He started to shake, violently, moving the whole bed back and forth.
Then slowly he crumpled up and silent sobs shuddered through him, tears running down his face, the breath dragging in his throat.
She did not even think about it; she sat on the bed and reached out her arms and held him, touching his thick hair gently, smoothing it off his brow, following the line of it on the nape of his neck.
She sat there for a length of time she did not' measure It could have been as long as an hour.
Then at last gently she let him go and eased herself away to stand up.
She must change the damp and crumpled linen and make sure that in his distress he had not torn or moved any of his bandages.
"I'm going to fetch clean sheets," she said quietly. She did not want him to think she was simply walking away. "I'll be back in a moment or two.”
She returned to find him staring at the door, waiting for her. She put the linen down on the chair and moved over to help him on to one side of the bed so she could begin changing it around him. It was never an easy task, but he was too ill to get out altogether and sit in a chair.
She was uncertain what internal injuries might be strained, or what wounds Dr. Wade had seen and she had not, which might be broken open.
It took her some time, and he was obviously in considerable pain and she had to be patient, working around him, smoothing and straightening, rolling up and unfolding again. At last it was re-made and he lay exhausted. But his nightshirt had to be changed as well. The one he was wearing was soiled not only with sweat but with spots of blood. She longed to redress the larger wounds, to make sure they were properly covered, but Dr. Wade had forbidden her to touch them, in case removal of the gauze should tear the healing tissue.
She held out the clean nightshirt.
He stared at it in her hands. Suddenly his eyes were defensive again, the trust was gone. Unconsciously he pressed backwards into the pillows behind him.
She picked up the light top quilt and spread it over him from waist to feet. She smiled at him very slightly, and guardedly, cautiously, he allowed her to pull the nightshirt up and off over his head. It hurt his shoulders to raise his arms, but he gritted his teeth and did not hesitate. She replaced it with the clean one and, fumbling guardedly under the sheets, pushed it down to cover him. Very carefully she smoothed the sheet and blankets again, and at last he relaxed.
She re-stoked the fire, then sat down in the chair and waited until he should fall asleep.
In the morning she was tired and extremely stiff herself. She never got used to sleeping in a chair, for all the times she had done it.
She told Sylvestra about the incident, but briefly, without the true horror of pain she had witnessed. It was only in order to make sure that Dr. Wade did indeed come, and not perhaps feel that Rhys was recovering and another patient might need him more.
"I must go to him," Sylvestra said immediately, her face pinched with anguish. "I feel so… useless! I don't know what to say or do to help him! I don't know what happened!" She stared at Hesteras if believing she could supply an answer.
There had never been an answer, not to Rhys, or to all the other young men who had seen atrocities more than they could bear, except that time and love can heal, at least a part of the pain.
"Don't try to talk about what happened," she advised. "All the help you can give is simply to be there.”
But when Sylvestra came into the bedroom Rhys turned away. He refused to look at her. She sat on the edge of the bed, putting out her hand to touch his arm where it lay on the coverlet, and he snatched it away, then when she reached after him again he lashed out at her, catching her hand with his splints, hurting both her and himself.
Sylvestra gave a little cry of distress, not for the physical pain, but the rebuff. She sat motionless, not knowing what to do.
Rhys turned his head and kept his face away from her.
She looked at Hester.
Hester had no idea why he had acted with such sudden cruelty, beyond that she had already considered. It was impossible even to guess the reason his recent injury, a feeling of guilt that perhaps he should have been able to save his father, or if not, that he should also have died. She knew of men whose shame at their own survival, when their comrades had perished, was beyond any reason or comfort to console. It was unreachable, and attempts in words by those who could never truly understand only highlighted the gulf between them, the utter loneliness.
But none of that would touch the hurt in Sylvestra.
"Come downstairs," Hester said quietly. "We'll let him rest, at least until the doctor comes.”
"But…”
Hester shook her head. Rhys was still lying motionless and stiff.
Persuasion would not help.
Reluctantly Sylvestra rose and followed Hester out and across the corridor and landing and downstairs again. She did not say anything.
She was closed in a world of her own confusion.
Shortly after luncheon the maid announced that the man from the police was here again.
"Will you stay?" Sylvestra asked quickly. "I should prefer it.”
"Are you sure?" Hester was surprised. Usually people chose to keep such invasions of their privacy from as many as possible.
"Yes." Sylvestra was quite decisive. "Yes. If he has anything to tell us, it will be easier for Rhys if you know it also. I…" It was not necessary to say how frightened she was for him, it was only too plain in her face.
Evan was shown in. He looked cold and unhappy. The maid had taken his hat and outer coat, but his trouser legs were wet at the bottom, his boots were soaked, and his cheeks glistened with splashes of rain. It was some time since Hester had last seen him, but they had shared many experiences, both of triumph and of fear and pain, and she had always liked him. There was a gentleness and honesty in him which she admired. And he was sometimes more perceptive than Monk gave him credit for. Now it was discreet to behave as if they were strangers.
Sylvestra introduced them, and Evan made no reference to past acquaintance.
"How is Mr. Duff?" he asked.
"He is very ill," Sylvestra said quickly. "He has not spoken, if that is what you are hoping. I am afraid I know nothing further.”
"I'm sorry." His face crumpled a little. It was highly expressive, mirroring his thoughts and feelings more than he wished. He was a trifle thin, with bright hazel eyes and an aquiline nose, rather too long. His words came from sympathy, not annoyance.
"Have you… learned anything?" she asked. She was breathing rather quickly and her hands were held tightly together on her lap, fingers clenched around each other.
"Very little, Mrs. Duff," he replied. "If anyone saw what happened, they are not willing to say so. It is not an area where the police are liked. People live on the fringes of the law, and have too much to hide to come forward voluntarily.”
"I see." She heard what he said, but it was a world beyond her knowledge or comprehension.
He looked at her high-boned, severe and oddly beautiful face, and did not try to explain, although he must have understood.
Hester guessed the question he wanted to ask, and why he found it difficult to frame it without offending. Also it was more than possible she had no idea whatever of the truthful answers. Why would a man of Leighton Duffs standing go to such an area? To gamble illegally, to borrow money, to sell or pawn his belongings, to buy something stolen or forged, or to meet a prostitute. He could tell his wife none of these things. Even if it were something as comparatively praiseworthy as to help a friend in trouble, he still would not be likely to share it with her. Such difficulties were private, between men, not for the knowledge of women.
Evan decided to be blunt, which did not surprise Hester. It was the nature she knew in him.
"Mrs. Duff, have you any idea why your husband should go to an area like St. Giles, at night?”