Page 65 of The Silent Cry (William Monk 8)

“You don’t seem to like him as much as you do Arthur.”

This time his face filled with expression: humor, irritation, impatience and then resignation. He sat up an inch or two and took a deep breath. His lips moved.

She leaned towards him, only a little, not enough to embarrass him if he failed.

He let out his breath and tried again. His mouth formed the words, but she could not read them. His throat tightened. His eyes were fixed desperately on her.

She placed her hand on his arm, above the bandages, tightening her fingers to grip him.

“Is it something about Duke Kynaston?” she asked him.

He hesitated only a moment, then shook his head, his eyes full of loneliness and confusion. There was something he ached to tell her, and the harder he tried, the more his helplessness thwarted him.

She could not walk away. She must guess, she must take the risk, in spite of what Dr. Wade had said. This frustration was hurting him.

“Is it to do with the night you were hurt?”

Very slowly he nodded, as if now he was uncertain whether to go on or not.

“Do you know what happened?” she said very quietly.

His eyes filled with tears and he turned his head away from her, pulling his arm roughly out of her grip.

Should she ask him directly? What would it do to him? Would forcing him to remember and answer to someone else shock him as violently as Dr. Wade had warned her? Could she undo any of the harm to him if it did?

He was still turned away from her, motionless. She could no longer see his face to guess what he was feeling.

Dr. Wade cared for him deeply, but he was not a soft or cowardly man. He had seen too much suffering for that, faced danger and hardships himself. He admired courage and that inner strength which survives. Her judgment of him answered her question. She must obey his instructions; in fact, they had been quite unequivocal commands.

“Do you want to tell me about something?” she asked.

He turned back slowly. His eyes were bright and hurt. He shook his head.

“You would just like to be able to talk?”

He nodded.

“Would you like to be alone?”

He shook his head.

“Shall I stay?”

He nodded.

In the evening Rhys was exhausted and slept very early. Hester sat by the fire opposite Sylvestra. There was no sound in the room but the rain beating on the windows, the fire flickering in the hearth, and the occasional settling of the coals. Sylvestra was embroidering, her needle weaving in and out of the linen, occasionally flashing silver as it caught the light.

Hester was idle. There was no mending to do and she had no one to whom she owed a letter. Nor was she in the mood to write. Lady Callandra Daviot, the only person to whom she might have considered confiding her feelings, was on a trip to Spain and moving from place to place. There was no address where Hester could be certain of catching her.

Sylvestra looked up at her.

“I think the rain is turning to snow again,” she said with a sigh. “Rhys was planning to go to Amsterdam in February. He used to be very good at skating. He had all the grace and courage one needs. He was even better than his father. Of course, he was taller. I don’t know if that makes any difference.”

“No, neither do I,” Hester answered quickly. “He may recover, you know.”

Sylvestra’s face was wide-eyed, tense in the soft light from the gas lamps and the fire.

“Please do not be kind to me, Miss Latterly. I think perhaps I am ready to hear the truth.” A very faint smile touched her face and was gone. “I received a letter from Amalia this morning. She writes about such conditions in India it makes me feel very feeble to be sitting here before the fire with everything a person could need for their physical comfort and safety, and still to imagine I have something to complain about. You must have known many soldiers, Miss Latterly?”