The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [25]
Sylvestra must have caught something in Hester’s voice, a depth of answering emotion. She turned to look at her and for the first time smiled.
“Amalia is in India too, but her husband is in the Colonial Service, and she takes a great interest in the native peoples.” There was pride in her face, and amazement for a way of life she could hardly imagine. “She has friends among the women. Sometimes I worry that she is very rash. I fear she intrudes where Westerners are not wanted, thinking she will alter things for the good, when in truth she may only do damage. I have written advising her, but she was never good at accepting counsel. Hugo is a nice young man, but too busy with his own tasks to pay sufficient attention to Amalia, I think.”
Hester’s imagination pictured a rather stuffy man shuffling papers on a desk while the spirited, more adventurous Amalia explored forbidden territories.
“I’m sorry they are not closer, to be with you at this time,” Hester said gently. She knew it would be months before any letters from Sylvestra with the news of Leighton’s death could travel around the Cape of Good Hope and reach India, and the answers return to England. No wonder Sylvestra was so terribly alone.
Mourning was always a time for family closeness. Outsiders, no matter how excellent their friendship, felt intrusive and did not know what to say.
“Yes …” Sylvestra agreed, almost as if speaking to herself. “I would dearly like their company, especially Amalia. She is always so … positive.” She shivered a little, in spite of the warmth of the room, the heavy curtains drawn across the windows against the rain and the dark, the empty tea tray with the remains of crumpets and butter. “I don’t know what to expect … the police again, I suppose. More questions for which I have no answers.”
Hester knew, but it was kinder not to reply. Answers would be found, ugly things uncovered, even if only because they were private, and perhaps foolish or shabby. They would not necessarily include finding the man who had murdered Leighton Duff.
Again Rhys ate only beef tea and a little dry toast. Hester read to him for a while, and he fell asleep early. Hester herself did not put out her light until after midnight, and awoke again in the dark with a ripple of horror going over her like an icy draft. The bell had not fallen, yet she rose immediately and went through to Rhys’s room.
The fire was still burning well and the flames cast plenty of light. Rhys was half sitting against the pillows, his eyes wide open and filled with blind, unspeakable terror. His face was drenched in sweat. His lips were stretched back over his teeth. His throat convulsed over and over again, and he seemed unable to draw breath except in gasps between each soundless scream. His splinted hands were held up near his face to ward off the terror his mind saw.
“Rhys!” she cried, going towards him quickly.
He did not hear her. He was still asleep, isolated in some terrible world of his own.
“Rhys!” she repeated more loudly. “Wake up! Wake up—you are safe at home!”
Still his mouth was working in the fearful screams which racked his body. He could not see or hear Hester; he was in a narrow alley somewhere in St. Giles, seeing agony and murder.
“Rhys!” Now she shouted peremptorily and put out her hand to touch his wrist. She was prepared for him to strike at her, seeing her as part of the attack. “Stop it! You are at home! You are safe!” She closed her hand over his wrist and shook him. His body was rigid, muscles locked. His nightshirt was wet through with sweat. “Wake up!” she shouted at him. “You must wake up!”
He started to shake violently, moving the whole bed back and forth. Then slowly he crumpled up and silent sobs shuddered through him, tears running down his face, the breath dragging in his throat.
She did not even think about it; she sat on the bed and reached out her arms and held him, touching his thick