were hollow and his cheeks pinched and dark with stubble. He looked angry, frightened and extraordinarily vulnerable.
He ignored Hester and went up to the bed and stood staring at his wife.
The clock on the mantelshelf gave a faint chime of quarter past midnight.
“It's cold in here,” he said without turning, accusation flaring in his voice. “You've let it get cold. Stoke the fire.”
She did not bother to argue. It probably did not matter now, and he was not in a mood to listen. Obediently she went to the coal bucket, picked up the tongs and placed two pieces on the hot embers. They were slow to ignite.
“Use the bellows,” he commanded.
She had seen grief take people in many different ways. Sometimes it was dread of the loneliness which would follow, the long days and years of no one with whom to share their inner thoughts, the feelings which could not be explained, the belief that no one else would love them as that person had, and accept and understand their faults as well as their virtues. For some it was guilt that somehow or other they had not said or done all that they might, and now it was already too late. The minutes were slipping by, and still they could think of nothing adequate to say to make up for all the mistakes and missed opportunities. “Thank you” or “I love you” was too hard to say, and too simple.
And for many it was the fear of death itself, the absolute knowledge that one day they must face it too, and in spite of even profound religious faith, they did not really know what lay beyond. An hour a week of formal ritual was no comfort to the mind or the soul when faced with reality.
Faith must be part of the daily web of life, a trust tested in a myriad of smaller things, before it can be a bridge over the chasm of such a passage from the known to the unknown. If Milo Ravensbrook was afraid for himself, she did not blame him.
“You can speak to her,” she said to him from the end of the bed to where he stood beside it, still looking down at Enid without touching her. “Even if she does not respond, she may hear you.”
He raised his head, his expression impatient, almost accusatory.
“It may comfort her,” she added.
Suddenly the anger drained out of him. He looked at Hester steadily, not so much at her face as at her gray dress and white apron, which were not Dingle's clothes but her own again. She realized how used he must be to women in such attire. She probably did not appear very different from the nursery maid or the nanny who would have brought him up, told him stories, given him his food and sat with him at mealtimes and made sure he ate what was put before him, disciplined him, nursed him when he was sick, accompanied him when he went out for walks in the park or for rides in the carriage. There was a lifetime's association with the gray, starched dress, and a score of others like it.
He turned away again and obeyed her, sitting on the bed, his back to her.
“Enid,” he said a little awkwardly. “Enid?”
For several minutes there was no response. He shifted and seemed about to move away again, when she muttered something.
He leaned forward. “Enid!”
“Milo?” Her voice was barely audible, a whisper with a dry wheeze in the middle. “Don't be so angry… you frighten me!”
“I'm not angry, my dear,” he said gently. “You are dreaming! I'm not angry in the slightest.”
“He didn't mean to…” She sighed and was silent for several minutes.
Ravensbrook turned to look at Hester, his eyes demanding an answer. Hester moved to the other side of the bed. Enid was very white, her skin stretched over her cheekbones, her eyes far back in her head as if the sockets were too large for them. But she was still breathing, barely visibly, perhaps too lightly for Ravensbrook to be certain.
“It hasn't comforted her at all!” He choked on the words. “It's made it worse! She thinks I'm angry!” It was a charge, a blame against Hester for her misjudgment.
“And you have assured her you are not. Surely that must be of comfort,”
Hester replied.
He looked away impatiently, temper darkening his face.
“Angus,” Enid said suddenly. “You must forgive him, Milo, however hard it is. He tried, I swear he tried!”
“I know he tried!” Ravensbrook said quickly, turning towards her, his own fear of the disease temporarily forgotten. “It is all past, I promise you.”
Enid let out her breath in a long sigh and the faintest shadow of a smile touched her lips and then faded away.
“Enid!” he cried out, taking her hand roughly.
Hester picked up the damp cloth again and wiped Enid's brow, then her cheeks, then her lips and throat.
“That's bloody useless, woman!” Ravensbrook said loudly, lurching backwards and standing up. “Don't go through your damned rituals in front of me.
Can't you at least have the decency to wait until I am out of the room. She was my wife, for God's sake!”
Hester held her hand on Enid's throat, high, under the chin, and pressed hard. She felt the skin cooler, the pulse weak but steady.
“She's asleep,” she said with certainty.
“I don't want your bloody euphemisms!” His voice was cracking, but close to a shout, and filled with helpless rage. “I won't be treated like a child by some damn servant, and in my own house!”
“She is asleep!” Hester repeated firmly. “The fever has broken. When she wakens she will begin to get better. It may take some time. She has been very ill, but with care she will make a full recovery. That is if you don't distress her now and break her rest with your temper!”
“What?” he said, still angry, confused.
“Do you wish me to repeat it?” she asked.
“No! No.” He stood perfectly still just inside the door. “Are you sure? Do you know what you are talking about?”
“Yes. I have seen a great deal of typhoid fever before.”
“In the East End?” he said derisively. “They're dying like flies!” “In the Crimea,” she corrected him. “And hundreds of the men died there too, but not all.”
“Oh.” His face ironed out. “Yes. I forgot about the Crimea.”
“You wouldn't had you been there!” she snapped.
He made no remark, nor did he thank her, but went out, closing the door behind him.
She rang the bell, to tell Dingle that Enid was past the crisis and have her take away the bowl of used water. She also asked for a cup of tea.
Until that moment she had not realized how devastatingly tired she was.
Dingle brought her tea, hot buttered toast, a fresh stone hot water bottle and a blanket warmed next to the kitchen fire.
“But you will stay with her, won't you?” she asked urgently. “Just in case?”
“Yes I will,” Hester promised.
For the first time since Hester had arrived, Dingle's face relaxed into a smile.
“Thank you, miss. God bless you.”
Monk was now certain in his own mind that there was no other course but to find Caleb Stone. None of his doubts about Genevieve warranted any delay or gave rise to anything more than a suspicion at the back of his mind, an awareness, haunting and painful, of other possibilities. But whatever they might be, they still led back to Caleb. There would be both time and need to apportion guilt once Angus's fate was known, or so deeply implicated that the authorities were obliged to investigate it. He dressed in old clothes which he must have purchased some time ago for such a task. His own wardrobe was immaculate. He had the tailor's bills from past years as testament to that, and to his vanity. The quality and cut of it, the perfectly fitting shoulders, the smooth, flat lapels made him wince at the expense, at the same time as giving him an acute satisfaction. The feel of the cloth pleased him every time he dressed, as did his elegant reflection in the glass.
