out of her grip.

Should she ask him directly? What would it do to him? Would forcing him to remember and answer to someone else shock him as violently as Dr. Wade had warned her? Could she undo any of the harm to him if it did?

He was still turned away from her, motionless. She could no longer see his face to guess what he was feeling.

Dr. Wade cared for him deeply, but he was not a soft or cowardly man.

He had seen too much suffering for that, faced danger and hardships himself. He admired courage and that inner strength which survives.

Her judgement of him answered her question. She must obey his instructions, in fact they had been quite unequivocal commands.

"Do you want to tell me about something?" she asked.

He turned back slowly. His eyes were bright and hurt. He shook his head.

"You would just like to be able to talk?”

He nodded.

"Would you like to be alone?”

He shook his head.

"Shall I stay?”

He nodded.

In the evening Rhys was exhausted and slept very early. Hester sat by the fire opposite Sylvestra. There was no sound in the room but the rain beating on the windows, the fire flickering in the hearth, and the occasional settling of the coals. Sylvestra was embroidering, her needle weaving in and out of the linen, occasionally flashing silver as it caught the light.

Hester was idle. There was no mending to do and she had no one to whom she owed a letter. Nor was she in the mood to write. Lady Callandra Daviot, the only person to who me she might have considered confiding her feelings, was on a trip to Spain, and moving from place to place.

There was no address where she could be certain of catching her.

Sylvestra looked up at her.

"I think the rain is turning to snow again," she said with a sigh.

"Rhys was planning to go to Amsterdam in February. He used to be very good at skating. He had all the grace and courage one needs. He was even better than his father. Of course he was taller. I don't know if that makes any difference?”

"No, neither do I," Hesteranswered quickly. "He may recover, you know.”

Sylvestra's face was wide-eyed, tense in the soft light from the gas lamps and the fire.

"Please do not be kind to me, Miss Latterly. I think perhaps I am ready to hear the truth." A very faint smile touched her face and was gone. "I received a letter from Amalia this morning. She writes about such conditions in India it makes me feel very feeble to be sitting here before the fire with everything a person could need for their physical comfort and safety, and still to imagine I have something to complain about. You must have known many soldiers, Miss Latterly?”

"Yes…”

"And their wives?”

"Yes. I knew several." She wondered why Sylvestra asked.

"Amalia has told me something of the mutiny in India," Sylvestra went on. "Of course that was three years ago now, I know, but it seems as if things will be changed for ever by it. More and more white women are being sent over there to keep their husbands company. Amalia says that it is to keep the soldiers apart from the native Indians, so they can never trust and be taken unaware like that again. Do you suppose she is right?”

"I should think it very likely," Hester replied candidly. She did not know a great deal about the circumstances of the Indian Mutiny. It had occurred too close to the end of the war in the Crimea, when she was deeply concerned with the tragic death of both her parents, with finding a means of supporting herself, and accommodating to the dramatically different way of life afforded to her when she returned to England.

Attempting to adapt to the life of a single woman rather past the best age for marriage, not possessed of the sort of family connections to make her sought after, nor the money to provide for herself or a handsome dowry, and unfortunately not of great natural beauty or winning Ways, had made the task extremely difficult. She was also not of a docile disposition.

She had read the fearful stories and heard accounts of starvation and massacre, but she had not known anyone who had been affected personally.

"It is hard to imagine such atrocity," Sylvestra said thoughtfully. "I am beginning to realise how very little I know. It is disturbing…” she hesitated, her hands idle, the linen held up, but quite still. "And yet there is something not unlike exhilaration in it also. Amalia wrote to me of the most extraordinary incident." She shook her head, her face troubled, eyes far away. "It seems that the siege of Cawnpore was particularly brutal. The women and children were starved for three weeks, then the survivors were taken to the river and placed upon boats, where the native soldiers, sepoys I believe they are called, fell upon them. Those hundred and twenty-five or so who still survived even that, were taken to a building known as the Bibighvr, and aft era further eighteen days, were slaughtered by butchers brought in from the bazaar for the purpose.”

Hester did not interrupt.

"It seems when the Highland Regiment relieved Cawnpore, they found the hacked-up bodies, and exacted a fearful revenge, killing every one of the sepoys there. What I wanted to mention was the tale Amalia wrote me of one soldier's wife, named Bridget Widdowson, who, during the siege, was set to guard eleven mutineers, because at that time there were no men available. This she accomplished perfectly, marching up and down in front of them all day, terrifying them immobile, and it was only when she was finally relieved by a regular soldier that they all escaped. Is that not remarkable?”

"Indeed it is," Hesteragreed wholeheartedly. She saw the wonder and the amazed admiration in Sylvestra's eyes. There was something stirring in her which was going to find the loneliness of this house without her husband, the restrictions of society widowhood and her enforced idleness as a kind of imprisonment. Rhys's dependency would only add to it, in time. "But the heat and the endemic disease are things I should find very trying," she said to counter it.

"Would you?" It was a genuine question, not an idle remark. "Why did you go out to the Crimea, Miss Latterly?”

Hester was startled.

"Oh, forgive me," Sylvestra apologised immediately. "That was an intrusive question. You may have had all manner of private reasons which are none of my concern. I do beg your pardon.”

Hester knew what she was thinking. She laughed outright.

"It is not a broken affair of the heart, I promise you. I wanted the adventure, the freedom to use such brains and talents as I have where I would be sufficiently needed that necessity would remove prejudices against women's initiative.”

"I imagine you succeeded?" There was vivid interest in Sylvestra's face.

Hester smiled. "Most assuredly.”

"My husband would have admired that," Sylvestra said with certainty.

"He loved courage and the fire to be different, inventive." She looked rueful. "I sometimes wonder if he would have liked to have gone somewhere like India, or perhaps Africa. Amalia's letters would thrill him, but I had a feeling they also awoke a restlessness in him, even a kind of envy. He would have loved new frontiers, the challenge of discovery, the chance of great leadership. He was an outstanding man, Miss Latterly. He had a most remarkable mind. Amalia gets her courage from him, and Constance too.”

"And Rhys?" Hester said quietly.

The shadow returned to Sylvestra's face. "Yes… Rhys too. He wanted so much for Rhyt. Is it terrible of me to say that there is a kind of way in which I am glad he did not live to see this… Rhys so ill, unable to speak… and so… so changed!" She shook her head a little. "It would have hurt him beyond bearing!" She stared down at her hands. "Then I wish with all my heart that Leighton could have lived longer, and they could have grown closer together. Now it is too late. Rhys will never know his father as man to man, never appreciate his qualities as I did.”

Hester thought of Monk's vision of what happened in the dark alley in St. Giles. She hoped with an overwhelming fierceness that it was not true. It was hideous. For Sylvestra it would be more than she could live through and keep her sanity.

"You will have to tell him," she said aloud. "There will be a great deal you can say to make his father's true character and skills real to him. He will need your company as he recovers, and your encouragement.”

"Do you think so?" Sylvestra asked quickly, hope and doubt in her eyes. "At the moment he seems to find even my presence distressing.

There is much anger inside him, Miss Latterly. Do you understand it?”

Hester did not, and it frightened her with its underlying cruelty. She had seen that exultancy in the power to hurt a number of times, and it chilled her even more than Monk's words.

"I dare say it is only the frustration of not being able to speak," she lied. "And of course the physical pain.”

"Yes… yes, I suppose so." Sylvestra picked up her embroidery again and resumed stitching.

The maid came in and banked up the fire, taking the coal bucket away with her to refill it.

The following evening Fidelis Kynaston called again, as she had promised she would, and Sylvestra had urged Hester to take another time away from Ebury Street and do as she pleased, perhaps visit with friends. She had accepted with pleasure, most particularly because Oliver Rathbone had again invited her to dine with him, and to attend the theatre, if she cared to.

Normally clothes were of less interest to her than to most women, but this evening she wished she had a wardrobe full of gowns to choose from, all selected for their ability to flatter, to soften the line of shoulder and bosom, to give colour and light to a complexion and depth to the eyes. Since she had already worn her best gown on the previous occasion, she was reduced to wearing a dark green which was over three years old, and really a great deal more severe than she would have chosen, had she any other available to her. Still, she must make the best of what she had, and then think about it no more. She dressed her hair softly. It was straight and unwilling to fall into the prescribed coils and loops, but it was thick, and there was a nice sheen on it.

Her skin had not sufficient colour, but pinching it now would serve no purpose by the time she arrived at the theatre, and in a hansom it would hardly matter.

And indeed when Rathbone came for her and she was unintentionally a few minutes late, thought of appearance lingered only a moment before it vanished in pleasure of seeing him, and a quickening of her pulse as she recalled their last parting, and the touch of his lips upon hers.

"Good evening, Oliver," she said breathlessly as she almost tripped on the last stair, and hurried across the hall to where he stood a few feet from a surprised butler. He looked startlingly elegant to be calling for the paid nurse, and quite obviously a gentleman.

He smiled back at her, exchanged some pleasantries, then escorted her out to the waiting hansom.

The evening was cold, but quite dry, and for once there was no fog and a clear view of a three-quarter moon over the rooftops. They rode in companionable conversation about totally trivial matters, the weather, political gossip, a smattering of foreign news, until they reached the theatre and alighted. He had chosen a play of wit and good humour, something for a social occasion rather than to challenge the mind or harrow the emotions.

They stepped inside and were instantly engulfed in a tide of colours and light and the hubbub of chatter as women swirled past, huge skirts brushing one another, faces eager to greet some old acquaintance or to pursue some new one.

It was the social life Hester had been accustomed to before she went to the Crimea, when she was at home in her father's house, and it was everyone's very natural assumption that she would meet an eligible young man and marry, one hoped within a year or two at most. That had only been six years ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. Now it was alien, and she had lost the skills.

"Good evening, Sir Oliver!" A large lady bore down on them enthusiastically. "How charming to see you again. I had quite feared we had lost the pleasure of your company. You do know my sister, Mrs.

Maybury, don't you!" It was a statement, not a question. "May I introduce you to her daughter, my niece, Miss Mariella Maybury?”

"How do you do, Miss Maybury." Rathbone bowed to the young woman with practised ease. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I hope you will enjoy the play. It is said to be most entertaining. Mrs.

Trowbridge, may I introduce to you Miss Hester Latterly." He offered no further explanation, but put his hand on Hester's elbow as if making some affirmation that she was not a mere acquaintance but a friend towards whom he felt a sense of pride and even closeness.

"How do you do, Miss Latterly," Mrs. Trowbridge said with ill-concealed surprise. Her rather thin eyebrows rose as if she were about to add something further, but she remained silent.

"How do you do, Mrs. Trowbridge," Hesteranswered politely, a little trickle of warmth bubbling inside her. "Miss Maybury.”

Mrs. Trowbridge fixed Hester with a baleful eye. "Have you known Sir Oliver long, Miss Latterly?" she asked sweetly.

Hester was about to reply truthfully but Rathbone spoke first.

"We have been acquainted for several years," he said with an air of satisfaction. "But I feel we are better friends now than ever before.

Sometimes I think the best affections grow slowly, through shared beliefs and battles fought side by side… don't you?”

Miss Maybury looked lost.

Mrs. Trowbridge caught her breath. "Indeed," she nodded. "Especially family friendships. Are you a family friend, Miss Latterly?”

"I know Sir Oliver's father, and I like him enormously," Hester answered, again with the truth.

Mrs. Trowbridge murmured something inaudible.

Rathbone bowed and offered his arm to Hester, leading her away towards another group of people, most of them men in their middle years, and obviously well-to-do. He introduced Hester to them one by one, each time without explanation.

By the time they had taken their seats and the curtain had risen on the first act, Hester's mind was whirling. She had seen the speculation in their eyes. Rathbone knew precisely what he was doing.

Now she sat beside him in the box and could not help glancing away from the stage to watch what expression she could read in his face in the reflected lights. He seemed at ease, if anything a trifle amused. A very slight smile touched his lips and the skin across his cheeks was perfectly smooth. Then she glanced down at his hands, and saw they were constantly moving, only slightly, but as if he found himself unable to keep them still. He was nervous about something.

She turned back to the stage, her heart beating so she felt she could almost hear it. She watched the actors and heard all their words, but a moment later could not have recalled anything of it. She thought of the first time she had come to the theatre with Rathbone. Then she had said far more, probably too much, expressing her opinions on the things she felt most passionate about. He had been courteous, he always would be, his own dignity would forbid anything else. But she had been aware of the coolness in him, always a certain distance, as if he wanted to be sure his friends did not assume too much about his regard for her, or that their relationship to each other was more than slight. His conventionality deplored her outspokenness, as if it admired her courage, and fought in different ways for the same end.

But since then he had defended Zorah Rostova, and' nearly ruined his career. He had learned in an acutely real way the boundaries of judgement and intolerance of his own profession, and how quickly society could reverse its loyalties when certain borders were crossed.

Compassion and belief did not excuse. He had spoken from conviction, and without weighing the results first. Suddenly he and Hester were on the same side of the gulf which had separated them before.

Was that what he was aware of, and which at once alarmed and exhilarated him?

She turned to look at him again, and found he was also looking at her.

She had remembered how dark his eyes were, in spite of his fair brown hair, but still she was startled at their warmth. She smiled, then swallowed and turned back to the stage. She must pretend she was interested, that at least she knew what was going on. She had not the faintest idea. She could not even have identified the hero or the villain, presuming there was one?

When the interval came she found she was ridiculously self-conscious.

"Are you enjoying it?" he asked as he followed behind her up to the foyer where refreshments were served.

"Yes, thank you," she answered, hoping he would not press her as to the plot.

"And if I told you I have not been paying close attention to it, that my mind was elsewhere, could you tell me what I have missed?" he said gently. "So I may understand the second act.”

She thought quickly. She must concentrate on what he was saying, not on what he might mean or might not! She must not leap to conclusions, and perhaps embarrass them both. Then she would never be able to resume their friendship. It would be over, even if neither of them acknowledged it, and that would hurt. She realised with surprise how very much it would hurt.

She looked at him with a smile, quite a casual one, but not so slight as to appear cool or studied.

"Have you a case which troubles you, a new one?”

Would he retreat into that excuse, or was it the truth anyway? She had left the way open for him.

"No," he said quite directly. "I suppose in a sense it has to do with law, but it was most certainly not the legal aspect of it which was on my mind.”

This time she did not look at him. "The legal aspect of what?”

"Of what concerns me." He put his arm on her back to guide her through the throng of people, and she felt the warmth of it ripple through her.

It was a safe feeling, disturbingly comfortable. Why should comfort disturb her? That was ridiculous!

Because it would be so easy to get used to. The gentleness, the sweetness of it was overwhelmingly tempting. It was like coming into sunlight and suddenly realising how chilled you had been.

"Hester?”

"Yes?”

"Perhaps this is not really the best place, but…”

Before he could finish what he was about to say, he was accosted by a large man with sweeping silver hair and an avuncular manner.

"My goodness, Rathbone, you are miles away, man! I swear I have seen you pass half a dozen acquaintances as if you were unaware of their existence! Do I credit that to your charming companion, or a particularly challenging case? You do seem to select the very devil of the lot of them!”

Rathbone blinked slightly. It was something very few situations had ever caused him to do.

"To my companion, of course," he replied without hesitation. "Hester, may I introduce Mr. Justice Charles? Miss Hester Latterly.”

"Ah!" Charles said with satisfaction. "Now I recognise you, ma'am.

You are the remarkable young lady who uncovered such damning evidence in the Rostova case. In the Crimea, weren't you? Extraordinary! How the world is changing. Not actually sure I care for it, but no choice, I suppose. Make the best of it, eh?”

At another time she would have challenged him as to what he meant. Did he disapprove of women having the opportunity to make such a contribution as Florence Nightingale had? To their freedom? Their use of knowledge and authority, and the power it gave them, even if only temporarily? Such an attitude infuriated her. It was antiquated, blind, rooted in privilege and ignorance. It was worse than unjust, it was dangerous. It was precisely that sort of blinkered idiocy which had kept inadequate men in charge of the battles in the Crimea, and cost countless men their lives.

She drew in her breath to begin the assault, then remembered Rathbone standing so close to her he was actually touching her elbow; and she let out her breath in a sigh. It would embarrass him dreadfully, even if in truth he half agreed with her.

"I am afraid we are all in that situation, sir," she said sweetly.

"There is a good deal I am quite certain I do not care for, but I have not yet found a way of altering it.”

"Not for want of seeking!" Rathbone said drily when they had bidden Mr. Justice Charles good evening and moved a few yards away. "You were remarkably tactful to him! I expected you to take him thoroughly to task for his old-fashioned views.”

"Do you think it would have changed his mind one iota?" she asked, looking at him with wide eyes.

"No, my dear, I don't," he said with a smile, on the verge of laughter.

"But that is the first time I have seen such a consideration halt you.”

"Then perhaps the world really is changing?" she suggested.

"Please do not allow it to change too much," he said with a gentleness that amazed her. "I appreciate the tact it has its place but I should not like you to become like everyone else. I really care for you very much exactly as you are." He put his hand on hers lightly. "Even if at times it alarms me. Perhaps it is good to be disturbed now and again? One can become complacent.”

"I have never thought of you as complacent!”

"Yes, you have. But I assure you, you would be wrong if you thought so now. I have never been less comfortable or less certain of myself in my life.”

Suddenly she was not certain either. Confusion made her think of Monk.

She liked Rathbone immensely. There was something in him which was uniquely valuable. Monk was elusive, unyielding, at times arbitrary and cold. But she could not turn away from him. She did not wish Rathbone to say anything which would require an answer.

Her heart was quieteragain. She smiled and put up her hand to touch his cheek.

"Then let us forget yesterday and tomorrow, and simply be certain that this evening is an island of friendship, and a trust of which there is no doubt at all. I have no idea what the play is about either, but since the audience is laughing every few moments, I expect it is just as witty as they say.”

He took a deep breath and smiled back at her. There was a look in his face of sudden ease. He bent forward and took her hand where it rested against his cheek and put it to his lips.

"I should enjoy that enormously.”

When Dr. Wade called the next day he was accompanied by his sister, Eglantyne, who expressed the same concern for Sylvestra as before, coming to her with a kind of silent understanding which Hester now appreciated more than on the previous occasion. Then it had seemed as if she were at a loss for what to say. Looking at her more closely, it now appeared instead to be a knowledge that no words would serve any purpose, they might end in belittling what was too large for everyday speech.

When they had gone together into the withdrawing room, Hester looked at Corriden Wade. He was quite obviously tired and the strain was showing in the lines of weariness around his mouth and eyes. There was no longer the same energy in his bearing.

"Can I help you at all, Dr. Wade?" she asked gravely. "Surely there must be something I can do to lessen the burden upon you? I imagine you have many other patients, both in hospital and in their homes." She searched his eyes. "When did you last take any thought for yourself?”

He stared at her as if for a moment he was not sure what she meant.

"Dr. Wade?”

He smiled, and his face altered completely. The dejection and anxiety vanished, although nothing could mask the tiredness in him.

"How generous of you, Miss Latterly," he said quietly. "I apologise for allowing my own feelings to be so obvious. It is not a quality I intend, or admire. I admit, this case does trouble me deeply. As you have no doubt observed, both my sister and I are very fond of the whole family." A shadow of pain crossed his eyes, and the surprise of it was naked to see. "I still find it hard to accept that Leighton…

. Mr. Duff… is dead. I had known him for years. We had shared…

a great deal. That it should all end…" He took a deep breath."…

. like this… is appalling. Rhys is much more than a patient to me.

I know…" He made a slight gesture with his hands. "I know a good doctor, or a good nurse, should not allow themselves to become personally involved with anyone they treat. It can affect their judgement to offer the best care possible. Relatives can lend sympathy and grief, moral support and love. They look to us to provide the best professional treatment, not emotion. I know all this as well as anyone. Still I cannot help being moved by Rhys's plight.”

"And I too," she confessed. "I don't think anyone expects us not to care. How could we dedicate our time to helping the sick and injured, if we did not care?”

He looked at her closely for several moments.

"You are a remarkable woman, Miss Latterly. And of course you are right. I shall go up and see Rhys. Perhaps you will keep the ladies company, and…”

"Yes?" She was now used to his pattern of seeing Rhys alone, and no longer questioned it.

"Please, do not offer them too much encouragement. I do not know if he is progressing as well as I had hoped. His outer wounds are healing, but he seems to have no energy, no will to recover. I detect very little returning strength, and that disturbs me. Can you tell me if I have missed something, Miss Latterly?”

"No… no, I wish I could, but I also have wished he would develop more desire to sit up longer, even get into a chair for a while. He is still very weak, and not able to take as much food as I had expected.”

He sighed. "Perhaps we hope too much. But guard your words, Miss Latterly, or we may unintentionally cause even more pain." And with an inclination of his head, he went up the stair past her and disappeared across the landing.

Hester went to the withdrawing room and knocked on the door. She had a fear of interrupting a moment that could be confidential. However, she was invited in immediately and with apparently genuine pleasure.

"Do come in, Miss Latterly," Eglantyne said warmly. "Mrs. Duff was telling me about Amalia's letters from India. It sounds extraordinarily beautiful, in spite of the heat and the disease.

Sometimes I regret there is so much of the world I shall never see. Of course my brother has travelled a great deal…”

"He was a naval surgeon, wasn't he?" Hester sat in the chair offered her. "He mentioned something of it to me.”

Eglantyne's face showed little expression. It was plain it did not excite in her the imagination of danger, personal courage, desperate conditions and the knowledge of suffering that it did in Hester. But then how could it? Eglantyne Wade had probably never witnessed anything more violent or distressing than a minor carriage accident, the odd broken bone or cut hand. Her grief would be… what? Boredom, a sense of life passing by without touching her, of being very little real use to anyone. Almost certainly a loneliness, perhaps a broken romance, a love known and lost, or merely dreamed of. She was pretty, in fact very pretty, and it seemed she was also kind. But that was not enough to understand a man like Corriden Wade.

Eglantyne avoided Hester's eyes. "Yes, he does speak of it occasionally. He believes very strongly in the power of the Navy, and the life at sea, to build character. He says it is nature's way of refining the race. At least I think that is what he said." She seemed uninterested. There was no life in her voice, no lift of understanding or care.

Sylvestra looked at her quickly, as if sensing some emotion, perhaps loneliness, beyond her words.

"Would you like to travel?" Hesterasked to fill the silence.

"Sometimes I think so," Eglantyne answered slowly, recalling herself to the polite necessities of conversation. "I am not sure where. Fidelis… Mrs. Kynaston… speaks of it sometimes. But of course it was only a dream. Still, it is pleasant to read, is it not? I dare say you read a great deal to Rhys?”

The conversation continued for nearly an hour, touching on a dozen things, exploring none of them.

Eventually Corriden Wade returned looking very grave, his face deeply lined, as if he were close to exhaustion. He closed the door behind him and walked across to stand in front of them.

Silently Eglantyne reached out and took Sylvestra's hand, and Sylvestra clung to it until her knuckles shone white with the pressure.

"I am sorry, my dear," he said quietly. "I have to warn you that Rhys is not progressing as well as I would like. As no doubt Miss Latterly will have told you, his outer wounds are healing well. There is no suppuration and certainly no threat of gangrene. But internally we cannot tell. Sometimes there is damage to organs that we have no way of knowing. There is nothing I can do for him except prescribe sedatives to give him as much rest as possible, bland food that will not cause him pain, and yet will be nourishing and easy to digest.”

Sylvestra stared up at him, her face stricken.

"We must wait and hope," Eglantyne said gently, looking from Sylvestra to her brother, and back again. "At least he is no worse, and that in itself is something to be thankful for.”

Sylvestra attempted to smile, and failed.

"Why does he not speak?" she pleaded. "You said he had not sustained any injury to make him dumb. What is wrong with him, Corriden? Why has he changed so terribly!”

He hesitated. He glanced at his sister, then drew in his breath as if to answer, but remained silent.

"Why?" Sylvestra demanded, her voice rising.

"I don't know," he said helplessly. "I don't know, and my dear, you must brace yourself for the fact that we may never know! Perhaps he will only recover if he can forget it entirely. Begin life again from now onward. And possibly in time that may happen." He turned to Hester, his eyes wide in question.

She could not answer. They were all staring at her, waiting for her to offer some kind of hope. She longed to be able to, and yet if she did, and it proved false, how much harder would it be then? Or was getting through tonight and tomorrow all that mattered at this moment? A step at a time. Don't attempt the entire journey in one leap of thought. It will be enough to cripple you.

"That may well be the case," she agreed aloud. "Time and forgetting may heal his spirit, and his body will follow.”

Sylvestra relaxed a little, blinking back tears. Surprisingly even Corriden Wade seemed to be pleased with her answer.

"Yes, yes," he nodded slightly. "I think you are very wise, Miss Latterly. And of course you have experience with men fearfully injured, and who must have seen most terrible sights. We will do all we can to help him forget.”

Hester rose to her feet. "I must go up and see if there is anything I can do for him now. Please excuse me.”

They murmured assent, and she left the room wishing them goodbye, and hurried across the hall and up the stairs. She found Rhys lying hunched up in the bed, the sheets tangled, a bowl of bloodstained bandages left by the door, half covered with a cloth. He was shivering, although the blankets were up around his chest, and the fire was burning briskly.

"Shall I change your bed…" she began.

He glared at her with blazing eyes of such rage she stopped in mid-sentence. He looked so savage she thought he might even attempt to strike at her if she came close enough, and he would damage his broken hands again.

What had happened? Had Dr. Wade told him how seriously ill he was?

Had he suddenly realised there was a possibility he would not get better? Was this rage his way of concealing a pain he could not bear?

She had seen such rage before, only too often.

Or had Dr. Wade examined him and been obliged to hurt him physically in order to look more carefully at his wounds? Did the fury in his eyes and the tear stains on his cheeks spring from unbearable pain, and the humiliation of not having been able to live up to his ideal of courage?

How could she begin to help him?

Perhaps fussing was the last thing he wanted at the moment. Maybe even a rumpled bed, stale and uncomfortable, sheets smeared with blood, were better than the interference of somebody who could not share his pain.

"If you want me, knock the bell," she said quietly, looking to make sure it was still where his fingers could reach it. It was not there.

She glanced around. It was across on the tallboy. Dr. Wade had probably moved it because he had wished to use the bedside table for his instruments, or the bowl. She replaced it where it usually sat.

"It doesn't matter what time it is," she assured him. "I'll come.”

He stared at her. He was still furious, still imprisoned in silence.

His eyes brimmed over with tears, and he turned away from her.