William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

started, then changed her mind. “Is it time to change the bed linen, do you think, before his lordship comes?”
    “No, thank you,” Hester declined. “I’ll not disturb her.”
    “I’ll help you, miss.”
    “It won’t make any difference now.”
    “Is it … the end?” Dingle forced the words between stiff lips. She looked very close to weeping. Hester wondered how long she had been with Enid … possibly all her adult life, maybe thirty years or more. If she were fortunate, Lord Ravensbrook would have allowed Enid to make provisions for her, or he would do so himself. Otherwise she would be without a position—although from her white face and brimming eyes, that was far from her thoughts now.
    “I think it is the crisis,” Hester answered. “But she is a strong woman, and she has courage. It may not be the end.”
    “ ’Course she has,” Dingle said with intensity. “Never know’d anybody like her for spirit. But typhoid’s a terrible illness. It’s took so many.”
    On the bed Enid gave a little moan, then lay perfectly still.
    Dingle gasped.
    “It’s all right,” Hester said quickly, seeing the faint rise and fall of Enid’s breast. “But you had better fetch his lordship without delay. Then don’t forget the water—and cool, not hot. Just take the chill off it, that’s all.”
    Dingle hesitated. “I know you done all the nursing, but I’ll lay her out, if you please.”
    “Of course,” Hester agreed. “If it’s necessary. But the battle isn’t lost yet. Now please send for the water. It may make a difference.”
    Dingle whirled around and almost ran to the door. Perhaps she had thought it simply cosmetic. Now her feet flew along the passage and she returned in less than five minutes with a great ewer full of water barely off the chill, and a clean towel over her arm.
    “Thank you.” Hester took the ewer with the briefest smile and immediately dipped the towel. Then she laid it, still wet, across Enid’s brow and her throat, then sponged her hands and lower arms.
    “Help me hold her up a little,” she asked. “And I’ll place it on the back of her neck for a moment or two.”
    Dingle obliged instantly.
    “Lord Ravensbrook is taking a long time,” Hester murmured, laying Enid back again. “Was he very deeply asleep?”
    “Oh!” Dingle stared at her, aghast. “I forgot ’im! Oh dear—I’d better go and fetch him now!” She did not ask Hester to keep silent about the omission, but her eyes made the plea for her.
    “The water was more important,” Hester said by way of agreement.
    “I’ll get ’im now.” Dingle was already on her way to the door. “An’ I’d better tell Miss Genevieve …”
    Milo Ravensbrook came in within moments. He had dressed, but little more. His hair was uncombed and lay in thick, untidy curls most women would have envied with a passion. His eyes were hollow and his cheeks pinched and dark with stubble. He looked angry, frightened and extraordinarily vulnerable. He ignored Hester and went up to the bed and stood staring at his wife.
    The clock on the mantelshelf gave a faint chime of quarter past midnight.
    “It’s cold in here,” he said without turning, accusation flaring in his voice. “You’ve let it get cold. Stoke the fire.”
    She did not bother to argue. It probably did not matter now, and he was not in a mood to listen. Obediently she went to the coal bucket, picked up the tongs and placed two pieces on the hot embers. They were slow to ignite.
    “Use the bellows,” he commanded.
    She had seen grief take people in many different ways. Sometimes it was dread of the loneliness which would follow, the long days and years of no one with whom to share their inner thoughts, the feelings which could not be explained, the belief that no one else would love them as that person had, and accept and understand their faults as well as their virtues. For some it was guilt that somehow orother they had not said or done all that they might, and now it was already too late. The minutes were slipping by, and still they could think of nothing adequate to say to make up for all the mistakes and missed opportunities. “Thank you” or “I love you” was too hard to say, and too simple.
    And for many it was the fear of death itself, the absolute knowledge that one day they must face it too, and in spite of even profound religious faith, they did not really know what lay beyond. An hour a week of formal ritual was no comfort to