by Anne Perry
The next few hours passed with agonizing slowness for Hester. She sat by Enid’s bedside watching her haggard face, which was white, sweat-soaked, with two blotches of hectic color on the cheekbones. Her hair was tangled, her body tensed, turning and shivering with pain, too sore to touch. Hester could do little but keep patting her softly with cool cloths, but still her fever rose. She was delirious, seldom wholly aware of where she was.
Genevieve returned some time in the evening and looked in for a few moments. She was not due to take her tum until morning, when Hester would go to the dressing room for a few hours’ sleep.
They exchanged glances. Genevieve was flushed. Hester presumed it to be from the chill outside, until she spoke.
“I have just been to see Mr. Monk. I am afraid he does not understand my urgency to know of Angus’s fate.” She stopped just inside the door, her voice low in case she should disturb Enid. “Sometimes I think the suspense is more than I can bear. Then I went to call upon Mr. Niven … Titus Niven … he used to prosper in the same business as my husband, until very lately. He was also a friend.”
Even though she had spoken so softly, Enid started and tried to sit up. Quickly Hester eased her down again, smoothing her hair off her brow and speaking softly to her, although she was uncertain if Enid heard her or not.
Genevieve looked at Hester, her face tight with fear. The question was so plain it needed no speech. She was afraid the crisis was coming, and Enid might not survive the night.
Hester had no answer. Anything she could say would be only a guess, and a hope.
Genevieve let out her breath slowly. The ghost of a smile returned to her face, but it was only a reaching across pain in a moment’s closeness; there was no happiness in it. Whatever comfort or ray of light Titus Niven had been able to give, it was gone again. Even the gentleness with which she had spoken his name seemed forgotten.
“There is no point in your remaining,” Hester told her honestly. “It might be tonight, it might not be until tomorrow. There’s nothing you can do, except be ready to take over in the morning.” She tried to smile, and failed.
“I will,” Genevieve promised, touching her lightly on the shoulder. Then she turned and went out of the door, closing it behind her with barely a click.
The early evening was dark, rain battering against the windows behind the thick drawn curtains. The clock on the mantel was the only other sound except for the soft hissing of the gas, and every now and again a moan or whimper from Enid.
A little after half past seven, Lord Ravensbrook knocked on the door and immediately came in. He looked worn and there was a flicker of fear in the back of his eyes, thinly masked by pride.
“How is she?” he asked. Perhaps it was a pointless question, but he knew of nothing else to say, and it was expected. He needed to say something.
“I think the crisis may be tonight,” she answered. She saw his face pinch, almost as if she had struck him. She regretted for a moment that she had been so forthright. Maybe it was brutal. But what if Enid died tonight, and she had not told him? There was nothing he could do for her, but afterwards his grief would be allied with guilt. She would have treated him as if he were a child, not able to stand the truth, not worthy to be told it. The healing would be harder, and perhaps never completed.
“I see.” He stood still in the middle of the room, with its shadows and florals, its femininity, isolated by his inability to speak, the social conventions that bound them to their separate roles. He was a peer of the realm, a man expected to have courage both physical and moral, absolute mastery of his emotions. She was a woman, the weaker vessel, expected to weep, to lean on others, and above all she was an employee. The fact that he did not actually pay her was irrelevant. He was as incapable of crossing the chasm between them as she. Very possibly it had not even occurred to him. He simply stood still and suffered.
When he turned slowly, his eyes were very dark and there was almost an opaque look in them, as if he could not focus his gaze. He took a deep breath.
“You mean would I like to be here at the end? Yes … yes, of course I would. You must send for me.” He stopped, uncertain whether to offer to remain now. He looked across the bed. It had been changed only two hours ago, but it was badly rumpled now, in spite of Hester’s frequent straightening of it. He drew in his breath sharply. “Does … does she know I am here?”
“I don’t know,” Hester said honestly. “Even if she doesn’t seem to, she may. Please don’t think it is futile. She might be much comforted.”
His hands were clenched by his sides. “Should I remain?” He did not move towards the bed, but looked at Hester.
“It is not necessary,” she said with instant certainty. “Better to rest, then you will have the strength when it is needed.”
He breathed out slowly. “You will call me?”
“Yes, as soon as there is any change, I promise you.” She inclined her head towards the bell rope near the bed. “As long as there is someone awake to answer, they will come to you within moments.”
“Thank you. I’m most obliged, Miss … Latterly.” He went to the door and turned again. “You … you do a very fine work.” And before she had time to respond, he was gone.
Some twenty minutes later Enid began to be more troubled. She tossed and turned in the bed, crying out in pain.
Hester touched her brow. It was burning hot, even hotter than before. Her eyes were open, although she did not seem to be aware of the room but stared beyond Hester, as if there were someone behind her.
“Gerald?” she said huskily, “… not here.” She gasped and was silent for a moment. “My dear, you really must not come—Papa will …” She gave a little gasp and then tried to smile. “You know Mama favors Alexander.”
Hester wrung out the cloth in cool water again and laid it across Enid’s brow, then moved the sheet and put it gently on her throat and chest. She had tried to get her to drink, and failed. She must at least do all she could to reduce her temperature. She seemed now completely delirious.
“All right,” Enid said suddenly. “Don’t tell Papa … he is such a …” She tossed and pulled away, then suddenly seemed overtaken by sadness. “Poor George. But I simply couldn’t! Such a bore. Don’t understand that, do you?” She was quiet for several minutes, then tried to sit up, peering at Hester. “Milo? Don’t be so angry with him. He didn’t mean—”
“Hush.” Hester put her arms around Enid. “He’s not angry, I promise you. Lie down again. Rest.”
But Enid’s body was rigid and she was breathing heavily, gasping with distress.
“Milo! My dear, I’m so sorry! I know it hurt you … but you really shouldn’t …”
“He isn’t,” Hester repeated. “He isn’t upset. He only wants you to rest and get better.” She held Enid closer. Her body was burning, shivering, her clothes sodden with perspiration. Through the thin cotton she felt light, as if the flesh had already shrunken and her bones were brittle. Only days ago she had been a strong woman.
“So angry!” Enid cried, her voice now harsh with distress. “Why? Why, Milo?”
Hester held her gently. “He’s not angry, my dear. He really isn’t. If he was, it was a long time ago. It’s all over now. Lie still and rest.”
For several minutes there was peace. Enid seemed to be easy.
Hester had seen many people in delirium, and she knew that past and present became muddled in the mind. Sometimes people seemed to retreat as far as childhood. The delusions of fever were terrifying: huge faces ballooned, then retreated; features were distorted, became hideous and threatening, full of deformities.
She ached to be able to help, to relieve any of the anguish, even to avert the crises, but there was nothing she knew to do. There was no medicine, no treatment. All anyone could do was wait and hope.
The gas hissed gently in the single light that was still burning. The clock ticked on the mantel. The fire was so low in the grate the coals were hot and red, but there was no
flame whickering, no sound of collapsing embers.
Enid stirred again.
“Milo?” she whispered.
“Shall I send for him?” Hester asked. “He’s only a few rooms away. He’ll come.”
“I know it troubles you, my dear,” Enid went on as if she had not heard Hester’s question. “But you really must let it go. It was only a letter. He shouldn’t have written …” There was worry in her voice, and something that could even have been pity. “I shouldn’t have laughed …” She trailed off and her words were lost in a mumble, and then suddenly she gave a giggle of pure delight before she fell silent.
Hester wrung out the cloth again. It was time she pulled the bell and had it changed to new water, clean and cool. But to reach it she would have to let go of Enid.
Very gently she tried to ease herself out, but Enid suddenly clung to her, her hand weak but desperate.
“Milo! Don’t go! Of course it hurts. It was shameful of him. I understand, my dear … but …” Again her words became jumbled and made no more sense. Her mind began to wander. She seemed to be a young woman again, mentioning dancing, parties. Sometimes her words were indistinguishable, but occasionally one or two would come through clearly, a man’s name, a word of endearment, a chiding or a farewell. It seemed that either in imagination or reality, Enid had had many admirers, and from the intimacy of her voice and the snatched references here and there, some had loved her very much. Milo’s name was spoken once with a cry of frustration, almost despair, and then again later two or three times in a row, as if she were fascinated by it, and it was both tenderness and exasperation to her.
Towards midnight she became quieter, and Hester feared she was slipping away. She was very weak, and the fever seemed, if anything, worse. She left her for a moment to pull the bell rope. Dingle came almost immediately, still fully dressed, her face pale with distress, eyes wide. Hester asked her to fetch Lord Ravensbrook and take away the water and bring fresh, clean towels.
“Is it …” Dingle started, then changed her mind. “Is it time to change the bed linen, do you think, before his lordship comes?”
“No, thank you,” Hester declined. “I’ll not disturb her.”
“I’ll help you, miss.”
“It won’t make any difference now.”
“Is it … the end?” Dingle forced the words between stiff lips. She looked very close to weeping. Hester wondered how long she had been with Enid … possibly all her adult life, maybe thirty years or more. If she were fortunate, Lord Ravensbrook would have allowed Enid to make provisions for her, or he would do so himself. Otherwise she would be without a position—although from her white face and brimming eyes, that was far from her thoughts now.
“I think it is the crisis,” Hester answered. “But she is a strong woman, and she has courage. It may not be the end.”
“ ’Course she has,” Dingle said with intensity. “Never know’d anybody like her for spirit. But typhoid’s a terrible illness. It’s took so many.”
On the bed Enid gave a little moan, then lay perfectly still.
Dingle gasped.
“It’s all right,” Hester said quickly, seeing the faint rise and fall of Enid’s breast. “But you had better fetch his lordship without delay. Then don’t forget the water—and cool, not hot. Just take the chill off it, that’s all.”
Dingle hesitated. “I know you done all the nursing, but I’ll lay her out, if you please.”
“Of course,” Hester agreed. “If it’s necessary. But the battle isn’t lost yet. Now please send for the water. It may make a difference.”
Dingle whirled around and almost ran to the door. Perhaps she had thought it simply cosmetic. Now her feet flew along the passage and she returned in less than five minutes with a great ewer full of water barely off the chill, and a clean towel over her arm.
“Thank you.” Hester took the ewer with the briefest smile and immediately dipped the towel. Then she laid it, still wet, across Enid’s brow and her throat, then sponged her hands and lower arms.
“Help me hold her up a little,” she asked. “And I’ll place it on the back of her neck for a moment or two.”
Dingle obliged instantly.
“Lord Ravensbrook is taking a long time,” Hester murmured, laying Enid back again. “Was he very deeply asleep?”
“Oh!” Dingle stared at her, aghast. “I forgot ’im! Oh dear—I’d better go and fetch him now!” She did not ask Hester to keep silent about the omission, but her eyes made the plea for her.
“The water was more important,” Hester said by way of agreement.
“I’ll get ’im now.” Dingle was already on her way to the door. “An’ I’d better tell Miss Genevieve …”
Milo Ravensbrook came in within moments. He had dressed, but little more. His hair was uncombed and lay in thick, untidy curls most women would have envied with a passion. His eyes were hollow and his cheeks pinched and dark with stubble. He looked angry, frightened and extraordinarily vulnerable. He ignored Hester and went up to the bed and stood staring at his wife.
The clock on the mantelshelf gave a faint chime of quarter past midnight.
“It’s cold in here,” he said without turning, accusation flaring in his voice. “You’ve let it get cold. Stoke the fire.”
She did not bother to argue. It probably did not matter now, and he was not in a mood to listen. Obediently she went to the coal bucket, picked up the tongs and placed two pieces on the hot embers. They were slow to ignite.
“Use the bellows,” he commanded.
She had seen grief take people in many different ways. Sometimes it was dread of the loneliness which would follow, the long days and years of no one with whom to share their inner thoughts, the feelings which could not be explained, the belief that no one else would love them as that person had, and accept and understand their faults as well as their virtues. For some it was guilt that somehow or other they had not said or done all that they might, and now it was already too late. The minutes were slipping by, and still they could think of nothing adequate to say to make up for all the mistakes and missed opportunities. “Thank you” or “I love you” was too hard to say, and too simple.
And for many it was the fear of death itself, the absolute knowledge that one day they must face it too, and in spite of even profound religious faith, they did not really know what lay beyond. An hour a week of formal ritual was no comfort to the mind or the soul when faced with reality. Faith must be part of the daily web of life, a trust tested in a myriad of smaller things, before it can be a bridge over the chasm of such a passage from the known to the unknown. If Milo Ravensbrook was afraid for himself, she did not blame him.
“You can speak to her,” she said to him from the end of the bed to where he stood beside it, still looking down at Enid without touching her. “Even if she does not respond, she may hear you.”
He raised his head, his expression impatient, almost accusatory.
“It may comfort her,” she added.
Suddenly the anger drained out of him. He looked at Hester steadily, not so much at her face as at her gray dress and white apron, which were not Dingle’s clothes but her own again. She realized how used he must be to women in such attire. She probably did not appear very different from the nursery maid or the nanny who would have brought him up, told him stories, given him his food and sat with him at mealtimes and made sure he ate what was put before him, disciplined him, nursed him when he was sick, accompanied him when he went out for walks in the park or for rides in the carriage. There was a lifetime’s association with the gray, starched dress, and a score of others like it.
He turned away again and obeyed her, sitting on the bed, his back to her.
“Enid,” he said a little awkwardly. “Enid?”
For several minutes there was no response. He shifted and seemed about to move away again, when she muttered something.
He leaned forward. “Enid!”
“Milo?” Her voice was barely
audible, a whisper with a dry wheeze in the middle. “Don’t be so angry … you frighten me!”
“I’m not angry, my dear,” he said gently. “You are dreaming! I’m not angry in the slightest.”
“He didn’t mean to …” She sighed and was silent for several minutes. Ravensbrook turned to look at Hester, his eyes demanding an answer.
Hester moved to the other side of the bed. Enid was very white, her skin stretched over her cheekbones, her eyes far back in her head as if the sockets were too large for them. But she was still breathing, barely visibly, perhaps too lightly for Ravensbrook to be certain.
“It hasn’t comforted her at all!” He choked on the words. “It’s made it worse! She thinks I’m angry!” It was a charge, a blame against Hester for her misjudgment.
“And you have assured her you are not. Surely that must be of comfort,” Hester replied.
He looked away impatiently, temper darkening his face.
“Angus,” Enid said suddenly. “You must forgive him, Milo, however hard it is. He tried, I swear he tried!”
“I know he tried!” Ravensbrook said quickly, turning towards her, his own fear of the disease temporarily forgotten. “It is all past, I promise you.”
Enid let out her breath in a long sigh and the faintest shadow of a smile touched her lips and then faded away.
“Enid!” he cried out, taking her hand roughly.
Hester picked up the damp cloth again and wiped Enid’s brow, then her cheeks, then her lips and throat.
“That’s bloody useless, woman!” Ravensbrook said loudly, lurching backwards and standing up. “Don’t go through your damned rituals in front of me. Can’t you at least have the decency to wait until I am out of the room. She was my wife, for God’s sake!”
Hester held her hand on Enid’s throat, high, under the chin, and pressed hard. She felt the skin cooler, the pulse weak but steady.
“She’s asleep,” she said with certainty.
“I don’t want your bloody euphemisms!” His voice was cracking, but close to a shout, and filled with helpless rage. “I won’t be treated like a child by some damn servant, and in my own house!”
