'I'm sorry,' he apologized. 'I did not mean to compromise your reputation. It never occurred to me.'
'Nor to me,' Hester admitted with a faint heat in her cheeks. It was all so ridiculous. 'Perhaps if we meet again, it had better be outside the hospital?'
'And outside Jeavis's knowledge too,' he said quickly. 'He would not appreciate me giving aid and comfort to the enemy.' _ 'The enemy. Am I the enemy?'
'By extension, yes.' He put his hands in his pockets. 'Runcorn still hates Monk and never ceases to tell Jeavis how much more satisfactory he is, but the men still speak of Monk, and Jeavis is no fool. He knows why Runcorn prefers him, and he's determined to prove himself and lay Monk's ghost.' He smiled. 'Not that he ever will. Runcorn can't forget all the years Monk trod on his heels, the times he was right when Runcorn was wrong, the little things, the unspoken contempt, the better-cut suits, the voice a little rounder.' He was watching Hester's eyes. 'Just the fact that he tried so often to humiliate Monk, and could never quite succeed. He won in the end, but it didn't taste like victory.
He keeps wanting to bring him back so he can win again, and this time savor it properly.'
'Oh dear.' Hester rolled the last of the bandages and tied the end. She was sorry for Jeavis, and in a faint equivocal way for Runcorn, but mostly she had a sharp prickle of satisfaction on Monk's account. She was not quite smiling, but very nearly. 'Poor Inspector Jeavis.'
Evan looked startled for a moment, then comprehension lit his face, and an inner gentleness. 'I had better go and see the chaplain.' He inclined his head. 'Thank you!'
That afternoon Hester was sent for to assist Sir Herbert in an operation. She was told by a large nurse with powerful shoulders, a coarse-featured face, and remarkable eyes. Hester had seen her several times, always with a feeling of unease, and it was only this time that she realized why her eyes were so arresting. One was blue and the other quite clear cold green. How could she have failed to notice it before? Perhaps the sheer physical strength of the woman had so filled her mind as to leave no room for other impressions.
'Sir 'Erbert wants yer,' the woman said grimly. Her name was Dora Parsons; that much Hester remembered.
Hester put down the pail she was carrying. 'Where?'
'In 'is office, o' course. I s'pose your goin' to take her place then? Or yer think y'are!'
'Whose place?'
The woman's huge, ugly face was sharp with contempt. 'Don't act gormless wi' me, miss 'igh 'n' mighty. Jus' 'cos yer've bin ter the Crimea an' everybody's fallen over their-selves about yer, don't think yer can get away wi' anything at all, 'cos yer can't! Givin' yerself airs like yer too good fer the rest of us.' She spat viciously to demonstrate her scorn.
'I assume you mean Nurse Barrymore?' Hester said icily, although the woman's physical power was intimidating. She would guard very carefully against finding herself alone with her in the laundry room, out of earshot. But bullies chase those in whom they sense fear.
'O' course I mean Nurse Barrymore.' Dora mimicked Hester's voice. 'Are there any other fancy Crimean nurses around 'ere?'
'Well, you are in a better position than I to know that,' Hester retorted. 'I assume from your words that you disliked her?'
'Me and 'alf a score others,' Dora agreed. 'So don't you go tryin' ter say I was the one what done 'er in, or I'll 'ave yer.' She leered. 'I could break your skinny little neck in two shakes, I could.'
'It would seem unnecessary to tell the police.' Hester controlled her voice with an effort. Deliberately she thought of Prudence in the surgeon's tent on the battlefield, and then lying dead in the laundry room, to make herself angry. It was better than being afraid of this wretched woman. 'Your behavior makes it so obvious that the stupidest constable could see it for himself. Do you often break people's necks if they annoy you?'
Dora opened her mouth to reply, then realized that what she had been going to say led her straight into a trap.
'Well are you goin' ter Sir 'Erbert, or shall I tell him as yer declines to, seein' as yer too busy?'
'I'm going.' Hester moved away, around the huge figure of Dora Parsons and swiftly out of the room and along the corridor, boot heels clattering on the floor. She reached Sir Herbert's door and knocked sharply, as if Dora were still behind her.
'Come!' Sir Herbert's voice was peremptory.
She turned the handle and went in.
He was sitting behind his desk, papers spread in front of him. He looked up.
'Oh-Miss-er… Latterly. You're the Crimean nurse, aren't you?'
'Yes, Sir Herbert.' She stood straight, her hands clasped behind her in an attitude of respect.
'Good,' he said with satisfaction, folding some papers and putting them away. 'I have a delicate operation to perform on a person of some importance. I wish you to be on hand to assist me and to care for the patient afterwards. I cannot be everywhere all the time. I have been reading some new theories on the subject. Most interesting.' He smiled. 'Not, of course, that I would expect them to be of concern to you.'
He had stopped, as if he half thought she might answer him. It was of considerable interest to her, but mindful of her need to remain employed in the hospital (and that might depend upon Sir Herbert's view of her), she answered as she thought he would wish it.
'I hardly think it lies within my skill, sir,' she said demurely. 'Although, of course, I am sure it is most important, and may well be something I shall have to learn when the time is fit.'
The satisfaction in his small intelligent eyes was sharp.
'Of course, Miss Latterly. In due time, I shall tell you all you need to know to care for my patient. A very fitting attitude.'
She bit her tongue to refrain from answering back. But she did not thank him for what was undoubtedly intended as a compliment. She did not think she could keep her voice from betraying her sarcasm.
He seemed to be waiting for her to speak.
'Would you like me to see the patient before he comes to the operating room, sir?' she asked him.
'No, that will not be necessary. Mrs. Flaherty is preparing him. Do you sleep in the nurses' dormitory?'
'Yes.' It was a sore subject. She hated the communal living, the rows of beds in the long room, like a workhouse ward, without privacy, no silence in which to sleep or to think or to read. Always there were the sounds of other women, the interruptions, the restless movements, the talking, sometimes the laughter, the coming and going. She washed under the tap in one of the two large sinks, ate what little there was as opportunity offered between the long twelve-hour shifts.
It was not that she was unused to hard conditions. Heaven knew the Crimea had been immeasurably worse.
She had been colder, hungrier, wearier, and often in acute personal danger. But there it had seemed unavoidable; it was war. And there had been a comradeship and a facing of common enemies. Here it was arbitrary, and she resented it. Only the thought of Prudence Barrymore made her endure it.
'Good.' Sir Herbert smiled at her. It lit his face and made him look quite different. Even though it was only a gesture of politeness, she could see a softer, more human man behind the professional. 'We do have a few nurses who maintain their own homes, but it is not a satisfactory arrangement, most particularly it they are to care for a patient who needs their undivided attention. Please make yourself available at two o'clock precisely. Good day to you. Miss Latterly.'
'Thank you, Sir Herbert.' And immediately she withdrew.
The operation was actually very interesting. For over two hours she totally forgot her own dislike of hospital discipline and the laxness she saw in nursing, living in the dormitory, and the threatening presence of Dora Parsons; she even forgot Prudence Barrymore and her own reason for being here. The surgery was for the removal of stones from a very portly gentleman in his late fifties. She barely saw his face, but the pale abdomen, swollen with indulgence, and then the layers of fat as Sir Herbert cut through them to expose the organs, was fascinating to her. The fact that the patient could be anesthetized meant that speed was irrelevant. That release from urgency, the agonizing consciousness of the patient's almost unbearable pain, brought her close to euphoria.
She watched Sir Herbert's slender hands, with their tapered fingers, with an admiration which was akin to awe. They were delicate and powerful and he moved rapidly but without haste. Never once did he appear to lose his intense concentration, nor did his patience diminish. His skill had a kind of beauty which drove everything else from
