The Silent Cry (14 page)

"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.