William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

impossible that the nerves have been so badly damaged that it will take a long time to regain their use. I don’t know.”
    “Thank you,” Robert said uncertainly. “I was not sure if I wanted to ask.”
    The doctor smiled.
    But downstairs in the withdrawing room, to which Hester had followed Dagmar so that the doctor might speak to them and to Bernd at once, his manner was very grave.
    “Well?” Bernd demanded, his eyes dark with fear.
    “It does not look promising,” the doctor replied, letting his bag rest on the seat of one of the armchairs. “He has no feeling whatever in his legs.”
    “But it will come back!” Bernd said urgently. “You told us at the time that it could take weeks, even months. We must be patient.”
    “I said it may come back,” the doctor corrected. “I am deeply sorry, Baron Ollenheim, but you must be prepared for the possibility that it may not. I think it would be unfair to your son to keep that knowledge from him. There is still hope, of course, but it is by no means a certainty. The other possibility must also be considered and, as much as lies in your power, prepared for.”
    “Prepared for!” Bernd was horrified; his face went slack, as if he had been struck. “How can we prepare for it?” His voicerose angrily. “Do what?” he demanded, waving his arms. “Purchase a chair with wheels? Tell him he may never stand again, let alone walk? That … that …” He stopped, unable to continue.
    “Keep courage,” the doctor said painfully. “But do not pretend that the worst cannot happen. That is no kindness to him. He may have to face it.”
    “Isn’t there something that can be done? I will pay anything I have … anything …”
    The doctor shook his head. “If there were anything, I would have told you.”
    “What can we say or do that will make it easier for him,” Dagmar asked softly, “if … if that should happen? Sometimes I don’t know whether it would be easier for him if I said something or if I didn’t.”
    “I don’t know either,” the doctor admitted. “I’ve never known. There are no certain answers. Just try not to let him see too much of your own distress. And don’t deny it once he has accepted it himself. He will have sufficient battles of his own without having to fight yours as well.”
    Dagmar nodded. Bernd stood silently, staring past the doctor towards a magnificent painting on the wall of a group of horsemen riding at a gallop, bodies strong, lithe, molded to the movement in perfect grace.
    Hester was taking a brief walk in the garden early the following morning when she came upon Bernd standing alone beside a fading flower bed. It was now near the end of September, and the early asters and Michaelmas daisies were in bloom over in the farther bed, a glory of purples, mauves and magentas. Closer to, the gardener had already cut back the dead lupines and delphiniums gone to seed. Other summer flowers were all long over. There was a smell of damp earth, and the rose hips were bright on the rugosa. October was not far away.
    Actually, she had come to pick some marigolds. She needed to make more lotion from the flowers. It was most healing to the skin for wounds and for the painful areas of someone lying long in one position. When she saw Bernd she stopped and was about to turn back, not wishing to intrude, but he saw her.
    “Miss Latterly!”
    “Good morning, Baron.” She smiled slightly, a little uncertain.
    “How is Robert this morning?” His face was puckered with concern.
    “Better,” she answered honestly. “I think he was so tired he slept very well and is anxious that Miss Stanhope will consent to return.”
    “Was he very rude to her?”
    “No, not very; simply hurtful.”
    “I would not like to think he was … offensive. One’s own pain is not an excuse for the abuse or embarrassment of those not in a position to retaliate!”
    In one sentence he had stated all that his status meant, both the innate conviction of superiority and the unbreakable duty of self-discipline and honor that went with it. She looked at his grave profile with its strong, well-shaped bones, a much older, heavier edition of Robert’s. His mouth was half obscured by his dark mustache, but the lines were so alike.
    “He was not offensive,” she assured him, perhaps less than truthfully. “And Miss Stanhope understood precisely why he was abrupt. She has suffered a great deal herself. She knows the stages one passes