Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [40]
He looked at her where she sat smiling at him, her slender shoulders so feminine and delicate, her thick shining hair, her lively face with its wide eyes, and always the air of composed amusement about her, as if she knew some secret happiness. He could well understand if Angus Stonefield, or any other man, found such a woman irresistible, a blazing, delicious freedom from the restrictions of the domestic round, the wife who was harassed by the duties of household and children, who did not feel it proper to laugh too easily or too loudly, who was conscious of her duty to him, and her dependence, and very probably who also knew him too well, and had expectations of what he should be, and how it was proper for him to behave.
Yes, perhaps Angus Stonefield had done precisely that. And if he had, Monk, for one, would not entirely blame him. On the other hand, he also felt a very sharp spur of envy which took him completely by surprise. Was Drusilla speaking from supposition? Or had she been that exquisite, delightful “other woman” for Stonefield, or for someone else? He would resent it profoundly if she had—which was both painful and absurd, but if he were as honest with himself as he was with others, still real.
“Of course,” he said at last, finishing his coffee also. “I shall look into that as well.”
4
EVERY HOUR OR TWO brought more cases of fever to the makeshift hospital in Limehouse. The only blessing was that it also brought more volunteers to help with what little practical nursing could be done, and willing hands to help with the endless tasks of emptying, cleaning, laundering what sheets and blankets they had, and changing the soiled straw and fetching in new. Local men came and carried away the bodies of the dead.
“Where do they take them?” Enid Ravensbrook asked as they sat together in the small room where Monk had spoken with Callandra and Hester. It was late afternoon, dark and cold. Three people had died the previous night. Kristian had been there since the previous evening, and he had taken a short break to go home, wash and change his clothes and get a few hours of sleep before going back to his own hospital. There was little enough he could do at the best of times. There was no known medicine against typhoid, only constant nursing to ease the distress, keep the temperature down and some fluid in the body, and the will of the victim to live.
Callandra looked up with surprise. “I don’t know,” she said. “I admit I hadn’t thought about it. I suppose to—” she stopped. “No, that’s ridiculous. No undertaker’s going to handle fever victims. Anyway, there are too many of them.”
“They’ve got to be buried,” Enid pointed out, sitting in the rickety chair where Monk had sat. Callandra was on the other, Hester on the floor. “If not undertakers, then who? You can’t expect gravediggers to lay out bodies properly and observe the decencies. All they know is to bury coffins. Coffin makers will be the only people profiting out of this.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “At least it has got warmer. Or is it just that we have more fuel in the stove?”
“I’m frozen.” Callandra shivered and hugged her arms around herself. “Hester, have you put more on the fires?”
“No.” Hester shook her head. “I daren’t, or we’ll run out. We’ve only got enough for two more days anyway. I meant to speak to Bert about that, and I forgot.”
“I’ll ask him next time I see him.