'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.
