William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

black-haired young man standing almost next to her kept sucking in his breath, and normally the sound of it would have irritated her beyond bearing. Today she hardly heard it.
    When at last Sir Herbert was finished he stood back, his face radiant with the knowledge that he had performed brilliantly, that his art had cut away pain, and that with careful nursing and good luck the wound would heal and the man be restored.
    “There now, gentlemen,” he said with a smile. “A decade ago we could not have performed such a protracted operation. We live in an age of miracles. Science moves forward in giant steps and we are in the van. New horizons beckon, new techniques, new discoveries. Right, Nurse Latterly. I can do no more for him. It is up to you to dress the wound, keep his fever down, and at the same time make sure he is exposed to no chill. I shall come to see him tomorrow.”
    “Yes, Sir Herbert.” For once her admiration was sufficiently sincere that she spoke with genuine humility.
    The patient recovered consciousness slowly, and in considerable distress. He was not only in great pain, but he suffered nausea and vomiting, and he was deeply concerned lest he should tear the stitches in his abdomen. It occupied all her time and attention to do what she could to ease him and to check and recheck that he was not bleeding. There was little she could do to determine whether he bled internally except keep testing him for fever, clamminess of skin, or faintness of pulse.
    Several times Mrs. Flaherty looked in to the small room where she was, and it was on the third of these visits that Hester learned her patient’s name.
    “How is Mr. Prendergast?” Mrs. Flaherty said with a frown, her eye going to the pail on the floor and the cloth cover over it. She could not resist passing comment. “I assume that is empty, Miss Latterly?”
    “No. I am afraid he has vomited,” Hester replied.
    Mrs. Flaherty’s white eyebrows rose. “I thought you Crimeannurses were the ones who were so determined not to have slops left anywhere near the patients? Not one to practice as you preach, eh?”
    Hester drew in her breath to wither Mrs. Flaherty with what she considered to be obvious, then remembered her object in being here.
    “I thought it was the lesser evil,” she replied, not daring to meet Mrs. Flaherty’s icy blue eyes in case her anger showed. “I am afraid he is in some distress, and without my presence he might have torn his stitches if he were sick again. Added to which, I have only one pail, and better that than soiling the sheets.”
    Mrs. Flaherty gave a wintry smile. “A little common sense, I see. Far more practical use than all the education in the world. Perhaps we’ll make a good nurse of you yet, which is more than I can say for some of your kind.” And before Hester could retaliate, she hurried on. “Is he feverish? What is his pulse? Have you checked his wound? Is he bleeding?”
    Hester answered all those questions, and was about to ask if she could be relieved so she might eat something herself, since she had not had so much as a drink since Sir Herbert had first sent for her, but Mrs. Flaherty expressed her moderate satisfaction and whisked out, keys swinging, footsteps clicking down the corridor.
    Perhaps she was doing her an injustice, but Hester thought Mrs. Flaherty knew perfectly well how long she had been there without more than momentary relief, for the calls of nature, and took some satisfaction in it.
    Another junior nurse who had admired Prudence came in at about ten o’clock in the evening, when it was growing dark, a hot mug of tea in her hand and a thick mutton sandwich. She closed the door behind her swiftly and held them out.
    “You must be gasping for something,” she said, her eyes bright.
    “I’m ravenous,” Hester agreed gratefully. “Thank you very much.”
    “How is he?” the nurse asked. She was about twenty, brown-haired with an eager, gentle face.
    “In a lot of pain,” Hester answered, her mouth full. “But his pulse is still good, so I’m hoping he isn’t losing any blood.”
    “Poor soul. But Sir Herbert’s a marvelous surgeon, isn’t he?”
    “Yes.” Hester meant it. “Yes, he’s brilliant.” She took a long drink at the tea, even though it was too hot.
    “Were you in the Crimea too?” the nurse resumed, her face lit with enthusiasm. “Did you know poor Nurse Barrymore? Did you know Miss Nightingale?” Her voice dropped a fraction in awe at