The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [52]
What in God’s name had happened to him in St. Giles? What memory tore inside him with such unbearable horror?
“I’ll rebandage your hands,” she said more gently. “You can’t leave them like that. The bones may even have been moved.”
He blinked, but made no move of disagreement.
“It’s going to hurt,” she warned.
He smiled and made a little snort, letting out his breath sharply.
It took her nearly three quarters of an hour to take the bandages off both hands, examine the broken fingers and the bruised and swollen flesh, lacerated across the knuckles, realign the bones, all the time aware of the hideous pain it must be causing him, and then resplint and rebandage his hands. It was really a surgeon’s job, and perhaps Corriden Wade would be angry with her for doing it herself, instead of calling him, but he was due to come tomorrow, and she was perfectly capable. She had certainly set enough bones before. She could not leave Rhys like that while she sent a messenger out to Wade’s house to look for him. At this time he might very well be out at dinner, or even the theater.
Afterwards Rhys was exhausted. His face was gray with pain and his clothes were soaked with sweat.
“I’ll change the bed,” she said matter-of-factly. “You can’t sleep in that. Then I’ll get you a draft to ease the pain of it and help you to rest. Maybe you’ll think twice before hitting anyone again?”
He bit his lip and stared at her. He looked rueful, but it was far less than an apology. It was too complicated to express without words, perhaps even with them.
She helped him to the far side of the bed, half supporting his weight; he was dizzy and weak with pain. She eased him down. She took off the rumpled sheets, marked with spots of blood, and put on clean ones. Then she helped him change into a fresh nightshirt and held him steady while he half rolled back to the center of the bed and she straightened the covers over him.
“I’ll be back in a few moments with the draft for pain,” she told him. “Don’t move until I return.”
He nodded obediently.
It took her nearly a quarter of an hour to mix up the strongest dose she dared give him from Dr. Wade’s medicine. It should be enough to help him sleep at least half of the night. Anything strong enough to deaden the pain of his hands might kill him. It was the best she could do. She offered it to him and held it while he drank.
He made a face.
“I know it’s bitter,” she agreed. “I brought a little peppermint to take the taste away.”
He looked at her gravely, then very slowly he smiled. It was thanks; there was nothing else in it, no cruelty, no satisfaction. He was powerless to explain.
She pushed the hair back off his brow.
“Good night,” she said quietly. “If you need me, you have only to knock the bell.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, of course I’ll come,” she promised.
This time the smile was a little wider, then he turned away suddenly, and his eyes filled with tears.
She went out quietly, bitterly aware that she was leaving him alone with his horror and his silence. The draft would give him at least a little rest.
The doctor called the following morning. It was a dark day, the sky heavy-laden with snow and an icy wind whistling in the eaves. He came in with skin whipped ruddy by the cold and rubbing his hands to get the circulation back after sitting still in his carriage.
Sylvestra was relieved to see him and came out of the morning room immediately when she heard his voice in the hall. Hester was on the stairs and could not help observing his quick effort to smile at her, and her relief. She went to him eagerly and he took her hands in his, nodding while he spoke to her. The