William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

closing the door behind her.
    Rhys did not call her in the night. Whatever Dr. Wade had given him was sufficient to induce in him not rest but unconsciousness. She had no idea how long he had been awake when she heard the bell fall on the floor.
    She rose immediately. It was full daylight. She grasped her shawl and opened the connecting door.
    Rhys was lying facing her, his eyes wide and terrified.
    She went in and sat on the bed.
    “Tell me again, Rhys,” she said quietly. “Did you kill your father?”
    He shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes on her.
    “Not even by accident?” she pressed. “Did you fight with him, not realizing who he was, in the dark?”
    He hesitated, then shook his head. His expression was filled with horror, his lips drawn back, his jaw clenched, the muscles of his neck corded with tension inside him.
    “Could you see in the alley?” she pressed, the evidenceheavy in her mind. “If someone accosted you, attacked you, are you sure you would know who it was?”
    He gave a curious little jerk. If he had had the ability to make a sound, it might have been laughter, but bitter, self-hurting. There was some dreadful irony in what he knew, and he could not tell her, even if he would have.
    “Could you see?” she asked again.
    He stared at her without moving.
    There were so many questions. She thought desperately which would be the right one.
    “Do you know what happened that night?”
    He nodded, still not taking his eyes from hers, although the horror in him was so palpable she could feel coldness creeping through her, and despair so great it consumed and destroyed everything else.
    “Rhys …” She put her hand on his arm, holding him hard, feeling the muscle and bone beneath her fingers. “I’ll help you in any way I can, but I have to know how to. Can you tell me, somehow, what happened? You were there, you saw it. If you want to plead against the charge they are bringing, then you must give them something else to believe.”
    For seconds he simply gazed back at her, then slowly he closed his eyes and turned away.
    “Rhys!”
    He shook his head.
    She did not know what to think. Whatever had happened, he still could not bear to have anyone know. Even facing arrest, and in time a trial for his life, he would not impart it.
    But did he understand that? Did he imagine because Evan had not taken him away that somehow it would not happen?
    “Rhys!” she said urgently. “It hasn’t gone away, you know. You are under house arrest. It is just the same as being in a public cell or in Newgate. The only reason you are here, not there, is because you are too ill to move. There will be a trial, and if you are found guilty, they will take you to Newgate, no matter how ill you are. They won’t care, because they will hang you anyway.…” She could not go on. She could not bear it, even though he had not turned back or even opened his eyes.His body was rigid, tears running under his lids and down his cheeks.
    “Rhys,” she said softly. “I have to make you realize this is real. You must tell someone the truth to save yourself.”
    Again he shook his head.
    “Did you kill him?” she whispered.
    He shook his head again, very little, but quite unmistakably.
    “But you know who did?” she persisted.
    He turned back very slowly, meeting her eyes. He lay still for seconds. She could hear the sound of distant feet as a maid crossed the landing.
    “Do you?” she said again.
    He closed his eyes without answering.
    She stood up and went out of the room and down the stairs to the withdrawing room, where Sylvestra was moving aimlessly from one idle task to another. A pile of embroidery yarns sat tangled on a small table, linen bunched up near them. A bowl of winter flowers from the hothouse were half arranged, half simply poked into the water. Several letters lay on a salver on the large semicircular table by the wall; two were opened, the others were not.
    Sylvestra swung around as soon as she heard the door.
    “How is he?” she asked quickly, then bit her lip as though unsure what she wanted the answer to be. “I simply don’t know what to do. Leighton was my husband. I owe him … everything, not only loyalty but love, respect, decency.” Her brow puckered. “How could it have happened? What … what changed him? And don’t tell me Rhys hasn’t changed … I’ve seen the difference in him and it terrifies me!”
    She swung away, her hands clenched in front of her. A less