Cain His Brother Page 11

  “I am Dingle, Lady Ravensbrook’s maid,” she announced, staring not at Hester but at Enid. “What has happened to her? Is it the typhoid?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Can you help me to undress her and make her as comfortable as possible?”

  They worked together, but it was not an easy task. Enid now ached all over, her bones, her joints, even her skin was painful to the touch, and she had such a headache she could not bear to open her eyes. She seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, suffocatingly hot one moment and shivering the next.

  There was nothing to be done for her except bathe her in cool water at regular intervals to moderate the fever at least to some degree. There were moments when she was aware of them, but much of the time she was not, as if the room swayed, ballooned, and disappeared like some ghastly vision in mirrors, distorted beyond reality.

  It was nearly two hours before there was a knock at the door and a small and very frightened maid, standing well back, informed Hester that his lordship was home, and would miss please attend on him in the library straightaway.

  Leaving Dingle with Enid until she returned, when it would be necessary to do the first laundry, Hester followed the maid as she was bid. The library was downstairs and at the far side of the hall, around a corner. It was a quiet room, comfortably furnished, lined with oak bookcases and with a large fire burning in the hearth. It took barely a glance to notice the polished wood, the warmth, the faint smell of lavender, beeswax and leather, to know its luxury.

  Milo Ravensbrook was standing by the window, but he turned the moment he heard Hester’s step.

  “Close the door, Miss …”

  “Latterly.”

  “Yes, Miss Latterly.” He waited while she did so. He was a tall man, extraordinarily handsome in a dark, highly patrician way. His was a face in which both temper and charm were equally balanced. He might be an excellent friend, entertaining, intelligent and quick to understand, but also she judged he would be an implacable enemy. “I understand you brought Lady Ravensbrook home, having observed she was taken ill,” he said, allowing it to be half a question.

  “Yes, my lord.” She waited for him to continue, watching his expression to see the fear or the pity in it. It was not a mobile face. There was a stiffness in him, both of nature and of a rigid upbringing of self-mastery, extending perhaps as far back as the nursery. She had known many such men before, both in the aristocracy and in the army. They were born into families used to power and its responsibilities as much as its privileges. They took for granted the respect and obedience of others, and expected to pay for them in the self-discipline taught from the nursery onwards, the mastery of indulgence to the softer things, either emotional or physical. He stood to attention, like a soldier, in the warm library, surrounded by the deep color of the old wood, velvet and leather, and she could judge nothing of him at all. If he was racked by pity for his wife, he masked it in front of her. If he was wary of hiring her, or afraid of catching the illness himself, it was too well hidden for her to see.

  “My footman said you are a nurse. Is that correct?” He moved his lips so very slightly it was barely discernible, but there was an inflexion in his voice when he spoke the word nurse that betrayed his feelings. Nurses were generally women of the roughest sort; very often they were drunken, dishonest, and of a physical appearance where the more lucrative occupation of prostitute was not open to them. Their duties were largely those of scrubbing, emptying slops and on occasion disposing of dressings or rolling new bandages and tending to linen. Actual care of patients lay with doctors, and most certainly all decisions, attention to wounds or giving of medicines.

  Of course, since Florence Nightingale’s fame in the Crimea, many people were aware that a nurse could be much more, but it was very far from the normal case. Lord Ravensbrook was obviously among the skeptics. He would not be openly offensive without provocation, but his view of her was the same as his view would have been of Mary, or any of the other East End women who helped in the pesthouse. Hester found her body stiffening and her jaws tight with anger. For all her ignorance and dirt, Mary had a compassion which was eminently worthy of his respect.

  She made an effort to stand even straighter.

  “Yes, I am.” She did not add “sir.” “I learned my craft in the Crimea, with Miss Nightingale. My family did not approve, which was not unexpected. They considered I should remain at home and marry someone suitable. But that was not the path I wished.” She saw in his face that he was not in the slightest interested in her life or the reasons for her choice, but reluctantly he had a certain respect. The mention of the Crimea held a credit he could not deny.

  “I see. Presumably you have tended fever before, other than in Limehouse?”

  “Regrettably—yes.”

  He raised black eyebrows, straight and level above deep set eyes.

  “Regrettably? Does that not give you an advantage of experience?”

  “It is not pleasant. I saw too many men die who need not have.”

  His expression closed over. “I am not concerned with your political opinions, Miss—er—Latterly. My only interest is in your ability to nurse my wife, and your willingness.”

  “Of course I am willing. And I have as much ability as anyone.”

  “Then it remains only to discuss your remuneration.”

  “I consider Lady Ravensbrook my friend,” she said icily. “I do not require remuneration.” She could regret that later. She most assuredly required funds from somewhere, but she had enormous satisfaction in denying him now. It would be worth a little chill or hunger.

  He was taken aback. She could see it in his face. He regarded her soiled and crumpled clothes, of very mediocre quality, and her weary face and straggly hair, and a minuscule flicker of amusement crossed his mouth and vanished.

  “I’m obliged to you,” he accepted. “Dingle will attend to any laundry that may be necessary and prepare and bring to you whatever food you desire, but since she will be in the company of other servants, she will not enter the sickroom. I have a responsibility to do what I can to keep the fever from spreading throughout the household, and then God knows where.”

  “Of course,” she said levelly, wondering how much he was thinking of himself, whether he would visit the sickroom … or not.

  “We will have a cot put into the dressing room where you may rest,” he went on. “May we send to your home for any change of clothes you require? If that is not suitable, I am sure Dingle could find you something. You look not dissimilar in build.”

  Remembering Dingle’s scrubbed, middle-aged face and meticulously plain clothes, Hester found it not a flattering thought, but then on the other hand, she was of a surprisingly comely figure for such a dour woman, so perhaps she should not be downhearted about it.

  “Thank you,” she said briefly. “I am afraid I have little available at home. I have been in Limehouse for so many days I have had no opportunity to launder.”

  “Just so.” At the mention of Limehouse his face tightened, and his disapproval of Enid’s participation was plain enough not to need words, not that he would have spoken them in front of her. “Then it is agreed? You will remain here as long as it is required.” It was an assumption, and as far as he was concerned, the matter was finished.

  “She may need nursing all the time,” she pointed out. “Night as well as day, when the crisis comes.”

  “Is that more than you can cope with, Miss—Latterly?”

  She dimly heard someone’s footsteps crossing the hall behind her and fading away as they went into another room.

  “Yes it is,” she said decisively. “Especially since I still have some moral commitment to the hospital in Limehouse. I cannot leave Lady Callandra totally without experienced assistance.”

  A flash of temper crossed his face and he drew in his breath sharply.

  “My wife is a great deal more important to me, Miss Latterly, than a score of paupers in the East End who will almost assuredly
die anyway, if not of this, then of something else. If you require some remuneration, then please say so. It is not dishonorable to be rewarded for one’s labor.”

  She curbed the answer that rose to her lips, although with difficulty. She was too tired to be bothered with such trivialities of arrogance and misjudgment.

  “She is also personally more important to me, my lord.” She met his eyes very levelly. “But matters of duty can exceed one’s own emotional ties and certainly one’s individual wishes. I imagine you believe that as thoroughly as I do? I am a nurse, and I do not abandon one patient for another, no matter what my personal feelings might be.”

  A dull color flushed up his face and his eyes looked hot and angry. But she had shamed him, and they both knew it.

  “Have you some friend or relative who could watch while I am absent?” she asked quietly. “I can show them what is to be done.”

  He thought for a moment. “I imagine that will be possible. I will not have Dingle coming and going, spreading it through the house. But Genevieve may be willing to spend the necessary time here. She can bring her children with her, and they can be cared for by the staff. That will serve very well. It will benefit her for the time being, and she will know she is of service, and not feel obliged. She is a very proud woman.”

  “Genevieve?” It did not really matter who he was referring to, but she would like to know.

  “A relative,” he replied coldly. “By marriage. An agreeable young woman who is presently in a difficult circumstance. It is an excellent solution. I shall attend to it.”

  And so it was that by that evening Hester was established in Ravensbrook House, with the promised cot in the dressing room, and changes of clothes from Dingle which fitted adequately.

  Enid was extremely ill. Her entire body ached so severely it was painful to the touch. She was running so high a fever she seemed unsure of where she was and did not recognize Hester even when she spoke to her gently, held a cool cloth on her brow and called her by name. She was perpetually thirsty, and so weak she could not sit up sufficiently to drink without assistance, but she did manage to keep on her stomach the boiled water mixed with honey and salt which Hester gave her. From her face it was obvious that the taste of it was most unpleasant, but Hester knew from experience that plain water did not give the body some element it needed, and so she insisted in spite of Enid’s whispered protest.

  At about half past nine in the evening there was a knock on the bedroom door, and when she went to open it, she found on the threshold a woman perhaps a year or two older than herself but with a face she knew to be far prettier than her own, with a frank and earthy openness to it which she could not but like.

  “Yes?” she inquired. The woman was plainly dressed, but both the cut and fabric were excellent, and the style was more flattering than any servant would be permitted. She knew before she spoke that this must be the relative Lord Ravensbrook had promised.

  “I’m Genevieve Stonefield,” the woman introduced herself. “I’ve come to help you nurse Aunt Enid. I hear she is dreadfully ill.”

  Hester opened the doors wider. “Yes, I’m afraid she is. I’m very grateful you have come, Mrs.—Stonefield, did you say?” The name was familiar, but for the moment she could not place it.

  “Yes.” She came in through the door nervously, almost immediately glancing across to the big bed where Enid lay, white-faced, her hair wet and straggling over her brow. The room was lit only by the gas bracket on the farther wall, hissing gently, casting long shadows from the bedside chair and the jug on the table. “What can I do to help?” she asked. “I—I’ve never nursed anyone before, except my own children, and that was only for colds and chills—nothing like this. Robert once had tonsillitis, but that is hardly the same.”

  Hester could see that she was profoundly afraid, and she could not blame her. Only experience made it tolerable for her. She could well remember her first night in the wards in Scutari. She had felt so inadequate, so aware of each moan or rustle of movement. The minutes had dragged by as if daylight would never come. The next night had been even worse, because she had known in advance how long and desperate it would be. If she could have run away, she would have. Only pity for the men and shame for herself kept her there.

  “There is nothing you can give her that will help, except the water from that jug.” Hester closed the door and indicated the small blue china jug on the side table. “The other is just clear water for the cloths to keep her as cool as you can. Wash her brow and hands and neck as often as you please. Every ten minutes, if it seems it may help. She has not vomited since the very beginning, but if she should seem distressed in that way, be prepared for it. There is a dish over there.” Again she pointed.

  “Thank you,” Genevieve said huskily. She looked alarmed. “You’re not going just yet, are you?”

  “No,” Hester assured her. “And when I do, I will simply be in the next room to sleep for a few hours.” She indicated the dressing room door. “I can’t remember when I last lay down, but it seems like the day before yesterday, although I don’t suppose it can be.”

  “I didn’t know she had been ill so long!” Genevieve was aghast. “Why did Lord Ravensbrook not send for me before?”

  “Oh no, she was only taken ill today. We have been down in Limehouse, with the typhoid outbreak there,” Hester replied, leading the way to the bed. “I’m sorry, I’m not being very clear.”

  Genevieve swallowed, her throat tight as if she would choke.

  “Limehouse?”

  “Yes. There is a very bad outbreak there at the moment. We have converted a disused warehouse into a temporary hospital.”

  “Oh. That is very good of you. I believe it is not a pleasant area at all. Not that I know it, of course,” she added hastily.

  “No,” Hester agreed. She could not imagine how any relative of Lord Ravensbrook would know Limehouse, or anywhere else in the East End. “Before I go, we should change the bed linen. It will be much easier with two of us. Dingle will take the soiled sheets and attend to them.”

  Together they changed the bed. Hester had said good night and was almost at the dressing room door when Genevieve’s voice stopped her.

  “Miss Latterly! What—what can you do for them in Limehouse? It isn’t like this, is it? And won’t there be—well—lots of them ill?”

  “Yes. And no, it isn’t like this.” Genevieve, with her charming face and well-cut gowns, could not have any conception of the makeshift fever hospital in Limehouse, the stench of it, the suffering, the stupid unnecessary dirt, the overflowing middens, the hunger and the hopelessness. There was no point in trying to tell her, and no kindness. “We do what we can,” she said briefly. “It does help. Even someone there to try to keep you cool and clean and feed you a little gruel is better than nothing.”

  “Yes. Of course.” She seemed to want to discuss the subject, but as if she regretted asking. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Stonefield.”

  It was only when Hester was washing her face in the bowl of water which had been left for her that she suddenly remembered the name. Stonefield. It was the name of the man Monk was searching for in Limehouse! He had said he was a respectable man who had suddenly disappeared, for no apparent reason other than to visit his brother in the East End. And his wife feared him dead.

  Surely Enid would have said something, if she had overheard Monk? But Enid had not been in the room, only Monk, Callandra and herself. She was too tired now to turn it over in her mind any further. All she wished was to wash the grit out of her eyes, feel the warm clean water on her skin, and then lie down and at last stop fighting exhaustion and allow it to overcome her.

  She was wakened by a persistent rocking and a voice in her ear whispering her name over and over. She struggled to consciousness to find a gray light seeping into the room and Genevieve Stonefield’s white and anxious face only a foot from hers.

  “Yes?” she mumbled, fighting to clear her mind and free h
erself from the shreds of sleep. Surely it couldn’t be morning already? It seemed she had just lain down.

  “Miss Latterly! Aunt Enid seems—worse. I dare not leave calling you any longer. I know how tired you must be—but …”

  Hester hauled herself up, reaching out blindly for her robe, then remembered she did not have one. Even her nightgown was Dingle’s. Ignoring the cold—there was no fire in the dressing room, although there was a fireplace—she went past Genevieve into the bedroom.

  Enid was tossing and turning and crying out with pain in a soft, almost childlike whimpering, as if she were completely unaware of her surroundings. She seemed completely delirious. The perspiration stood out on her skin, even though the jug of water and a cloth were on the bedside table and the cloth was still cool and damp when Hester picked it up. A good deal of the sugar water was gone.

  “What can we do?” Genevieve asked desperately from just behind her.

  There was little enough, but Hester heard the fear and the grief in her voice, and felt a quick pity for her. If she was indeed Monk’s client, then she had enough tragedy to contend with, without this bereavement added to it.

  “Just try to bring the fever down,” she replied. “Ring for some more water, at least two jugs of it, and cool, no more than hand heat at the most. And perhaps we’d better have clean cloths and towels as well.”

  Genevieve went to obey, glad to have something specific to do. The relief was naked in her face.

  When the water and towels came Hester put them on the table and pulled back the bedcovers, ready to begin. Enid’s nightgown was soaked with perspiration and clung to her body.

  “We’ll change her into a shift, I think,” Hester suggested. “And change that lower sheet again. It’s very rumpled.” She reached out her hand. “And damp.”

  “I’ll get the clean ones,” Genevieve said instantly, and before Hester could agree or disagree, she darted away and started opening the drawers of the linen press and searching.

  She brought the shift, and then went back straightaway to find a sheet, leaving Hester holding Enid and trying alone to take off the soiled nightgown. Enid did what she could, but she was barely conscious, and it was only too apparent that every touch hurt her and every movement sent pain right through her bones and joints. Added to which, her vision was so distorted by fever she could not focus on anything and kept misjudging where her hands could grasp.