The Silent Cry Read online

  “No.”

  “Of course not. I don’t suppose you have them in the army. But then in the navy we didn’t have men trodden on or dragged by horses. I expect you did?”

  “Yes.”

  “But we are both used to cannon fire, saber slashes and musket shot, and fever …” His eyes were bright with remembered agony. “God, the fevers! Yellow Jack, scurvy, malaria …”

  “Cholera, typhoid and gangrene,” she responded, the past hideously clear for an instant.

  “Gangrene,” he agreed, his gaze unwavering from hers. “Dear God, I saw some courage. I imagine you could match me, instance for instance?”

  “I believe so.” She did not want to see the white faces again, the broken bodies and the fever and deaths, but it gave her a pride like a burning pain inside to have been part of it and to be able to share it with this man who understood as a mere reader and listener never could.

  “What can we do for Rhys?” she asked.

  He drew in his breath and let it go in a sigh. “Keep him as quiet and as comfortable as we can. The internal bruising will subside in time, I believe, unless there is more damage done than we know. His external wounds are healing, but it is very early yet.” He looked very grave and his voice dropped even lower, belying his words. “He is young, and was strong and in good health. The flesh will knit, but it will take time. It must still cause him severe pain. It is to be expected, and there is nothing to do but endure. You can relieve him to some extent with the powders I have left. I will redress his wounds each time I call, and make sure they are uninfected. There is little suppuration, and no sign of gangrene, so far. I shall be most careful.”

  “I was obliged to rebandage his hands last night. I’m sorry.” She was reluctant to tell him about the unpleasant incident with Sylvestra.

  “Oh?” He looked wary, the concern in his eyes deepening, but she saw no anger, no censure of her. “I think you had better tell me what happened, Miss Latterly. I am sensitive to your wish to protect your patient’s confidentiality, but I have known Rhys a long time. I am already aware of some of his characteristics.”

  Briefly, omitting detail, she told him of the encounter with Sylvestra.

  “I see,” he said quietly. He turned away so she could not see his face. “It is not hopeful. Please do not encourage Mrs. Duff to expect … Miss Latterly, I confess I do not know what to say. One should never abandon any effort, try all one can, whatever the odds.” He hesitated before going on, as if it cost him an effort to master his feelings. “I have seen miracles of recovery. I have also seen a great many men die. Perhaps it is better to say nothing, if you can do that, living here in the house?”

  “I can try. Do you think he will regain his speech?”

  He swung around to face her, his eyes narrow and dark, unreadable.

  “I have no idea. But you must keep the police from harassing him. If they do, and they send him into another hysteria, it could kill him.” His voice was brittle and urgent. She heard the same note of fear in it that she saw in his eyes and mouth. “I don’t know what happened, or what he did, but I do know that the memory is unbearable to him. If you want to save his sanity, you will guard him with every spark of courage and intelligence you have from the police attempts to make him relive it with their questions. For him to do so could very well tip him over the abyss into madness from which he might never return. I have no doubt that if anyone is equal to that, you are.”

  “Thank you,” she said simply. It was a compliment she would treasure, because it was from a man who used no idle words.

  He nodded. “Now I will go and see him. If you will be good enough to ensure we are uninterrupted. I must examine not only his hands but his other wounds to see he has not torn any of the newly healing skin. Thank you for your care, Miss Latterly.”

  The following day Rhys received his first visitor since the incident. It was early in the afternoon. The day was considerably brighter. Snow was lying on the roofs and it reflected back from a windy sky and the pale sunlight of short, winter days.

  Hester was upstairs when the doorbell rang and Wharmby showed in a woman of unusual appearance. She was of average height and fair, unremarkable coloring, but her features were strong, decidedly asymmetrical and yet possessed of an extraordinary air of inner resolution and calm. She was certainly not beautiful, yet one gained from her a sense of well-being which was almost more attractive.

  “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.

  As soon as he saw Arthur, Rhys’s face lit up, then instantly was shadowed by self-consciousness. He was in bed, helpless, unable even to welcome him.

  If Arthur Kynaston had any idea of such things, he hid it superbly. He walked in as if it were the way they naturally met. He sat down in the chair beside the bed, ignoring Hester, facing Rhys.

  “I suppose you’ve got rather more time to read than you can use?” he said ruefully. “I’ll see if I can find a few new books for you. I’ve just been reading something fascinating. Trust me to get there years after everyone else, but I’ve got this book about Egypt, by an Italian called Belzoni. It was written nearly forty years ago, 1822 to be exact. It’s all about the discovery of ancient tombs in Egypt and Nubia.” He could not help his face’s tightening with enthusiasm. “It’s marvelous! I’m convinced there must be much more there, if only we knew where to look.” He leaned forward. “I haven’t told Papa yet. But although I keep saying I’ll study the classics, actually I think I might like to be an Egyptologist. In fact, I’m pretty sure I would.”

  In the doorway, Hester already felt herself relaxing.

  Rhys stared at Arthur, his eyes wide with fascination.

  “I must tell you about some of the stuff they’ve found,” Arthur went on. “I tried to tell Duke, but you know him. He wasn’t even remotely interested. No imagination. Sees time like a series of little rooms, all without windows. If you are in today, then that’s all that exists. I see it all as a vast whole. Any day is as important and as real as any other. Don’t you think so?”

  Rhys smiled and nodded.

  “Can I tell you about this?” Arthur asked. “Do you mind? I’ve been longing to tell someone. Papa would be furious with me for wasting time. Mama would just listen with half her mind and then forget it. Duke thinks I’m a fool. But you’re a captive audience …” He blushed hotly. “Sorry … that was a wretched thing to say. I wish I’d bitten my tongue!”

  Rhys smiled with sudden brilliance. It changed his whole face, lighting it with an extraordinary charm. It was a warmth Hester had never had a chance to see.

  “Thanks,” Arthur said with a little shake of his head. “What I mean is, I know you’ll understand.” And he proceeded to describe the discoveries Belzoni had made in Egypt, his voice rising with eagerness, his hands moving quickly to outline them in the air.

  Hester slipped out silently. She was perfectly confident that Arthur Kynaston would cause Rhys no unnecessary harm. If he reminded him of other times, of life and vigor, that was unavoidable. He would think of those things anyway. If he made the occasional clumsy reference, that was bound to happen too. They were still best left alone.

  Downstairs, the maid Janet told her that Mrs. Duff would be pleased if she would join her in the withdrawing room for tea.

  It was a courtesy, and one that Hester had not expected. She was not a servant in the house, but neither was she a guest. Perhaps Sylvestra wished her to know as much as possible about family friends in order to be able to help Rhys, to explain the rage in him. She must feel a consuming loneliness, and Hester was the only bridge between herself and her son, except Corriden Wade, and he was there only briefly.

  She was introduced and Fidelis Kynaston betrayed no surprise at accepting her as part of both the afternoon’s visit and the conversation.

  “Is he …?” Sylvestra began nervously.

  Hester answered with a smile which must have shown her pleasure. “They are having an excellent time,” she answered with confidence. “Mr. Kynaston is describing the discoveries along the Nile by a Signore Belzoni, and they are both enjoying it greatly. I admit I too was much interested. I think when I have spare time, I shall purchase the book myself.”

  Sylvestra gave a sigh of relief and her whole body eased, the muscles of her shoulders and back unknotting, the silk of her dress ceasing to strain. She turned to Fidelis.

  “Thank you so much for coming. It is not always easy to visit people who are ill or bereaved. One never knows what to say.…”

  “My dear, what kind of a friend would one be if the moment one was needed, one chose to be somewhere else? I have never seen you adopt that course,” Fidelis assured, leaning forward.

  Sylvestra shrugged. “There has been so little …”

  “Nothing like this,” Fidelis agreed. “But there has been unpleasantness, even if largely unspoken, and you have felt it, and been there with companionship.”

  Sylvestra smiled her acknowledgment.

  The conversation became general, of trivial current events, family affairs. Sylvestra recounted the latest letters from Amalia in India, of course still unaware of events in London. She wrote of the poverty she saw, and particularly of the disease and lack of clean water, a subject which seemed to trouble her greatly. Hester was drawn in sufficiently for good manners. Then Fidelis asked her about her experiences in the Crimea. Her interest seemed quite genuine.

  “It must feel very strange to you to come home to England after the danger and responsibility of your position out there,” she said with a puckered brow.

  “It was difficult to alter the attitude of one’s mind,” Hester admitted with massive understatement. She had found it utterly impossible. One month she was dealing with dying men, terrible injuries, decisions that affected lives, then a month later she was required to behave like an obedient and grateful dependent, to have no more opinions upon anything more important or controversial than a hemline or a pudding.

  Fidelis smiled and there was a flash of amusement in her eyes as if she had some awareness of what the truth might be.

  “Have you met Dr. Wade? Yes, of course you have. He served in the navy for many years, you know? I imagine you will have a certain amount in common with him. He is a most remarkable man. He has great strength, both of purpose and of character.”

  Hester recalled Corriden Wade’s face as he had stood on the landing talking to her about the sailors he had known, the men who had fought with Nelson, who had seen the great sea battles which had turned the tide of history fifty-five years before, when England stood alone against the massive armies of Napoleon, allied with Spain, and the fate of Europe was in the balance. She had seen the fire of imagination in his eyes, the knowledge of what it had meant, and the cost in lives and pain. She had heard in the timbre of his voice his admiration for the dedication and the sacrifice of those men.

  “Yes,” she said with surprising vehemence. “Yes he is. He was telling me something of his experiences.”

  “I know my husband admired him very much,” Sylvestra remarked. “He had known him for close to twenty years. Of course, not so well to begin with. That would be before he came ashore.” There was a pensiveness in her face for a moment, as though she had thought of something else, something she did not understand. Then it passed and she turned to Fidelis. “It is strange to think how much of a person’s life you cannot share, even though you see him every day and discuss all sorts of things with him, have a home and family in common, even a destiny shared. And yet the parts which formed so much of what he thinks and feels and believes all happened in places you have never been to, and were unlike all you have experienced yourself.”

  “I suppose it is,” Fidelis said slowly, her fair brows furrowed very slightly. “There is so much one observes but will never understand. We see what appears to be the same events, and yet when we speak about them afterwards they are quite different, as if we were not discussing the same thing at all. I used to wonder if it was memory, now I know it is quite different perception in the first place. I suppose that is part of growing up.” She smiled very slightly at her own foolishness. “You realize that people do not necessarily feel or think as you do yourself. Some things cannot be communicated.”

  “Can’t they?” Sylvestra challenged. “Surely that is what speech is for?”

  “Words are only labels,” Fidelis replied, taking the thoughts Hester felt would be too bold of her to express them herself. “A
way of describing an idea. If you do not know what the idea is, then the label does not tell you.”

  Sylvestra was plainly puzzled.

  “I remember Joel trying to explain some Greek or Arabic ideas to me,” Fidelis attempted to clarify. “I did not understand, because we do not have such a concept in our culture.” She smiled ruefully. “In the end all he could do was use their word for it. It did not help in the slightest. I still had no idea what it was.” She looked at Hester. “Can you tell me what it is like to watch a young soldier die of cholera in Scutari, or see the wagonloads of mangled bodies come in from Sebastopol, or Balaclava, some of them dying of hunger and cold? I mean, can you tell me so that I will feel what you felt?”

  “No.” The bare word was enough. Hester looked at this woman with the extraordinary face far more closely than before. At first she had seemed simply another well-bred wife of a successful man, come to offer her sympathy to a friend bereaved. In what had begun as an afternoon’s trivial conversation, she had touched on one of the mysteries of loneliness and misunderstanding that underlay so many incomplete relationships. Hester saw in Sylvestra’s eyes the sudden flare of her own incomprehension. Perhaps the chasm between Rhys and herself was more than his loss of speech? Maybe words would not have conveyed what had really happened to him anyway?

  And what of Leighton Duff? How well had Sylvestra known him? Hester could see that thought reflected in his widow’s dark eyes even now.

  Fidelis was watching Sylvestra too, her lopsided face touched with concern. How much had she been told, or had she guessed, of that night? Had she any idea of why Leighton Duff had gone to St. Giles?

  “No,” Hester broke the silence. “I think there must always be experiences we can share only imperfectly.”

  Fidelis smiled briefly, the shadow again behind her eyes. “The wisest thing, my dear, is to accept a certain blindness and not either to blame yourself or to blame others too much. You must succeed by your own terms, not anyone else’s.”

  It was a curious remark, and Hester had the fleeting impression that it was made with some deeper meaning which Sylvestra would understand. She was not sure if it referred to Rhys or to Leighton Duff, or simply to some generality of their lives which was relevant to this new and consuming misery. Whatever it was, Fidelis Kynaston wished Sylvestra to believe she understood it.