man she was embarrassed even to look at, let alone touch. He had offered to release her from the marriage, as honor required. And as honor required, she had refused.
'Any subject in particular?' Hester asked, stretching out her hand to assist him in throwing back the covers and climbing from the bed so she could remake it. He was still quite often caught off balance by the alteration in his weight since the arm had gone.
He forced himself to smile, and she knew it was an effort, made for her sake, and perhaps from a lifetime of good manners.
'I can't think of anything,' he admitted. 'I've already read everything I knew I wanted to.'
'I'll have to see if I can find you something quite different,' she said conversationally, leaving him to sit on the bedside chair and beginning to strip off the bedclothes to replace them smoothly. She did not want to talk of trivialities to him, and yet it was so difficult to know what to say that would be honest and not hurtful, not intrusive into areas he was perhaps not yet ready to explore or to expose to anyone else. After all, she had been there only a few days and was in a position neither of family member and friend nor yet of servant. She already knew a great many of his intimate physical feelings and needs far better than anyone else, but could only guess at his history, his character or his emotions.
'What were you reading?' he asked, leaning back in the chair.
'A novel about people I could not bring myself to like,' she replied with a laugh. 'I am afraid I did not care in the slightest whether they ever found a solution to their problems or not. I think I shall try something factual next, perhaps a description of travels or places I shall almost certainly not visit.'
He was silent for several moments.
She worked at the bed without haste.
'There's quite a lot about India,' he said at last.
She caught an inflection in his voice of more than a mere remark. He must be appallingly lonely. He saw few people but Perdita, and in her visits neither of them knew what to say and struggled with platitudes, silences and then sudden rushes of words. He was almost relieved when she went, and yet was sharply aware of his isolation and overwhelming sense of despair and helplessness.
His brother, Athol, was what was known as a 'muscular Christian'-a man given to unnatural ebullience, overbearingly vigorous views about health and morality, and an optimism which at times was beyond enduring. He refused to acknowledge Gabriel's pain or attempt the slightest understanding of it. Perhaps it frightened him, because his philosophy had no answer for it. It was something beyond anyone's control, and Athol's sense of safety came from his conviction that man was, or could and should become, master of his life.
'You must know India better than most writers,' she said, forgetting the linen for a moment and looking at Gabriel, trying to read the expression in his eyes.
'Parts of it,' he agreed, watching her equally intently, also seeking to judge her reaction, what he could tell her with some hope she would not be overwhelmed or distressed by events beyond her comprehension. 'Are you interested in India?'
She was not particularly, but she was interested in him. She moderated the truth. 'I am in current affairs, especially military ones.'
His eyes clouded with doubt. 'Military ones, Miss Latterly?' There was a hint of doubt in his voice now, as if he mistrusted her motives, fearing she was accommodating him. He must be very sensitive to condescension. 'Have you a brother in the army?'
She smiled that he automatically assumed it would not be a lover. He must see her as too old for such a thing, or not comely enough. It was unthinking. He would not mean to hurt.
'No, Lieutenant, my elder brother is in business, and my younger brother was killed in the Crimea. My interest in military history is my own.'
He knew he had been clumsy, even though he was not sure how. It was there in his cheeks and his eyes.
She realized how little she had told him of herself, and perhaps Athol had been equally unforthcoming. Possibly he considered her only a superior servant, and as long as her references were adequate, everything else was superfluous. One did not make friends of servants, especially temporary ones.
She smiled at him. 'I have strong opinions about army medical matters, most of which have got me into trouble since I returned to England.'
'Returned?' he said quickly. 'From where?'
'The Crimea. Did Mr. Sheldon not tell you?'
'No.' His interest was sharp now. 'You were in the Crimea? That's excellent! No… he simply said you were the best person to nurse extreme injuries. He did not say why.' He was leaning forward a little in his chair, his face eager. 'Then you must have seen some terrible things, starvation and dysentery, cholera, smallpox… gangrene…'
'Yes,' she agreed, pulling the last cover over the bed and straightening it. 'And anger and despair, and incompetence almost beyond belief. And rats… thousands of rats.' The memory of them was something which would never leave her, the sound of their fat bodies dropping off the walls to run among the men as they lay on floors awash with waste no one had had time or equipment to clean. It was that heavy plop and scamper which chilled her flesh even now, four years after and myriad experiences since.
He was silent while she helped him back into bed and smoothed the covers over him.
'No…' he said quickly as she made to remove the pillows. 'Please leave them. I'm not ready to go to sleep yet.'
She drew back.
'Miss Latterly!'
'Yes?'
'Tell me a little about the Crimea… if you don't mind, that is?'
She sat down in the chair and turned to face him.
'I expect much of it you are familiar with,' she began, sending herself in memory back six years to early in the war. 'Crowds of men, some new and eager, with no idea of what to expect, jostling together, full of courage and ready to charge the moment the order should be given. Your heart aches for them because you know how different it will all be in only a few weeks. No one else would believe such a short time could change anyone so much…'
'I would!' he said instantly, leaning forward to twist around towards her, losing his balance for a moment as instinctively he tried to put out the hand that was not there.
She ignored it and allowed him to right himself.
'Did you know that the whole siege of Cawnpore lasted only from June fifth to July seventeenth?' he asked. He was studying her to see what it meant to her. Had she read anything of the accounts of that unspeakable event? Did she have any idea what it meant? Most people had not. He had tried to speak of it to his brother, but Athol had nothing with which to compare it. Gabriel might as well have been speaking of creatures and events on another world. Such emotions were not describ-able; one had to live them. The thought of telling Perdita never entered his mind. She would be confused and distressed by the little she might grasp. His passion and grief would frighten her, perhaps revolt her. And yet bearing the knowledge alone was almost more than he could endure.
'I could not have timed it,' she confessed. 'But I know that events which destroy the flower of a generation and leave wounds which never heal can happen in a day or two.'
He was uncertain. Hope flickered in his eyes that he might not be alone in his memories and his understanding.
'I saw the Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava,' she said very quietly. She found she still could not control her voice when she spoke of it. Even the words choked in her throat and brought a prickle of tears to her eyes and an ache to her chest The sweet, cloying smell of blood always brought it back to her, the drowning pain would never leave her, the bodies of so many mutilated and dying men, many of them barely into their twenties. Behind her closed eyelids she could see them bent in fantastic attitudes, trying to staunch their own wounds with scarlet hands.
Gabriel shook his head silently, and in that moment she knew he had seen things just as terrible. They brimmed behind his eyes, a haunting of the dreams, needing to be shared, not openly, but enough to break the terrible aloneness of being among those who were unaware, who could speak of it as history, as from the pages of a newspaper or a book, to whom the pain was only words.
She asked him the inevitable question. The Mutiny had ravaged all India from Calcutta and Delhi to the
