by Anne Perry
Hester was intent upon causing her as little additional distress as possible.
“Genevieve!” she called. “Please help me here. Never mind the sheet yet.”
Genevieve turned around from the drawers where she was standing. Her face was white, her hair straggling out of its pins. She looked desperately tired.
“Please?” Hester said again.
Genevieve hesitated. The silence hung between them as if she had not heard, or not understood what was said. Then as if with a great effort, she came over and stood at the far side of the bed, leaned forward, her head down, and took Enid’s limp body in her arms.
“Thank you,” Hester acknowledged, and pulled the nightgown off and put it away. Quickly and as gently as she could, she bathed Enid all over with cool water. Genevieve stood back again, taking the used cloths from her and rinsing them out and wringing them, then passing them back.
Over and over she washed her own hands, once or twice right up to the elbows.
“I’ll get the clean sheet,” she offered as soon as the task was completed.
“Help me put the shift on her first, will you?” Hester asked.
Genevieve took a deep breath, gulping awkwardly, but she did as she was bid. She stretched out her arms, and Hester saw the muscles tense, and saw that her hands were shaking. It was only then that she realized how terrified Genevieve was of catching the disease herself. She was trembling and almost sick with the sheer fear of it.
Hester was not sure how she felt. A tangle of emotions rose in her. She could understand it easily! She had felt the same overwhelming horror in her own early experiences. Now time had taught her a more philosophical view. She had seen hundreds of cases, by far the majority of them dying of it, and yet she had never been touched by it herself. She had suffered the occasional chest fever or chill, but nothing worse, although they could certainly make one feel badly enough at the time.
“You are not likely to get it,” she said aloud. “I never have.”
The color burned hot up Genevieve’s face.
“I—I’m ashamed to be so afraid,” she said haltingly. “It’s not for myself—it’s my children. There is no one to care for them if anything happened to me.”
“You are a widow?” Hester asked more gently. Perhaps in her place she would have felt the same. It was more than natural, it would be hard to understand any other feeling.
“I …” Genevieve took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I know that sounds absurd, but I am not sure. My husband is missing.…”
“I’m sorry.” Hester meant it profoundly. “That must be dreadful for you—the uncertainty and the loneliness.”
“Yes.” Genevieve took a deep breath and steadied herself. Very deliberately she slid the clean cotton shift over Enid’s body, watching every movement in her attempt not to jolt or bump her.
“How long?” Hester asked as they took off the old sheet.
“Twelve days,” Genevieve replied. “I—I know this sounds as if I have given up all faith, but I believe he is dead, because I know where he went, and he would have been back long ago if he were able.”
Hester went over to the linen press and fetched the clean sheet. Together they put it on the bed, moving Enid gently as they did so.
“Where did he go?” Hester asked.
“To Limehouse, to see his brother,” Genevieve answered.
“Caleb Stone …” Hester said slowly. “I’ve heard of him.”
Genevieve’s eyes widened. “Then you know I am not foolish in my fear.”
“No,” Hester agreed honestly. “From the little I have learned, he is a violent man. Are you sure that is where he went?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation in Genevieve’s voice. “He went quite often. I know it seems hard to understand, when Caleb was so dreadful, he seems to have nothing to commend him at all, but you see they were twins. Their parents died when they were very young, and they grew up together.” She smoothed the blanket and tucked it in with quick, careful hands. “Lord Ravensbrook took them in, but he is only a distant cousin, and that was before he married Aunt Enid. They were cared for by servants. They had only each other to show any kind of affection to, any laughter—or tears. If they were ill, or afraid, they had no one else. Caleb was different then. Angus doesn’t say a great deal, I think he finds it too hurtful.” Her face was pinched with imagination of pain, and the child she could not comfort within the man she loved. Now even the man was beyond her reach, and there was nothing she could do, except wait.
Hester longed to offer her some ease or hope, but there was none, and to invent it would be cruel. It would force her through the agony of realization, acceptance and grief twice, instead of once.
“You must be tired,” she said instead. “Have Dingle bring us some breakfast, then you should change your clothes and go to your room and sleep.”
They had barely finished eating when there was a brisk tap on the door, and before either of them could answer, it opened and Milo Ravensbrook came in. He closed it behind him and stepped a couple of yards inside. He spared only a glance at Hester and Genevieve, staring past them to Enid, his face bleak. From his pallor and the red rims to his eyes, he could have lain awake most of the night.
“How is she?” he asked, looking at neither of them.
Genevieve said nothing.
“She is very ill,” Hester answered gently. “But the fact that she is still alive gives good cause for hope.”
He swung around to her, his face tight and hard.
“You don’t mince with words, do you! I hope you are kinder with your patients than you are with their families!”
Hester had seen fear lead to anger too often to respond with anger herself.
“I told you the truth, my lord. Would you rather I had told you she was better, when she is not?”
“It is not what you say, ma’am, it is your manner in saying it,” he retorted. He would not retreat. He had criticized her, therefore she must be wrong. He would forgive her in his own time. “I will have the physician attend as soon as possible—within the hour. I shall be obliged if you will remain on duty until he has been. Thereafter, if he deems it acceptable, you may go back to your patients in Limehouse for a spell, providing he is not of the opinion you may return further infection here with you. I am sure you yourself would not wish to do that.”
She was about to argue, but he gave her no opportunity. He turned instead to Genevieve.
“I am delighted you saw fit to come, my dear. Not only are you of the greatest help to poor Enid, but it gives me the chance to offer you some measure of assistance in your present difficulty.” His face softened a fraction, a tenderness above the mouth, there, and then gone again. “And as family, we should be together in this anxiety, and support each other, should it come to be a bereavement.” His expression flickered, unreadily. “I sincerely hope it will not. We may yet discover there has been some form of accident—retrievable. Caleb is violent—indeed, he has lost almost every redeeming feature of his youth—but I find it hard to believe he would willfully injure Angus.”
“He hates him,” Genevieve said, her voice thick with an inner exhaustion far deeper than the one night nursing Enid, the sleeplessness or the fear of disease. “You don’t know how much!”
“Nor do you, my dear,” he said, without making any move towards her. “All you have heard is Angus’s fear speaking, and his very natural grief at the situation, and the degradation he has seen in his brother’s nature. I refuse to believe it is irredeemable.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. For an instant her face was bright with gratitude, and vulnerable as a child’s with sudden new hope.
Hester did not know whether to be furious with him for wakening such thoughts again in her or to pity him because of his own need. She imagined the young man he must have been, taking in two orphaned boys and learning to think of them as his own, clothing them in his dreams, teaching them the arts and truths of life, sharing his experience
s and beliefs. And then must have come the disillusion as one of them slowly became bitter, vicious, and began step by tragic step to destroy himself. He had burned out all that was good, all the gentleness and the aspiration towards virtue, until at last he had cut himself off completely and given way to a kind of despair. Surely such a man as Caleb Stone had become could only result from despair?
No wonder Milo Ravensbrook stood in his wife’s sickroom and refused to believe one son could have murdered the other. He was facing the loss of all those he loved, except Genevieve and her children, who, through Angus, were his last blood left.
He turned slowly and looked at Enid, then pale-faced, stiff-backed, he walked out, unable to bring himself to speak.
By midday the doctor had been and gone, offering little more than sympathy. Hester was about to leave for Limehouse, when she almost ran into Monk in the hallway of Ravensbrook House. She stopped abruptly, the instant after he also had seen her.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, but his face was full of relief.
In spite of all her intentions, she felt a surge of pleasure inside her. She refused to explain or excuse it to herself.
“Lady Ravensbrook is ill. I am caring for her,” she replied.
There was a flicker of black humor in him, almost a kind of perverse satisfaction. “You got tired of Limehouse rather quickly, didn’t you? What about Callandra? Is she there all by herself now that you and Lady Ravensbrook have left?”
“I’m on my way there,” she said tartly, anger welling up inside her.
“Very intelligent,” Monk said sarcastically. “Then you can bring the typhoid back here with you, to add to whatever Lady Ravensbrook already has. I hadn’t thought you so stupid! Does Lord Ravensbrook know? Perhaps he doesn’t realize, but I would have thought better of you.”
“It is typhoid she has,” she replied, looking him straight in the eyes. “It is a risk one runs, nursing fever patients. But as you also pointed out, Callandra has very little other help, except a few local women who are willing but have no experience. The only other one there is Kristian. They have to get some rest, so I imagine they are taking turns. They need someone else to help for a while, even if only so they can leave to buy more supplies.”
His face was pale and he looked considerably shaken, as if what she had said distressed him.
“Is she going to recover?” he asked after a moment.
“I hope so. She’ll be very tired, of course, but Kristian will do all he can to—”
“Not Callandra, you fool,” he cut across her. “Lady Ravensbrook. You said she has typhoid.”
“Yes. You seem very slow to grasp the point, but that is why I am here looking after her.”
“So why are you leaving her then?” He jerked his head towards the front door, where she had been going. “Is she well enough to be left alone?”
“For heaven’s sake, she’s not alone,” she snapped furiously. “Genevieve Stonefield is here while I am gone. We are taking turns to do all we can. Do you think I would walk out and leave a patient? I am used to you being gratuitously offensive, but even you know better than that.”
“Genevieve?” He was surprised.
“That is what I said. Presumably she is your client? Have you proceeded any further? You seemed to have had no success at all when I last saw you.”
“I have considerably more information,” he answered.
“In other words, no,” she interpreted.
“Do you really think you have time and talent enough to spare to do your own work and mine too?” he asked with a lift of sarcasm. “You rate yourself higher than the evidence supports.”
“If you want Genevieve,” she retorted, “you will have to wait. She cannot leave Lady Ravensbrook until I return.” And with that she brushed past him and strode towards the front door, yanking it open and leaving it swinging behind her for the footman to close.
“I came to see Lord Ravensbrook,” Monk said between his teeth. “You monumentally stupid woman!”
* * *
Nevertheless on the evening of the day after, tired as she was, Hester went to Monk’s rooms in Fitzroy Street to give him the general information she had learned about Angus and Caleb Stonefield from her time in Ravensbrook House. It was not a great deal, but it might help. She was not concerned so much for him as for Genevieve.
It was a wintry night and she held the collar of her cloak up around her neck and chin as she crossed the pavement and mounted the step. She rapped smartly on the door, before she could change her mind.
She stepped back, and was about to decide that he was not in and she had done all duty demanded of her, when the latch turned and the door swung open. Monk stood just inside, outlined by the light behind him. From what she could see of his face he was tired and discouraged. He did not hide his surprise at seeing her.
She felt sorry for him, and was suddenly glad she had come.
“I thought I should tell you the little I have learned about Angus and Caleb,” she explained her presence.
“You’ve learned something?” he said quickly, stepping back for her to enter.
Perhaps she had overstated it and given him unjustified hope. She felt foolish.
“Only a few facts, or perhaps I should more correctly say a few people’s opinions.”
“Whose opinions? For heaven’s sake, come in! I don’t want to stand here on the step, even if you don’t mind.” He pulled the door wider, and then as she passed him, closed it behind her.
“Why are you so angry?” She decided to stop retreating and attack instead. It was more in her nature. She should not allow him to make her feel as if she had to justify herself all the time. “If your case is going badly, that is unfortunate,” she continued, walking past him through the outer chamber to the inner one. “But being offensive will not help it, and it is very childish. You should learn to control yourself.”
“Have you come all the way, at this time of the evening, to tell me that?” he said incredulously, following her in. “You interfering, opinionated, monumentally arrogant woman! Treating the sick has gone to your brain! Even in your futile field, surely you must have something more useful to do? Go and empty some slops, or scrub a floor. Stoke a fire somewhere. Comfort someone, if you have the faintest idea how.”
She took off her wet cloak and handed it to him.
“Do you want to know about Angus and Caleb, or not?” It was almost a relief to be just as rude in return. She had guarded her tongue for so long, all sorts of emotions were knotted up inside her, memories of loneliness and fear, of horror and exhaustion in the past, pain she could not ease, deaths she had been helpless to prevent. All of it came back to her so much more vividly and easily than she had expected. And she did not want to care about Monk. It was nice, almost like a familiar pleasure, to quarrel with him. “Are you actually interested in helping poor Genevieve, or are you just taking her money?”
His face went white. She had hurt him with that last suggestion. For all his faults, she knew with absolute certainty he would never have done that. Perhaps she should not have said it. But then he had insulted her professionally just as much.
“I’m sorry,” he said tightly. “I had not realized that this time you had something useful to say. What is it?” He put her cloak absentmindedly over the back of one of the chairs.
Now she felt foolish. It was not truly useful. Maybe he knew that too? She took a deep breath and faced him. His gray eyes were cold and level, full of anger.
“Lord Ravensbrook does not think Caleb would have harmed Angus,” she began. “Because for all his violence, they are brothers, and grew up together, sharing their loneliness and grief when they lost their parents. But he thinks that because he loves them, and cannot bear to think otherwise. He has already lost his first wife, and then the boys’ parents, and now Enid is terribly ill, and Angus is missing.”
He was staring at her, waiting for her to conclude.
Her voice sounded thin e
ven in her own ears. “But Genevieve is convinced Caleb has killed him. She told me that in the past Angus has come home with knife scars that no one else knows about. He would not call a doctor. He was ashamed of them. I think that is why she did not tell you. She does not wish anyone to think Angus was not able to stand up for himself, or that he was a coward. Angus …” She did not know how to phrase what she thought and make it seem sensible. She could almost hear Monk’s sarcastic dismissal even before she spoke. “Angus loved Caleb,” she went on hastily. “They were very close as children. Perhaps that bond still existed, for him, and he could never believe Caleb would hurt him. Maybe he could even have felt guilty for his own success, when Caleb had so little. That could be why he kept going back—to try to help him—for his own conscience’s sake. And pity can be a very hard thing to take. It can eat more deeply into the soul than being hated or ignored.”
He looked at her in silence for a long time. She did not look away, but stared back.
“Perhaps,” he conceded at length. For the first time his imagination could conceive of the emotions within Caleb, the explosion of rage which could end in such violence. “It could explain both why Angus did not simply leave him to rot, which is what it would seem he both wanted and deserved, and why Caleb was stupid enough to kill the one man on the earth who still cared about him. But it doesn’t help me find Angus.”
“Well, if it was Caleb who killed him, at least you have some idea where to look,” she pointed out. “You can stop wasting your time trying to find out if Angus had a secret mistress or gambling debts. He was probably just as decent as he seemed, but even if he wasn’t, you don’t need to find out, and you certainly don’t need to tell Genevieve—or Lord Ravensbrook. They are both convinced he was an extraordinarily good man. Everything they knew of him was honorable, generous, patient, loyal and innately decent. He read stories to his children, brought his wife flowers, liked to sing around the piano, and was good at flying a kite. If he is dead, isn’t that loss enough? You don’t have to find his weaknesses too, do you, simply in the name of truth?”
