Page 36 of The Silent Cry (William Monk 8)

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Kynaston,” Wharmby said with evident pleasure. He looked at the youth who had followed her. His hair and skin were as fair as hers, but his features were quite different. His face was thin, his features finer and more aquiline, his eyes clear light blue. It was a face of humor and dreams, and perhaps a certain loneliness. “Good afternoon, Mr. Arthur.”

“Good afternoon,” Mrs. Kynaston replied. She was wearing dark browns and blacks, as became one visiting a house in mourning. Her clothes were well cut but somehow devoid of individual style. It seemed evident it did not matter to her. She allowed Wharmby to take her cloak and then to conduct her into the withdrawing room, where apparently Sylvestra was expecting her. Arthur followed a pace behind.

Wharmby came up the stairs.

“Miss Latterly, young Mr. Kynaston is a great friend of Mr. Rhys’s. He has asked if he may visit. Is that possible, do you think?”

“I shall ask Mr. Rhys if he wishes to see him,” Hester replied. “If he does, I would like to see Mr. Kynaston first. It is imperative he does not say or do anything which would cause distress. Dr. Wade is adamant on that.”

“Of course. I understand.” He stood waiting while she went to enquire.

Rhys was lying staring at the ceiling, his eyes half closed.

Hester stood in the doorway. “Arthur Kynaston is here. He would like to visit you, if you are feeling well enough. If you aren’t, all you have to do is let me know. I shall see he is not offended.”

Rhys’s eyes opened wide. She thought she saw eagerness in them, then a sudden doubt, perhaps embarrassment.

She waited.

He was obviously uncertain. He was lonely, frightened, vulnerable, ashamed of his helplessness and perhaps of what he had not done to save his father. Maybe, like many soldiers she had known, the sheer fact that he had survived was a reproach to him, when someone else had not. Had he really been a coward, or did he only fear he had been? Did he even remember with any clarity, any approximation to fact?

“If you see him, shall I leave you alone?” she asked.

A shadow crossed his face.

“Shall I stay and see that we talk of pleasant things, interesting things?”

Slowly he smiled.

She turned and went out to tell Wharmby.

Arthur Kynaston came up the stairs slowly, his fair face creased in concern.

“Are you the nurse?” he asked when he stood in front of her.

“Yes. My name is Hester Latterly.”

“May I see him?”

“Yes. But I must warn you, Mr. Kynaston, he is very ill. I expect you have already been told that he cannot speak.”

“But he will be able to … soon? I mean, it will come back, won’t it?”

“I don’t know. For now he cannot, but he can nod or shake his head. And he likes to be spoken to.”

“What can I say?” He looked confused and a little afraid. He was very young, perhaps seventeen.

“Anything, except to mention what happened in St. Giles or the death of his father.”

“Oh God! I mean … he does know, doesn’t he? Someone has told him?”

“Yes. But he was there. We don’t know what happened, but the shock of it seems to be what has robbed him of speech. Talk about anything else. You must have interests. Do you study? What do you hope to do?”

“Classics,” he replied without hesitation. “Rhys loves the ancient stories, even more than I do. We’d love to go to Greece or Turkey.”

She smiled and stood aside. There was no need to say that he had answered

his own question. He knew it.