The Silent Cry (27 page)

She had read the fearful stories and heard accounts of starvation and massacre, but she had not known anyone who had been affected personally.

"It is hard to imagine such atrocity," Sylvestra said thoughtfully. "I am beginning to realise how very little I know. It is disturbing…” she hesitated, her hands idle, the linen held up, but quite still. "And yet there is something not unlike exhilaration in it also. Amalia wrote to me of the most extraordinary incident." She shook her head, her face troubled, eyes far away. "It seems that the siege of Cawnpore was particularly brutal. The women and children were starved for three weeks, then the survivors were taken to the river and placed upon boats, where the native soldiers, sepoys I believe they are called, fell upon them. Those hundred and twenty-five or so who still survived even that, were taken to a building known as the Bibighvr, and aft era further eighteen days, were slaughtered by butchers brought in from the bazaar for the purpose.”

Hester did not interrupt.

"It seems when the Highland Regiment relieved Cawnpore, they found the hacked-up bodies, and exacted a fearful revenge, killing every one of the sepoys there. What I wanted to mention was the tale Amalia wrote me of one soldier's wife, named Bridget Widdowson, who, during the siege, was set to guard eleven mutineers, because at that time there were no men available. This she accomplished perfectly, marching up and down in front of them all day, terrifying them immobile, and it was only when she was finally relieved by a regular soldier that they all escaped. Is that not remarkable?”

"Indeed it is," Hesteragreed wholeheartedly. She saw the wonder and the amazed admiration in Sylvestra's eyes. There was something stirring in her which was going to find the loneliness of this house without her husband, the restrictions of society widowhood and her enforced idleness as a kind of imprisonment. Rhys's dependency would only add to it, in time. "But the heat and the endemic disease are things I should find very trying," she said to counter it.

"Would you?" It was a genuine question, not an idle remark. "Why did you go out to the Crimea, Miss Latterly?”

Hester was startled.

"Oh, forgive me," Sylvestra apologised immediately. "That was an intrusive question. You may have had all manner of private reasons which are none of my concern. I do beg your pardon.”

Hester knew what she was thinking. She laughed outright.

"It is not a broken affair of the heart, I promise you. I wanted the adventure, the freedom to use such brains and talents as I have where I would be sufficiently needed that necessity would remove prejudices against women's initiative.”

"I imagine you succeeded?" There was vivid interest in Sylvestra's face.

Hester smiled. "Most assuredly.”

"My husband would have admired that," Sylvestra said with certainty.

"He loved courage and the fire to be different, inventive." She looked rueful. "I sometimes wonder if he would have liked to have gone somewhere like India, or perhaps Africa. Amalia's letters would thrill him, but I had a feeling they also awoke a restlessness in him, even a kind of envy. He would have loved new frontiers, the challenge of discovery, the chance of great leadership. He was an outstanding man, Miss Latterly. He had a most remarkable mind. Amalia gets her courage from him, and Constance too.”

"And Rhys?" Hester said quietly.

The shadow returned to Sylvestra's face. "Yes… Rhys too. He wanted so much for Rhyt. Is it terrible of me to say that there is a kind of way in which I am glad he did not live to see this… Rhys so ill, unable to speak… and so… so changed!" She shook her head a little. "It would have hurt him beyond bearing!" She stared down at her hands. "Then I wish with all my heart that Leighton could have lived longer, and they could have grown closer together. Now it is too late. Rhys will never know his father as man to man, never appreciate his qualities as I did.”

Hester thought of Monk's vision of what happened in the dark alley in St. Giles. She hoped with an overwhelming fierceness that it was not true. It was hideous. For Sylvestra it would be more than she could live through and keep her sanity.

"You will have to tell him," she said aloud. "There will be a great deal you can say to make his father's true character and skills real to him. He will need your company as he recovers, and your encouragement.”

"Do you think so?" Sylvestra asked quickly, hope and doubt in her eyes. "At the moment he seems to find even my presence distressing.

There is much anger inside him, Miss Latterly. Do you understand it?”

Hester did not, and it frightened her with its underlying cruelty. She had seen that exultancy in the power to hurt a number of times, and it chilled her even more than Monk's words.

"I dare say it is only the frustration of not being able to speak," she lied. "And of course the physical pain.”

"Yes… yes, I suppose so." Sylvestra picked up her embroidery again and resumed stitching.

The maid came in and banked up the fire, taking the coal bucket away with her to refill it.

The following evening Fidelis Kynaston called again, as she had promised she would, and Sylvestra had urged Hester to take another time away from Ebury Street and do as she pleased, perhaps visit with friends. She had accepted with pleasure, most particularly because Oliver Rathbone had again invited her to dine with him, and to attend the theatre, if she cared to.

Normally clothes were of less interest to her than to most women, but this evening she wished she had a wardrobe full of gowns to choose from, all selected for their ability to flatter, to soften the line of shoulder and bosom, to give colour and light to a complexion and depth to the eyes. Since she had already worn her best gown on the previous occasion, she was reduced to wearing a dark green which was over three years old, and really a great deal more severe than she would have chosen, had she any other available to her. Still, she must make the best of what she had, and then think about it no more. She dressed her hair softly. It was straight and unwilling to fall into the prescribed coils and loops, but it was thick, and there was a nice sheen on it.

Her skin had not sufficient colour, but pinching it now would serve no purpose by the time she arrived at the theatre, and in a hansom it would hardly matter.

And indeed when Rathbone came for her and she was unintentionally a few minutes late, thought of appearance lingered only a moment before it vanished in pleasure of seeing him, and a quickening of her pulse as she recalled their last parting, and the touch of his lips upon hers.

"Good evening, Oliver," she said breathlessly as she almost tripped on the last stair, and hurried across the hall to where he stood a few feet from a surprised butler. He looked startlingly elegant to be calling for the paid nurse, and quite obviously a gentleman.

He smiled back at her, exchanged some pleasantries, then escorted her out to the waiting hansom.

The evening was cold, but quite dry, and for once there was no fog and a clear view of a three-quarter moon over the rooftops. They rode in companionable conversation about totally trivial matters, the weather, political gossip, a smattering of foreign news, until they reached the theatre and alighted. He had chosen a play of wit and good humour, something for a social occasion rather than to challenge the mind or harrow the emotions.

They stepped inside and were instantly engulfed in a tide of colours and light and the hubbub of chatter as women swirled past, huge skirts brushing one another, faces eager to greet some old acquaintance or to pursue some new one.

It was the social life Hester had been accustomed to before she went to the Crimea, when she was at home in her father's house, and it was everyone's very natural assumption that she would meet an eligible young man and marry, one hoped within a year or two at most. That had only been six years ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. Now it was alien, and she had lost the skills.

"Good evening, Sir Oliver!" A large lady bore down on them enthusiastically. "How charming to see you again. I had quite feared we had lost the pleasure of your company. You do know my sister, Mrs.

Maybury, don't you!" It was a statement, not a question. "May I introduce you to her daughter, my niece, Miss Mariella Maybury?”

"How do you do, Miss Maybury." Rathbone bowed to the young woman with practised ease. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I hope you will enjoy the play. It is said to be most entertaining. Mrs.

Trowbridge, may I introduce to you Miss Hester Latterly." He offered no further explanation, but put his hand on Hester's elbow as if making some affirmation that she was not a mere acquaintance but a friend towards whom he felt a sense of pride and even closeness.

"How do you do, Miss Latterly," Mrs. Trowbridge said with ill-concealed surprise. Her rather thin eyebrows rose as if she were about to add something further, but she remained silent.

"How do you do, Mrs. Trowbridge," Hesteranswered politely, a little trickle of warmth bubbling inside her. "Miss Maybury.”

Mrs. Trowbridge fixed Hester with a baleful eye. "Have you known Sir Oliver long, Miss Latterly?" she asked sweetly.

Hester was about to reply truthfully but Rathbone spoke first.

"We have been acquainted for several years," he said with an air of satisfaction. "But I feel we are better friends now than ever before.

Sometimes I think the best affections grow slowly, through shared beliefs and battles fought side by side… don't you?”

Miss Maybury looked lost.

Mrs. Trowbridge caught her breath. "Indeed," she nodded. "Especially family friendships. Are you a family friend, Miss Latterly?”

"I know Sir Oliver's father, and I like him enormously," Hester answered, again with the truth.

Mrs. Trowbridge murmured something inaudible.

Rathbone bowed and offered his arm to Hester, leading her away towards another group of people, most of them men in their middle years, and obviously well-to-do. He introduced Hester to them one by one, each time without explanation.

By the time they had taken their seats and the curtain had risen on the first act, Hester's mind was whirling. She had seen the speculation in their eyes. Rathbone knew precisely what he was doing.

Now she sat beside him in the box and could not help glancing away from the stage to watch what expression she could read in his face in the reflected lights. He seemed at ease, if anything a trifle amused. A very slight smile touched his lips and the skin across his cheeks was perfectly smooth. Then she glanced down at his hands, and saw they were constantly moving, only slightly, but as if he found himself unable to keep them still. He was nervous about something.

She turned back to the stage, her heart beating so she felt she could almost hear it. She watched the actors and heard all their words, but a moment later could not have recalled anything of it. She thought of the first time she had come to the theatre with Rathbone. Then she had said far more, probably too much, expressing her opinions on the things she felt most passionate about. He had been courteous, he always would be, his own dignity would forbid anything else. But she had been aware of the coolness in him, always a certain distance, as if he wanted to be sure his friends did not assume too much about his regard for her, or that their relationship to each other was more than slight. His conventionality deplored her outspokenness, as if it admired her courage, and fought in different ways for the same end.

But since then he had defended Zorah Rostova, and' nearly ruined his career. He had learned in an acutely real way the boundaries of judgement and intolerance of his own profession, and how quickly society could reverse its loyalties when certain borders were crossed.

Compassion and belief did not excuse. He had spoken from conviction, and without weighing the results first. Suddenly he and Hester were on the same side of the gulf which had separated them before.

Was that what he was aware of, and which at once alarmed and exhilarated him?

She turned to look at him again, and found he was also looking at her.

She had remembered how dark his eyes were, in spite of his fair brown hair, but still she was startled at their warmth. She smiled, then swallowed and turned back to the stage. She must pretend she was interested, that at least she knew what was going on. She had not the faintest idea. She could not even have identified the hero or the villain, presuming there was one?

When the interval came she found she was ridiculously self-conscious.

"Are you enjoying it?" he asked as he followed behind her up to the foyer where refreshments were served.

"Yes, thank you," she answered, hoping he would not press her as to the plot.

"And if I told you I have not been paying close attention to it, that my mind was elsewhere, could you tell me what I have missed?" he said gently. "So I may understand the second act.”

She thought quickly. She must concentrate on what he was saying, not on what he might mean or might not! She must not leap to conclusions, and perhaps embarrass them both. Then she would never be able to resume their friendship. It would be over, even if neither of them acknowledged it, and that would hurt. She realised with surprise how very much it would hurt.

She looked at him with a smile, quite a casual one, but not so slight as to appear cool or studied.

"Have you a case which troubles you, a new one?”

Would he retreat into that excuse, or was it the truth anyway? She had left the way open for him.

"No," he said quite directly. "I suppose in a sense it has to do with law, but it was most certainly not the legal aspect of it which was on my mind.”

This time she did not look at him. "The legal aspect of what?”

"Of what concerns me." He put his arm on her back to guide her through the throng of people, and she felt the warmth of it ripple through her.

It was a safe feeling, disturbingly comfortable. Why should comfort disturb her? That was ridiculous!

Because it would be so easy to get used to. The gentleness, the sweetness of it was overwhelmingly tempting. It was like coming into sunlight and suddenly realising how chilled you had been.