William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

the mind or the soul when faced with reality. Faith must be part of the daily web of life, a trust tested in a myriad of smaller things, before it can be a bridge over the chasm of such a passage from the known to the unknown. If Milo Ravensbrook was afraid for himself, she did not blame him.
    “You can speak to her,” she said to him from the end of the bed to where he stood beside it, still looking down at Enid without touching her. “Even if she does not respond, she may hear you.”
    He raised his head, his expression impatient, almost accusatory.
    “It may comfort her,” she added.
    Suddenly the anger drained out of him. He looked at Hester steadily, not so much at her face as at her gray dress and white apron, which were not Dingle’s clothes but her own again. She realized how used he must be to women in such attire. She probably did not appear very different from the nursery maid or the nanny who would have brought him up, told him stories, given him his food and sat with him at mealtimes and made sure he ate what was put before him, disciplined him, nursed him when he was sick, accompanied him when he went out for walks in the park or for rides in the carriage. There was a lifetime’s association with the gray, starched dress, and a score of others like it.
    He turned away again and obeyed her, sitting on the bed, his back to her.
    “Enid,” he said a little awkwardly. “Enid?”
    For several minutes there was no response. He shifted and seemed about to move away again, when she muttered something.
    He leaned forward. “Enid!”
    “Milo?” Her voice was barely audible, a whisper with a dry wheeze in the middle. “Don’t be so angry … you frighten me!”
    “I’m not angry, my dear,” he said gently. “You are dreaming! I’m not angry in the slightest.”
    “He didn’t mean to …” She sighed and was silent for several minutes. Ravensbrook turned to look at Hester, his eyes demanding an answer.
    Hester moved to the other side of the bed. Enid was very white, her skin stretched over her cheekbones, her eyes far back in her head as if the sockets were too large for them. But she was still breathing, barely visibly, perhaps too lightly for Ravensbrook to be certain.
    “It hasn’t comforted her at all!” He choked on the words. “It’s made it worse! She thinks I’m angry!” It was a charge, a blame against Hester for her misjudgment.
    “And you have assured her you are not. Surely that must be of comfort,” Hester replied.
    He looked away impatiently, temper darkening his face.
    “Angus,” Enid said suddenly. “You must forgive him, Milo, however hard it is. He tried, I swear he tried!”
    “I know he tried!” Ravensbrook said quickly, turning towards her, his own fear of the disease temporarily forgotten. “It is all past, I promise you.”
    Enid let out her breath in a long sigh and the faintest shadow of a smile touched her lips and then faded away.
    “Enid!” he cried out, taking her hand roughly.
    Hester picked up the damp cloth again and wiped Enid’s brow, then her cheeks, then her lips and throat.
    “That’s bloody useless, woman!” Ravensbrook said loudly, lurching backwards and standing up. “Don’t go through your damned rituals in front of me. Can’t you atleast have the decency to wait until I am out of the room. She was my wife, for God’s sake!”
    Hester held her hand on Enid’s throat, high, under the chin, and pressed hard. She felt the skin cooler, the pulse weak but steady.
    “She’s asleep,” she said with certainty.
    “I don’t want your bloody euphemisms!” His voice was cracking, but close to a shout, and filled with helpless rage. “I won’t be treated like a child by some damn servant, and in my own house!”
    “She is asleep!” Hester repeated firmly. “The fever has broken. When she wakens she will begin to get better. It may take some time. She has been very ill, but with care she will make a full recovery. That is if you don’t distress her now and break her rest with your temper!”
    “What?” he said, still angry, confused.
    “Do you wish me to repeat it?” she asked.
    “No! No.” He stood perfectly still—just inside the door. “Are you sure? Do you know what you are talking about?”
    “Yes. I have seen a great deal of typhoid fever before.”
    “In the East End?” he said derisively. “They’re dying like flies!”
    “In the Crimea,” she corrected him. “And hundreds of the men died there too,