The Silent Cry (26 page)

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.