The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [26]
She sat there for a length of time she did not measure. It could have been as long as an hour.
Then, at last, gently she let him go and eased herself away to stand up. She must change the damp and crumpled linen and make sure that in his distress he had not torn or moved any of his bandages.
“I’m going to fetch clean sheets,” she said quietly. She did not want him to think she was simply walking away. “I’ll be back in a moment or two.”
She returned to find him staring at the door, waiting for her. She put the linen down on the chair and moved over to help him onto one side of the bed so she could begin changing it around him. This was never an easy task, but he was too ill to get out of the bed altogether and sit in a chair. She was uncertain what internal injuries might be strained, or what wounds Dr. Wade had seen and she had not, which might be broken open.
It took her some time. He was obviously in considerable pain and she had to be patient, working around him, smoothing and straightening, rolling up and unfolding again. At last the bed was remade and he lay exhausted. But his nightshirt had to be changed as well. The one he was wearing was soiled not only with sweat but with spots of blood. She longed to redress the larger wounds, to make sure they were properly covered, but Dr. Wade had forbidden her to touch them in case removal of the gauze should tear the healing tissue.
She held out the clean nightshirt.
He stared at it in her hands. Suddenly his eyes were defensive again, the trust was gone. Unconsciously he pressed backwards into the pillows behind him.
She picked up the light top quilt and spread it over him from waist to feet. She smiled at him very slightly, and guardedly, cautiously, he allowed her to pull his nightshirt up and off over his head. It hurt his shoulders to raise his arms, but he gritted his teeth and did not hesitate. She replaced the soiled shirt with the clean one and, fumbling guardedly under the sheets, pushed it down to cover him. Very carefully she smoothed the sheet and blankets again, and at last he relaxed.
She restoked the fire, then sat down in the chair and waited until he should fall asleep.
In the morning she was tired and extremely stiff herself. She never got used to sleeping in a chair, for all the times she had done it.
She told Sylvestra about the incident, but briefly, without the true horror of pain she had witnessed. It was only in order to make sure that Dr. Wade did indeed come, and not perhaps feel that Rhys was recovering and another patient might need him more.
“I must go to him,” Sylvestra said immediately, her face pinched with anguish. “I feel so … useless! I don’t know what to say or do to help him! I don’t know what happened!” She stared at Hester as if believing the nurse could supply an answer.
There had never been an answer, not to Rhys, or to all the other young men who had seen atrocities more than they could bear, except that time and love can heal at least a part of the pain.
“Don’t try to talk about what happened,” Hester advised. “All the help you can give is simply to be there.”
But when Sylvestra came into the bedroom Rhys turned away. He refused to look at her. She sat on the edge of the bed, putting out her hand to touch his arm where it lay on the coverlet, and he snatched it away, then when she reached after him again he lashed out at her, catching her hand with his splints, hurting both her and himself.
Sylvestra gave a little cry of distress, not for the physical pain, but the rebuff. She sat motionless, not knowing what to do.
Rhys turned his head and kept his face away from her.
She looked at Hester.
Hester had no idea why he had acted with such sudden cruelty. It was impossible even to guess wherever it lay—his recent injury, a feeling of guilt that perhaps he should have been able to save his father or, if not, that he should also have died. She knew of men whose shame at their own survival when their comrades had perished was beyond