It was the middle of the next morning when Hester saw Bernd again. She was sitting in the green morning room in front of the fire writing letters, one or two of her own, but mostly to assist Dagmar in conveying apologies and explanations to friends, when Bernd came in.
“Good morning, Miss Latterly,” he said stiffly. “I believe I owe you an apology for my words yesterday. They were not intended as any personal discourtesy. I am most … grateful … for the care you have shown my son.”
She smiled, putting down her pen. “I did not doubt that, sir. Your distress is natural. Anyone would have felt as you did. Please do not consider it necessary to think of it again.”
“My wife tells me I was … rude …”
“I have forgotten it.”
“Thank you. I … I hope you will remain to look after Robert? He is going to need a great deal of assistance. Of course, in time we shall obtain an appropriate manservant, but until then …”
“He will learn to do far more than you think now,” she assured him. “He is disabled; he is not ill. The greatest help would be a comfortable chair with wheels so that he can move around …”
Bernd winced. “He will hate it! People will be … sorry for him. He will feel—” He stopped, unable to continue.
“He will feel some degree of independence,” she finished for him. “The alternative is to remain in bed. There is no need for that. He is not an invalid. He has his hands, his brain and his senses.”
“He will be a cripple!” He spoke of it in the future, as if to acknowledge it in the present made it more of a fact and he still could not bear that.
“He cannot use his legs,” she said carefully. “You must help him to make all the use he can of everything else. And people may begin by being sorry for him, but they will only remain so if he is sorry for himself.”
He stared at her. He looked exhausted; there were dark smudges around his eyes and his skin had a thin, papery quality.
“I would like to think you are correct, Miss Latterly,” he said after a moment or two. “But you speak so easily. I know you have seen a great many young men disabled by war and injuries perhaps far worse than Robert’s. But you see only the first terrible shock, then you move on to another patient. You do not see the slow years that follow afterwards, the disappointed hopes, the imprisonment that closes in, that ruins the … the pleasures, the achievements of life.”
“I haven’t nursed only soldiers, Baron Ollenheim,” she said gently. “But please don’t ever allow Robert to know that you believe life is so blighted for him, or you will crush him completely. You may even make your fears come true by your belief in them.”
He stared at her, doubt, anger, amazement, and then comprehension passing across his face.
“Who are you writing to?” He glanced at the paper and pen in front of her. “My wife said you had agreed to assist her with some of the letters which have become necessary. Perhaps you would be good enough to thank Miss Stanhope and say that she will no longer be needed. Do you think it would be appropriate to offer her some recompense for her kindness? I understand she is of very restricted means.”
“No, I do not think it would be appropriate,” she said sharply. “Furthermore, I think it would be a serious mistake to tell her she is no longer needed. Someone must encourage Robert to go out, to learn new pastimes.”
“Go out?” He was startled, and two spots of color stained his pale cheeks. “I hardly think he will wish to go out, Miss Latterly. That is a most insensitive remark.”
“He is disabled, Baron Ollenheim, not disfigured,” she pointed out. “He has nothing whatever of which to be ashamed—”
“Of course not.” He was thoroughly angry now, perhaps because shame was precisely what he had felt that any member of his family should be less than whole, less than manly, and now dependent upon the help of others.
“I think it would be wise to encourage him to have Miss Stanhope visit,” Hester repeated steadily. “She is already aware of his situation, and it would be easier for him than trusting someone new, at least to begin with.”
He thought for several moments before replying. He looked appallingly tired.
“I do not want to be unfair to the girl,” he said finally. “She has sufficient misfortune already, by her appearance and by what my wife tells me of her circumstances. We can offer her no permanent post. Robert will need a trained manservant, and naturally, in time, if he resumes his old friendships, those who are willing to make adjustments to his new state …” His face pinched as he spoke. “Then she would find herself excluded. We must not take advantage of either her generosity or her vulnerable position.”
His choice of words was not meant to hurt, but Hester saw reflected in them her own situation: hired to help in a time of pain and despair, leaned on, trusted, at the heart of things for a brief while; then, when the crisis was past, paid, thanked and dismissed. Neither she nor Victoria was part of permanent life; they were not socially equal, and were friends only in a very narrow and closely defined sense.
Except that Victoria was not to be paid, because her situation was so less well understood.
“Perhaps we should allow Robert to make the decision,” she said with less dignity or control than she had wished. She felt angry for Victoria, and for herself, and very pointedly alone.
“Very well,” he agreed reluctantly, totally unaware of her emotions. It had not even occurred to him that she might have any. “At least for the time being.”
* * *
In fact, Victoria came the very next morning. Hester saw her before she went upstairs. She beckoned her to the landing, close to a huge Chinese vase planted with a potted palm. The sunlight streamed in through the windows, making bright squares on the polished wood of the floor.
Victoria was dressed in a dark plum-colored wool. The dress must be one left over from more fortunate days. It became her very well, lending a little color to her cheeks, and the white collar lightened her eyes, but it could not
