something from Rhys himself, some communication, some long knowledge and perception of his nature over the years?
'No man could do what was done to those women, Doctor, and be what you and I understand as sane,' he replied quickly. 'Blame is not for us to decide… thank God.”
Wade took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, then nodded his acknowledgement, and walked past Evan to the withdrawing room door.
Chapter Ten
After Monk and Evan had left, Corriden Wade remained in the withdrawing room, pacing the floor, unable to be still long enough to sit.
Sylvestra was motionless, staring into space as if all will and strength within her had died. Hester stood by the fire.
'I'm sorry,' Wade said passionately, looking at Sylvestra. 'I'm so sorry! I had no conception this would happen… it is the most ghastly thing.”
Hester stared at him. Had he seen some darkness in Rhys all the time, and feared disaster, but something less than this, less intense, less irretrievable than death? Looking at his face now, cast in deep shadow, his eyes hollow, his cheeks sombre with draining emotion and lack of sleep, it would be easy to believe he was seeing the realisation of a long-held dread, but something he had been helpless to prevent.
Then another thought occurred to her. Was Corriden Wade the missing link in Evan's chain of evidence? Was it he, perhaps, who had tried to warn Leighton Duff of his son's weakness, his propensity for real vice?
Had it been something Wade had said which had made him ultimately piece together all the sharp words, looks, little facts here and there, and realise the terrible truth?
With a shiver of horror she realised she had accepted within herself that Rhys was guilty. She had fought against it so long, and then in a moment had surrendered without even being conscious of it.
Wade stopped pacing and stared down at Sylvestra.
'You must rest, my dear. I shall give you a draught to help you sleep.
I am sure Miss Latterly will sit up with Rhys should it be necessary, but I doubt it will. You will need your strength.' He turned to Hester. 'I am sorry to place so much upon you, but I have no doubt both your courage and your compassion are equal to it.”
It was a profound compliment, and gravely given. It was not a time for thanks, only acceptance.
'Of course,' she agreed. 'Tomorrow we shall begin what is to be done.”
He nodded and at last seemed to relax a fraction. Hester believed it prudent to allow him a few moments alone with Sylvestra. His care for her was apparent. Now, of all times, they should be permitted a privacy to reach towards each other through the tragedy which engulfed them.
'I shall go and see how Rhys is now,' she said. 'Goodnight.' She did not wait for a reply, but turned and went out, closing the door behind her.
Rhys did not call her in the night. Whatever Dr. Wade had given him was sufficient to induce in him not rest, but unconsciousness. She had no idea how long he had been awake when she heard the bell fall on the floor.
She rose immediately. It was full daylight. She grasped her shawl and opened the connecting door.
Rhys was lying facing her, his eyes wide and terrified.
She went in and sat on the bed.
'Tell me again, Rhys,' she said quietly. 'Did you kill your father?”
He shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes on her.
'Not even by accident?' she pressed. 'Did you fight with him, not realising who he was, in the dark?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. His expression was filled with horror, his lips drawn back, his jaw clenched, the muscles of his neck corded with tension inside him.
'Could you see in the alley?' she pressed, the evidence heavy in her mind. 'If someone accosted you, attacked you, are you sure you would know who it was?”
He gave a curious little jerk. If he had had a voice, it might have been laughter, but bitter, self-hurting. There was some dreadful irony in what he knew, and he could not tell her, even if he would have.
'Could you see?' she asked again.
He stared at her without moving.
There were so many questions. She thought desperately which would be the right one.
'Do you know what happened that night?”
He nodded, still not taking his eyes from hers, although the horror in him was so palpable she could feel coldness creeping through her, and despair so great it consumed and destroyed everything else.
'Rhys…' She put her hand on his arm, holding him hard, feeling the muscle and bone beneath her fingers. 'I'll help you in any way I can, but I have to know how to. Can you tell me, somehow, what happened?
You were there, you saw it. If you want to plead against the charge they are bringing, then you must give them something else to believe.”
For seconds he simply gazed back at her, then slowly he closed his eyes and turned away.
'Rhys!”
He shook his head.
She did not know what to think. Whatever had happened, he still could not bear to have anyone know. Even facing arrest, and in time trial for his life, he would not impart it.
But did he understand that? Did he imagine because Evan had not taken him away that somehow it would not happen?
'Rhys!' she said urgently. 'It hasn't gone away, you know. You are under house arrest. It is just the same as being in a public cell, or in Newgate. The only reason you are here, not there, is because you are too ill to move. There will be a trial, and if you are found guilty, they will take you to Newgate, no matter how ill you are. They won't care, because they will hang you anyway…' She could not go on. She could not bear it, even though he had not turned back or even opened his eyes. His body was rigid, tears running under his lids, and down his cheeks.
'Rhys,' she said softly. 'I have to make you realise this is real. You must tell someone the truth, to save yourself!”
Again he shook his head.
'Did you kill him?' she whispered.
He shook his head again, very little, but quite unmistakably.
'But you know who did!' she persisted.
He turned back very slowly, meeting her eyes. He lay still for seconds. She could hear the sound of distant feet as a maid crossed the landing.
'Do you?' she said again.
He closed his eyes without answering.
She stood up and went out of the room and down the stairs to the withdrawing room where Sylvestra was moving aimlessly from one idle task to another. A pile of embroidery yarns sat tangled on a small table, linen bunched up near them. A bowl of winter flowers from the hothouse were half arranged, half simply poked into the water. Several letters lay on a salver on the large semi-circular table by the wall, two were opened, the others were not.
She swung around as soon as she heard the door.
'How is he?' she asked quickly, then bit her lip as though unsure what she wanted the answer to be. 'I simply don't know what to do. Leighton was my husband. I owe him… everything, not only loyalty but love, respect, decency.' Her brow puckered. 'How could it have happened? What… what changed him? And don't tell me Rhys hasn't changed…
I've seen the difference in him and it terrifies me!”
She swung away, her hands clenched in front of her. A less controlled woman would have wept, or screamed, thrown something just to release the tension inside herself.
