The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [50]
To Hester it only made his journey into St. Giles the harder to understand. She had no sense of his personality, apart from an ambition for his son and perhaps a lack of wisdom in his approach to pressing it. But then she had not known Rhys before the attack. Perhaps he had been very willful, wasting his time when he should have been studying. Maybe he had chosen poorly in his friends, especially his female ones. He could well have been a son overindulged by his mother, refusing to grow up and accept adult responsibility. Leighton Duff might have had every reason to be exasperated with him. It would not be the first time a mother had overprotected a boy and thereby achieved the very last thing she intended: left him unfit for any kind of lasting happiness, but instead a permanent dependent, and an inadequate husband in his turn.
Sylvestra was lost in her own thoughts, remembering a kinder past.
“Leighton could be very dashing,” she said thoughtfully. “He used to ride over hurdles when he was younger. He was terribly good at it. He didn’t keep horses himself, but many friends wanted him to ride for them. He won very often, because he had the courage … and, of course, the skill. I used to love to watch him, even though I was terrified he would fall. At that speed it can be extremely dangerous.”
Hester tried to picture it. It was profoundly at odds with the rather staid man she had envisioned in her mind, the dry lawyer drawing up deeds for property. How foolish it was to judge a person by a few facts, when there were so many other things to know. Perhaps the law offices were only a small part of him, a practical side which provided for the family life, and perhaps also the money for the adventure and imagination of his truer self. It could be from their father that Constance and Amalia had inherited their courage and their dreams.
“I suppose he had to give it up as he got older,” Hester said thoughtfully.
Sylvestra smiled. “Yes, I’m afraid so. He realized it when a friend of ours had a very bad fall. Leighton was so upset for him. He was crippled. Oh, he learned to walk again, after about six months, but it was only with pain, and he was no longer able to practice his profession. He was a surgeon, and he could not hold his hands steadily enough. It was very tragic. He was only forty-three.”
Hester did not reply. She thought of a man whose life had been dedicated to one art, losing it in a moment’s fall from a horse, not even doing anything necessary, simply a race. What regret would follow, what self-blame for the hardship to his family.
“Leighton helped him a great deal,” Sylvestra went on. “He managed to sell some property for him and invest the money so he was provided for, at least with some income for his family.”
Hester smiled quickly, in acknowledgment that she had heard and appreciated it.
Sylvestra’s face darkened again. “Do you think Rhys may have gone into that dreadful area searching for a friend in trouble?” she asked.
“It seems possible.”
“I shall have to ask Arthur Kynaston. Perhaps he will come to see Rhys when he is a little better. He might like that.”
“We can ask him in a day or two. Is he fond of Rhys?”
“Oh yes. Arthur is the son of one of Leighton’s closest friends, the headmaster of Rowntrees—that is an excellent boys’ school near here.” Her face softened for a moment and her voice lifted with enthusiasm. “Joel Kynaston was a brilliant scholar, and he chose to dedicate his life to teaching boys the love of learning, especially the classics. That is where Rhys learned his Latin and Greek, and his love of history and ancient cultures. It is one of the greatest gifts a young person can receive. Or any age of person, I suppose.”
“Of course,” Hester agreed.
“Arthur is Rhys’s age,” Sylvestra went on. “His elder brother, Marmaduke—they call him Duke—is also a friend. He is a little … wilder, perhaps? Clever people sometimes are, and Duke is very talented. I know Leighton thought him headstrong. He